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Alina

We spend the next two days getting to know Viktor. Bombarding him with questions, we are surprised to learn that he has been tracking our development over the past years. While he is believed to be dead back home, he has been establishing his presence here in New York and paving the way for the Bratva to operate smoothly on a larger scale.

The problem with Viktor being alive is that I now know what it feels like to be whole—and I know how easily it could be taken away again.

For fifteen years, I believed my brother was dead. I had mourned him. I had visited the cold marble of his grave and whispered his name into the stillness of the night. I had grown up beneath the weight of his absence. And now he’s here. Alive. Breathing. Sitting at the head of the table, across from me, as if he had never left.

And yet, sitting beside him is not my latest dilemma.

Lev doesn’t look at me. He leans back in his chair, one arm resting lazily along the back of the chair beside him, while the other hand curls loosely around a glass of whiskey. His dark hair is pushed back from his forehead, and his sharp features are highlighted beneath the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. His green eyes—dark and cold—focus on something past Viktor’s shoulder.

He’s wearing a fitted black jacket over a dark shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the hard cut of his forearms. There’s a faint scar along his jawline and another at the corner of his temple. He looks dangerous. Like someone who’s lived through more violence than anyone should survive.

My gaze drops to his hand wrapped around the glass. His knuckles are rough, the skin scarred and calloused. Hands that have done terrible things. Hands that are steady now. Controlled.

I wonder if he’s capable of being anything else.

"Alina."

My gaze snaps up, heat rising beneath my cheeks as I realize I’ve been staring at Lev.

"Would you like more tea?" Viktor asks.

I clear my throat. "No, thank you."

Lev’s mouth curves faintly, but his gaze remains steady on the rim of his glass.

Zasha sits on Viktor’s right, his dark gaze heavy and assessing. Yelena is next to me, her expression perfectly composed as she traces the rim of her glass with one finger.

"I’ll need you at the meeting with my father tomorrow morning," Viktor says to Lev.

Lev nods once. "Of course."

My gaze trails back to him again. He’s so precise. His movements are so measured. It’s unnerving.

I’m used to dangerous men. Our father is the head of the Makarov bratva. I grew up surrounded by men who kill without hesitation—men who would slit someone’s throat over a perceived slight. But Lev seems different.

He seems dangerous in a way that’s more controlled. Calculated. He’s the kind of threat you don’t see coming until it’s too late. He finishes his whiskey and sets the glass down with a quiet click. The sound scrapes against my nerves.

"I should go," Lev says. As he stands, the scrape of his chair against the marble sends a shiver down my spine.

"It has been really nice to meet you both," Zasha says, standing as well. He gives Yelena a charming smile and then nods toward me. "I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other."

Lev doesn’t smile. His green eyes catch mine for the briefest second before sliding away.

"Goodnight," he says, his voice low and rough.

"Goodnight," I whisper back.

Zasha and Lev move toward the door. Lev’s hand brushes against the handle as he opens it, letting the cold night air slip inside. The chill raises goosebumps along my arms.

Lev’s gaze flicks toward me one last time before he steps through the door. Then they’re gone.

I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The silk sheets feel cool against my skin, with the heavy blanket draped loosely across my hips. Outside, the trees sway and murmur faintly beneath the dark sky. The occasional sound of branches dancing in the wind drifts up toward the windows.

My mind won’t stop spinning.

It’s not just about Viktor—though I’m still trying to come to terms with the fact that my brother is alive. I spent my whole life mourning him, trying to fill the space he left behind. And now he’s here. Whole and alive and… different. Colder. Sharper.

And then there’s Lev.

My pulse quickens just thinking about him.

The way his hand wrapped around that whiskey glass. The faint scar along the edge of his mouth. The weight of his gaze when he looked at me. The way my chest tightened when he touched my wrist.

It’s stupid. I’ve been around dangerous men my whole life. I know better than to feel anything toward someone like Lev. He’s quiet and hard and dangerous. He works for my brother. He’s loyal to Viktor.

So why can’t I stop thinking about him?

I close my eyes and inhale deeply, but it doesn’t help. My mind keeps circling back to the moment in the hallway. His hand on my wrist. The slight pressure of his thumb brushing against my skin. The steady rise and fall of his chest when he stood close enough for me to feel his heat.

My chest tightens painfully.

Maybe it’s because I’m eighteen now.

That has to be it. I’m an adult now. And maybe turning eighteen means noticing things I didn’t before. It means feeling things I’m not sure I’m ready for.

I roll onto my side, my fingers curling into the silk sheets. My skin still feels warm where Lev touched me. My legs press together involuntarily.

This is stupid.

But the heat won’t fade. I drag my hand down my face and force my eyes shut. It’s nothing. A passing thought. A stupid crush. It’ll pass. It has to.

But deep down, I know better.

I’m in trouble.

After a restless night, I wake to the sound of low voices in the hallway, and I can instantly make out Lev’s voice. He is probably here to escort my father to one of his many meetings.

