Page 2

The pulsing bass from inside the club rattles the pavement beneath my feet as I step out of the car, my jaw clenched tight. I’ve never liked parties. Never liked the chaos or the way people lose control of themselves in these places. I’m not here for fun. I’m here to get Serge and drag his ass back home before he causes any more damage.

Oleg steps out of the car next to me, glancing at his phone. “You’ve seen the video, right?” he asks, holding up his screen, the faint glow of the footage flickering in the dark. It’s the video that surfaced last night—Serge, in this very club, getting into a brawl with some random guy. The man was lucky to walk away without worse injuries. He was bloodied up pretty bad, and the only reason the police didn’t get involved was because of our family’s influence.

“I’ve seen it,” I mutter, my voice low. The fact that Serge made a scene like that in public pisses me off more than anything. We’re supposed to keep things quiet, handle our business without dragging our family’s name into the mud. Serge… he’s spiraling, and if he doesn’t stop, he’ll drag us all down with him.

We move toward the entrance of the club. It’s a private party, and I wasn’t invited, but that doesn’t matter. I own the damn place.

The bouncer takes one look at me and steps aside, letting us in without a word. Inside, the place is packed, bodies swaying under neon lights, drinks in hand, the scent of alcohol and sweat thick in the air. Oleg walks beside me as we make our way through the crowd, his eyes scanning the room.

“He’s here somewhere,” Oleg says, his tone gruff. “No way he’s keeping his head down. Not after the stunt he pulled.”

I nod, my jaw clenched even tighter. Serge has been missing from his duties for over a week now, and this isn’t the first time he’s pulled something like this. Partying, drugs, random women clinging to his arm—he’s been spiraling ever since Anthony’s death. While I’ve tried to give him space to grieve, he’s crossed a line. We can’t afford any more slip-ups. Not when the public’s watching.

We spot him near the back, surrounded by a group of models. He’s lounging in a booth, eyes glazed over, clearly high on something. His shirt is half undone, a lazy grin on his face as one of the girls leans in, whispering something in his ear.

I stop a few feet away, crossing my arms over my chest. “Serge,” I bark, my voice cutting through the noise.

He looks up, blinking slowly as if it takes him a second to register who I am. When he does, his grin fades, replaced by a look of annoyance.

“Timur… what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to drag your sorry ass out of this mess,” I growl, stepping closer. “You’ve been dodging your responsibilities for over a week. Now this?” I motion to Oleg, who’s still holding up the video on his phone. “You’re endangering our family, Serge.”

He rolls his eyes, leaning back in the booth like he couldn’t care less. “Oh, come on. It’s not that serious. The guy’s fine. Just a little scrap.”

I narrow my eyes, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him to his feet. “You call that a scrap? You’re making everything public. We don’t operate like that. We handle our business quietly, behind closed doors.”

Serge tries to pull his arm free, but I tighten my grip, dragging him out of the booth and toward the side of the club where it’s quieter. The girls he was with are watching us, wide-eyed, but I ignore them. This is between me and my brother.

“What the hell, Timur?” Serge snaps, finally wrenching his arm free. “What’s the point of all this power if I can’t even find Anthony’s murderer? Huh?”

I freeze, staring at him. So this is what it’s about. Anthony.

Anthony was Serge’s childhood best friend. His death, ruled as a suicide, has been a sore spot for Serge ever since. He refuses to believe it, claims that something more sinister is at play. I’ve looked into it myself, and all the evidence points to suicide. Serge won’t accept that. He’s convinced someone killed him, and that obsession is driving him into a dark place.

“Serge,” I say, my voice softer now, but still firm. “I get that you’re hurting. I do. This… this isn’t the way. You’re making everything worse for yourself. For us.”

He stares at me, his eyes bloodshot and filled with frustration. “You don’t get it, Timur. I’m supposed to protect him. I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve stopped it.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I say, my tone sharper. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“Maybe,” he mutters, looking away. “Maybe not, but I’m not going to let it go. I’m not.”

