Page 4

4

Lev

Zasha and I arrive at the safe house ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The men stationed at the perimeter barely look at us as we step through the steel doors. They know who we are. It’s not the first time we’ve been here. Igor likes to keep things low-key, but nothing about the safe house is casual. State-of-the-art security system. Bulletproof glass. Underground exit tunnels. If anyone tried to come for him here, they’d be walking into a death trap.

We pass through the front hall and head toward the dining room. I hear voices—low, steady. Viktor’s, for sure. And another one, deeper. Rougher.

Igor.

The moment I step through the doorway, I see them.

Viktor sits at the far end of the table, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He’s relaxed, but that doesn’t mean shit. Viktor’s never fully relaxed. He’s always watching. Calculating. That’s why he survived when everyone thought he was dead.

Igor sits at the head of the table, his expression sharp and impassive. He’s dressed in a tailored black suit, with his graying hair neatly combed back. He exudes the same air of authority that Viktor does, but with more weight behind it. Igor isn’t just a powerful man—he’s the man. The Pakhan of the Makarov bratva.

Beside Viktor sit his two sisters. I’ve seen pictures of them over the years, but the reality is… something else. They’re both stunning. They share the same raven-dark hair, the same electric blue eyes, and the same delicate features. However, the resemblance ends there.

Yelena sits with her legs crossed, stirring her coffee with a faint smile on her lips. Confidence radiates from her. She’s sharp. Controlled. Knows exactly how much attention she commands and wields it like a weapon.

Alina, on the other hand, looks uncomfortable. She’s sitting upright, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her eyes lowered. Quiet. Watching everything but trying not to be seen.

Her eyes lift as I step into the room.

Our gazes catch for a split second before she looks away, her cheeks coloring faintly as they always do whenever she sees me, and I hear my inner voice scream.

HELL NO!

I recognize that blush. It’s innocent, dangerous, and unmistakable. Unease curls tightly in my gut. Viktor's sister is developing feelings for me, which is an absolute no. I force my mouth into a polite smile. I’m used to women looking at me. Usually, I don’t mind. But this feels different. And for the life of me, I hope that look doesn’t mean what I think it means. There's no way I would ever want Viktor’s sister.

“Lev. Zasha.” Viktor’s voice cuts through the quiet.

We step farther into the room. Zasha moves to the side of the table, his gaze lowered, his expression cold. He doesn’t say a word.

I lean against the edge of the doorway, arms crossed over my chest. "Am I interrupting?”

Igor’s gaze sharpens. “You’re late.”

I grin. “Early, actually.”

Zasha gives me a sideways look, but he says nothing. Typical.

Viktor’s mouth tightens faintly. “Report.”

“Some scoundrels have been pushing onto our routes,” I say. “We caught one of their men at the docks last night.”

Igor’s eyes narrow. “And?”

My smile sharpens. “He’s talking.”

Zasha’s gaze darkens. “He won’t last long.”

“We don’t need him to last long,” I reply. “Just long enough to get the information.”

Igor’s gaze flicks toward Viktor. “And how do you plan to handle it?”

“Swiftly,” Viktor says.

I hum thoughtfully. “Zasha’s thinking clean. I’m thinking messy.”

Zasha’s mouth tightens.

“Messy sends a message,” I add.

Zasha’s voice is quiet. “Clean sends a stronger one.”

“Guess that’s why I’m the creative one.”

Zasha doesn’t take the bait. He just stares at me with that cold, dead expression of his.

Igor’s gaze sharpens, and he smiles as he turns to Viktor. “You’re building a presence here.”

Viktor’s mouth curves faintly. “Yes.”

“And the Colombians?” Igor asks.

“They’ve learned that we will stay in our lane if they stay in theirs.” Viktor’s tone is calm and controlled.

Igor nods slowly. “Good.” His gaze shifts toward Yelena and Alina. “We’ll be returning to Moscow this weekend.”

Alina’s hand tightens around her glass. I see the subtle shift in her posture—the faint flicker of tension beneath the composed exterior.

“What?” Yelena’s tone is sharp. "We have only been here for a week."

“It’s time to go home,” Igor says. His tone is final.

“But why?” Yelena’s eyes narrow. “We just got here.”

“If you stay too long, you’ll draw attention to your brother,” Igor says.

Yelena’s mouth tightens. “Why can’t Viktor come back with us?”

Igor frowns. “It’s not time.”

Alina gazes at Viktor, her eyes wide and uncertain. Viktor’s expression softens as he gives her an apologetic smile.

“There are matters Viktor is handling here,” Igor says. “When I’m satisfied with the position of things, Viktor will return.”

“And if you’re never satisfied?” Yelena’s tone is edged with quiet defiance.

Igor’s eyes narrow. “That won’t happen.”

Viktor’s gaze flicks toward Igor, but he says nothing.

“Until then,” Igor continues, “you will return to Moscow.” That’s not a request.”

Alina’s gaze lowers to her lap. She looks pale beneath the soft glow of the lights. Yelena looks furious, but Alina just looks… sad. I feel a strange twist in my chest at the sight of it.

Viktor leans back in his chair, his gaze heavy as he tries to mask his emotions. "I'll see you ladies soon."

Yelena stands abruptly. “Well, that’s settled, isn’t it?” She says unhappily.

Alina stands too, her hand tightening around the edge of the table as she rises to her feet.

My gaze follows her as she walks toward the door. As she walks out, her heel catches on the corner of the carpet. Her ankle twists beneath her, and she stumbles. I’m moving before I even think about it. My hand shoots out, catching her wrist. My other arm slips around her waist, steadying her before she can hit the floor.

She collides against my chest, her breath hitching sharply. Her skin is warm beneath my hands. Her breath stutters against my throat. Electric blue eyes lift toward mine—wide and startled. Her cheeks flush faintly, and my gaze drops to her mouth.

Fuck.

"Careful," I murmur. My voice is low and rough.

Her breath catches. “I— I’m sorry,” she whispers.

My thumb brushes against the soft skin of her wrist. Slowly. “You okay?” I ask.

She nods shakily. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Her mouth says one thing, but her pulse—hammering beneath my fingertips—says another. I release her slowly, feeling the warmth of her skin where my hand met her wrist.

"Be careful next time," I mumble again.

She looks at me for a second too long before she steps back.

Yelena smirks. “Maybe you should give her walking lessons, Lev.”

My mouth curves faintly. “My rates are high.”

Alina’s cheeks darken, and I watch her walk out of the room. And for the life of me, I can’t stop watching.