I push back the silk sheets and slip out of bed, my bare feet pressing into the cool floor. Sunlight filters in through the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the sleek modern furnishings.

I hurriedly brush my teeth and dress in a loose-fitting t-shirt and slacks, hoping to catch a glimpse of him before they leave. As I walk toward the dining area, Viktor’s voice drifts toward me, low and steady. I recognize Zasha’s quiet response, followed by the sound of a glass being set down.

Lev stands a few feet away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. His gaze flicks toward me the moment I step into view.

My heart thuds painfully.

"You’re up early," Lev says. His voice is low, quiet.

"So are you."

His mouth curves faintly, but his gaze is steady.

"Join us for breakfast," Viktor says.

I hesitate. "Right now?"

Lev’s gaze doesn’t move from mine. "Unless you’d rather eat later."

I press my lips together. "No. That’s fine."

Lev’s gaze darkens. He doesn’t say anything else, but I feel the weight of his gaze.

As breakfast is being served, Yelena slips into the seat beside me, her movements effortlessly fluid, like a cat sliding into a sunbeam. She doesn’t have to try—she never does. People notice Yelena even when she’s doing nothing at all. Her dark hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, her eyes sharp and assessing as she surveys the room. She looks perfectly at ease, completely at home in a room full of dangerous men. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m holding my breath, trying not to draw attention to myself.

Viktor and Zasha converse softly at the head of the table. Zasha’s voice is calm and steady, but Viktor’s sharper tone pierces the space with quiet authority. Lev sits across from me, silent, his gaze lowered as he wraps his long fingers around the glass of black coffee before him. His knuckles are rough, and his hands bear scars. His thumb glides along the rim of the glass with slow, measured precision.

I catch myself watching him too closely—tracking the movement of his hand, noting how the tendons in his wrist flex beneath the skin. He’s dressed in dark clothing again, a fitted jacket and shirt that clings to the hard lines of his shoulders and chest. He looks lethal. Controlled. His green eyes are downcast, half-hidden beneath his lashes, but I can feel the weight of his presence sitting there—like it is pressing down on the room itself.

I wonder what he’s thinking about. I wonder if he feels the same restless tension beneath the surface that I do.

When we finish eating, the staff clears the table. Fresh drinks are served—coffee laced with whiskey for the men and juice for Yelena and me. Yelena stares at the glass of orange juice in front of her, wrinkling her nose in distaste.

"Take this away and fetch me another drink," she says.

Viktor’s gaze flicks toward her, and he stretches his hand to remove the offending drink. "Is something wrong?"

Yelena gestures toward the coffee in front of Viktor. "You’re drinking coffee laced with whiskey. I’d like some of that."

Viktor narrows his eyes slightly. "No."

Yelena raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"Because you’re not having whiskey at breakfast."

Yelena’s mouth twists into a scowl. "I’m eighteen now. I can drink what I want, whenever I want."

Viktor’s gaze sharpens. His mouth tightens, yet his voice stays cool. "No."

Yelena sighs dramatically and leans back in her chair. "What is the point of being an adult if I can’t choose my damn drink."

“Language young lady.” Viktor says. And that’s when Lev laughs.

A low, husky sound that rumbles from his chest like a threat wrapped in velvet. It cuts through the air, rough and dark, but somehow intimate. His mouth curves faintly at the corner, and something in his eyes softens—just slightly.

Heat curls low in my stomach at the sound.

I’ve never heard him fully laugh before. It’s not loud or careless—it’s quiet and deliberate, and it makes my pulse flutter unevenly beneath my skin.

Yelena’s eyes flick toward him, her mouth curving in amusement. She has that effect on people. She can make them smile even when they don’t want to. She’s fearless— sharp-tongued and bold. People are drawn to her because she effortlessly commands attention.

I wish I had that kind of confidence and charisma. If I had, perhaps it would have been me that Lev was laughing with.

My gaze drops to his hand, still wrapped around the drink. His thumb rests against the curve of the rim, and his knuckles tighten slightly as Yelena’s smile deepens. I wonder if he even realizes the effect he has on people. Or perhaps he does, and he simply doesn’t care.

I sit perfectly still, forcing my expression to remain neutral even though my pulse is pounding hard enough to make me feel lightheaded. Lev’s gaze lifts, cutting toward me for the briefest second. My breath locks in my throat. And then he looks away, and the moment is gone.

Yelena’s laugh cuts through the silence, light and teasing, as she leans back in her chair. She’s already moved on. But I haven’t. My body still feels overheated. My skin still tingles where Lev’s gaze brushed over me.

And that laugh—God, that laugh—is still echoing through my chest.

I lift my glass of juice to my lips and take a slow sip, hoping the cool sweetness will settle the heat simmering beneath my skin. But it doesn’t. It just makes me wonder what it would have felt like if he had been laughing with me. What it would feel like if Lev’s gaze lingered on me the way it lingered on my sister. And that thought — that dangerous thought —is enough to make my whole body tense with restless energy.

I’m not like Yelena. I don’t know how to draw Lev’s attention.

But maybe I’ll have to learn.