I sigh, running a hand over my face. “Look, we’ll talk more about this later. Right now, you need to pull yourself together. You’re not doing anyone any favors by getting wasted and beating people up in nightclubs.”

Serge doesn’t respond, his gaze distant. I know he’s still thinking about Anthony, still blaming himself. As much as I want to help him, I don’t know how. He’s my brother, and it’s my responsibility to pull him out of this, but I’m not sure he’ll ever let go of his guilt.

Serge’s silence stretches between us, thick with everything unsaid. His distant stare isn’t just about tonight—it’s deeper than that, tangled up in the mess of guilt and anger he’s been carrying since Anthony’s death. As I watch him, I realize something that’s been gnawing at me for a while. Serge’s vulnerability isn’t just dangerous for him; it’s dangerous for all of us.

In our world, weakness is a weapon others will use against you. Serge, in his current state, is a liability. The video from last night? I wouldn’t be surprised if one of our rivals boosted its visibility, maybe even leaked it themselves. They know Serge is slipping, and they’ll use that to come after our family. The Bratva can’t afford to be seen as unstable, especially not now, when alliances are fragile and every move is watched.

I look at Serge again. His body is swaying slightly, barely keeping upright. I let out a long breath, knowing this isn’t the time or place to get through to him. He’s too high, too drunk—hell, probably both. I nod to Oleg, who steps forward, ready to intervene.

“I’ll take him home,” Oleg says, looping an arm around Serge to steady him.

Serge mutters something incoherent, his eyes half-lidded as he leans heavily against Oleg. His head lolls to the side, and before I can even respond, he’s passed out cold, his weight sagging in Oleg’s arms.

“Get him cleaned up and keep him there,” I tell Oleg. “Make sure no one hears about this. I’ll deal with him in the morning.”

Oleg nods and, with some effort, hauls Serge toward the exit. I watch them go, a tightness in my chest that I can’t shake. My brother’s spiraling, and it’s only a matter of time before his actions bring more heat down on us. It’s up to me to stop that from happening.

I turn away from the door, my mind racing with everything that needs to be handled. Serge, the family business, our rivals—it’s all too much, and the tension knots in my shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Just as I’m about to head out myself, a waitress steps into my path.

“Complimentary drinks, sir,” she says, offering a tray with a polished smile.

I hesitate for a moment, considering. Normally, I wouldn’t bother. One drink wouldn’t make a dent in the stress piled on me right now. After everything with Serge, I need to take the edge off. I grab a glass from the tray, nodding my thanks. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll give me a moment’s reprieve.

I take a sip, the burn of the alcohol sliding down my throat as I make my way through the crowded club. As I turn a corner, lost in thought, something—or rather, someone—collides into me, hard.

The drink slips from my hand, spilling all over the person in front of me.

“Shit,” I mutter, quickly stepping back to assess the damage. My gaze lands on a young woman standing there, frozen, staring down at the wet stain spreading across her white dress.

Her wide green eyes slowly lift to meet mine, and for a second, everything else fades. She’s… stunning. Petite, with strawberry blonde hair that cascades over her shoulders, framing delicate features. Her expression is one of surprise, a mix of shock and something else—embarrassment, maybe? Or irritation?

“I’m sorry,” I start, reaching for a napkin, but she beats me to it, dabbing at the fabric with quick, anxious movements.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, though her voice wavers just a bit. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Her eyes flick up again, and I notice the faint blush on her cheeks. She’s flustered, clearly embarrassed, and for some reason, I find it… charming.

“I wasn’t paying attention either,” I admit, trying to ease the tension. “Here, let me help.”

Before I can offer to make things right, a smile tugs at the corner of her lips, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll just—” She glances down at the mess on her dress, sighing softly. “I’ll figure it out.”

There’s something about the way she carries herself—poised, but clearly uncomfortable in this setting. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’m intrigued. I don’t usually get distracted by women, not like this, but something about her feels different.

“You’re soaked. Are you okay?”

I reach to hand her my coat, smiling when she relaxes into my touch.

She’s interesting, and I like that.