Page 9

9

Lev

We have just finished stashing away some ammo delivery when Viktor’s phone begins to ring. The device rings twice before Viktor answers it.

“Hello?” His voice is calm—too calm.

Zasha and I sit across from him in the dim light of the secured warehouse. I’m halfway through nursing a glass of whiskey when Viktor suddenly stiffens.

My gaze sharpens instantly.

“What happened?” Viktor’s tone is flat, but I can see it—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the sudden rigidness in his posture.

Then I hear it—a shaky breath coming from the other end of the line. A fractured voice.

Alina’s voice.

I ignore the skip in my heartbeat.

“Papa’s dead.” I hear her say, and I sit up straight.

“What?” Viktor’s voice drops an octave. “He left here a few hours ago.”

I hear the strained sound of Alina attempting to speak. “He was attacked when he landed and did not make it out alive.”

Her voice breaks on the last word.

Viktor’s expression doesn’t shift. He’s completely still, but I see it in his eyes. The darkness that slides into them.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Nikolai already confirmed it. Viktor, you need to come home.”

“I’m on my way,” Viktor says tightly, and the line goes dead.

Viktor sets the phone down. Slowly, and I already know what’s coming.

“My father is dead,” Viktor says, standing. His voice is emotionless. Controlled. But I know him too well. He’s seething beneath the surface.

“How?” Zasha asks.

“An ambush.”

I feel something dark coil in my chest.

Zasha curses under his breath. “A direct hit?”

“Yes,” Viktor says darkly. “Someone obviously thinks we have become weak.”

“Or trying to weaken the bratva,” I say quietly.

Viktor’s eyes sharpen as he nods in agreement. “We will put plans in place to leave right away,” I say, already pulling out my phone.

The mood in the jet is gray and quiet.

Viktor sits across from me, his face a cold mask as the soft hum of the engines vibrates beneath us. Zasha stretches out in the seat next to him, his eyes closed, but I know he’s not sleeping.

I’m not sleeping either. My head is full. Thoughts crashing over each other too fast to make sense of them.

Igor is dead.

And I care more than I should. He wasn’t my father, but I respected him. The way he built his organization, the way he loved his children- that is something my father could never do. But it isn’t Igor’s face I’m seeing behind my closed eyes.

It’s Alina’s.

Her broken voice over the phone. The sound of her crying. The way her voice cracked when she said, Papa’s dead.

I feel the tension winding through my body, tightening across my chest. I remind myself it’s not about her. It’s about Viktor. About the Bratva. About ensuring that whoever did this suffers.

But I know I’m fucking lying to myself.

It’s her. It’s always her.

The cold air cuts through my jacket as we step off the jet onto the dark tarmac. The black SUV waiting for us is already running, exhaust curling into the frigid air.

Nikolai steps out of the car, his face drawn and cold. He’s wearing a dark wool coat over his suit, and his expression is more chilling than the weather.

“ Pakhan,” he says, his voice rough. He nods toward Viktor.

Viktor clasps Nikolai’s shoulder. “What happened?”

“All we know for now is that it was an ambush meant to finish him off specifically. Our members in the force department are working diligently to clone the CCTV footage for us.”

“So, we have nothing to work with after twelve hours?” Viktor asks with controlled rage.

“I am sure we will have a lead in a few hours,” Nikolai answers.

Russia is about to understand that their new Pakhan hates sluggishness.

Viktor nods once. “And how are my sisters?”

“Safe. But shaken.”

My chest hurts hearing this.

“Take us to the house,” Viktor says.

The Makarov estate is precisely how I expect it.

Dark, cold and imposing.

The massive iron gates slide open as Nikolai pulls the SUV up the long driveway. The front of the mansion looms above us in the dim light. As we step out of the car, I roll my shoulders beneath my jacket, trying to shake off the tension wound tight beneath my skin. Viktor strides toward the entrance without hesitation. Zasha follows.

I hesitate.

I take a deep breath before stepping into the building. Members of the organization present are surprised to see Viktor alive, but at this moment, my eyes are on only one person.

Alina.

She’s wearing a black dress, the hem brushing her knees. Her long dark hair falls in loose waves down her back. Her face is pale beneath the dim lights of the chandelier overhead.

Her blue eyes lock with mine, and for a second, I can’t move. She’s more beautiful than I remember. Sharper. Harder. More woman than girl. She steps down the stairs slowly, her heels clicking softly against the marble. Her gaze shifts toward Viktor.

He opens his arms, and she folds into him. My heart stops when she flings herself into her brother’s arms. I have to clench my palms to stop myself from pulling her into me and promising to keep her safe.

Viktor presses his hand to the back of her head, his expression softening slightly. “I’m here now,” he says quietly.

Alina nods into his chest. Then she steps back, her gaze shifting toward me.

“Alina,” I say quietly.

Her chin lifts. “Lev.”

Her expression is controlled, but her eyes… her eyes are full of something else. Something sharp and angry and vulnerable, and it cuts straight through me. The only comfort I can offer is a silent promise to find and deal with the bastard responsible for this pain.

The day of the funeral is brutal.

I stand with Viktor and Zasha near the back of the crowd as the priest speaks in low Russian. Cold wind bites at my face.

Alina stands with Yelena, her gloved hands clasped in front of her. Her shoulders are straight, but her face is carefully blank. I watch her. The way her hands tremble. The slight hitch in her breath, and when the coffin is lowered into the ground, Alina’s knees give out. But thankfully, Viktor catches her before she falls.

But for a split second, I, too, step forward. Afterward, I find her standing beneath a tree near the edge of the estate grounds. Lost in thought.

“Let me walk you to your room,” I offer quietly.

She hesitates—then nods. I walk beside her down the marble hallways. The silence stretches tight between us. When we reach her door, she turns toward me. Her eyes are shining with tears.

“Thank you,” she says softly.

I nod. My gaze sharp on her face. She hesitates. Then steps toward me. Slowly, she rises onto her toes and presses her lips to my cheeks. A chaste ‘thank you’ kiss, but I freeze nonetheless.

For a second, I don’t move. Then my hands slide to her waist, and I pull her up and kiss her hard and desperately. Every feeling I have tried to ignore for the past four years flows into this one kiss, and yet I can’t get enough.

I taste the salt of her tears on her lips and feel the heat, the warmth of her body pressed against mine. I tell myself that this is just to comfort her. Then I remember why I’m here, who she is, and why I shouldn’t be doing this. I pull away abruptly, my chest heaving.

“I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely.

Alina’s eyes fill with hurt, but she nods and walks into her room, softly closing the door behind her.

I step back. My jaw tightens. “Goodnight, Alina,” I mutter to the cold door now in my face.

I walk away without looking back. But my hands are still shaking.

And I know I’m already losing this battle