Page 7

Dimitry

Malaga, Spain

Present Day

“ I t’s a boy!” Roman comes bursting through the hospital doors into the waiting room, his smile blazing like the Spanish sun outside.

“A boy!” Ofelia leaps up from the plastic chairs to hug him.

Masha, her little sister, dances around excitedly, clapping her hands. “Dimitry!” She clings to my legs. “I’m gonna have a little brother!”

“Yes, myshka , you are.” I hug her, horrified at how emotional I feel.

Get it together, asshole. You’re supposed to be happy.

“Congratulations.” Mickey, Roman’s godson, is more subdued, but grinning nonetheless as he shakes Roman’s hand. “It will be good to have another man around.”

“A man, huh?” Roman ruffles his hair affectionately. “You’re not even sixteen yet. Yes, you can go in,” he says to Ofelia’s excited questions. “But not for long. Darya’s exhausted.” He watches the three kids sprint down the hallway, still smiling, then turns to me.

“Well done, brother.” I embrace him, feeling the exhilaration in his fierce grip. “I’m happy for you both.”

I mean it. I am happy for them.

As happy as I get these days.

Roman stands back, gripping my shoulders. “We’re calling him Aleksander, after my father.”

“Nice.”

He shakes me gently. “And you’re going to be godfather, of course.” There’s just the hint of a question in his voice.

“Of course.”

Are we just going to pretend like Abby never left?

I incline my head, trying to ignore the stab of pain. “I’m honored, brother. Truly.”

And I am. But a kid’s supposed to have two godparents, and the other one isn’t fucking here.

Worse, I can’t bring it up, because Roman is so pissed off about Abby’s disappearance that it will ruin his entire day.

“So does that mean you’re finally going to come home, then?” He’s still smiling, but I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow as he asks the question. “It’s not the same here without you.”

I step out of his grip. “I hope so.” I force a smile, dodging the question.

Roman nods slowly, but the brilliance has gone from his face. “Come in and meet my son anyway.” He turns me toward the ward, slinging his arm around my neck. “And then we’re having drinks, brother. No fucking arguments. Not tonight.” He glances at me as we pause outside the door. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

Through the glass pane I can see Darya, looking wan and pale but almost unbearably happy, holding a small bundle in her arms.

Bracing myself, I push open the door.

It’s much later that night, and Roman and I have consumed most of a bottle of cognac and several cigars, when I finally make my excuses and leave. Fortunately, he’s been up for hours with Darya and wants to be back at the hospital early the next day, so at least he doesn’t argue.

I’m too wired to go home. Not that my sparse apartment feels like home.

It never did. And especially not after I met Abby.

I used to spend my nights in Abby’s little two-bedroom walk-up, surrounded by her paintings and the smell of turpentine.

Waking up to the weird eighties music radio station she loves, the smell of hot coffee brewing on the stove, and her long legs in the short Japanese robe I always tried to pull off.

Fuck.

I glance at my phone out of habit.

There’s no message.

Of course there isn’t.

The last message I got from Abby was when I woke up alone in a Madrid penthouse and found a letter on the fucking side table explaining why she was leaving me.

I rub a hand over my face and walk mindlessly down the street.

The three months she asked for are almost up, and not a word. Not even the hint of a fucking word.

And I’ve done my best to be patient. To give her the space she asked for. Space for her to make peace with her family, and to make up her mind about whether or not she wants this life.

Who are you kidding, Dimitry?

I haven’t been patient at all. Giving Abby space is the only thing I can do, since she made it pretty damned clear that if I followed her, we were done.

I’ve hated every fucking minute of it.

Thank Christ for work, which has kept me in Miami, and mercifully away from Spain and my memories, for the past three months. And thankfully, there’s still a lot to be done.

Decades ago, Roman’s father built a vault beneath the Miami compound belonging to Sergei Petrovsky, Darya’s father, to house priceless treasures dating back to pre-revolutionary Russia, entrusted to the Petrovsky family for safekeeping.

Almost a century later, I’ve been put in charge of seeing the pieces returned to the descendants of those long-ago Russian families.

It’s a task that requires a lot of care.

The contents of the vault, known to most as the Naryshkin treasures, have been whispered about for years.

Last year, the Orlovs kidnapped Roman’s two daughters in an effort to blackmail Darya into opening it.

The war that ensued was bloody and fierce and nearly cost us all our lives.

It took time for Alexei, Darya’s brother, to regain control of the Petrovsky bratva, and I stayed for a month to help him with the cleanup.

Was that the final straw?

I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times.

Was it the blood and violence of that war that threw her over the edge?

I wouldn’t blame her. She saw me in the aftermath, when I was still pretty cut up and battered. Worse, later she met Luke. That day he’d covered Ofelia’s and Masha’s bodies with his own—and got a number of bullet holes as a result.

I saw the way Abby looked at him, and the others that got shot up that day, not all of whom made it home again. I know that no matter what I told her, she still wondered if one day that would be me.

And maybe she’s right.

The fact is that I’ve never known any other life than this one. Standing at Roman’s side. Fighting whatever has to be fought to build the empire he’s created.

And Roman Stevanovsky isn’t just a boss, a pakhan , leader of the Stevanovsky clan.

He’s also the creator of Mercura, a digital money laundering platform that launched last year and has since gone on to become a multibillion-dollar money machine. It’s invisible, untraceable, and the method through which every major criminal transaction in the world is now done.

I’m happy for Roman’s success, just as I’m happy my oldest friend has finally found love with Darya. A family. A home.

And I fucking hate the fact that my loyalty to him means I lost my chance to have any of that.

I’ve never told Roman what Abby said to me the night she left, about making my own life. It wouldn’t be fair if I did. And I know that making me head of the task force to return the Naryshkin treasures was Roman’s own way of giving me some form of autonomy.

But only a form of it.

In the end, I’m his right hand. The man who has his back. I’ve been that person since I was ten years old, and I’m starting to realize that, in Roman’s mind, that’s who I’m always going to be.

Up until the night Abby left, that never bothered me.

But since that night, I can’t seem to stop fucking thinking about it.

Her words echo through my head: You belong to Roman first, above everything else—even above yourself.

Fuck this. I need another drink .

I look up and realize my mindless wandering has brought me to Pillars nightclub, down by the marina.

Ha. Of course it has. Right back to the start.

I stand across the road in the shadows for a bit, just watching the posers and pretty people going in and out. Then, on an impulse, I push off from the wall and cross the street.

Memories.

They’re fucking murder.

I greet the men on the door and go inside.

If the memories are going to come, I’ll need more than one drink.

Malaga, Spain

Two years earlier

“Nice car.” Abby touches the leather seats of the Range Rover.

I try not to stare at the long length of tanned thigh under her black dress.

“Boss give you this?”

I cast her a sideways glance. “You’re not a Roman Stevanovsky fan, I take it?”

She snorts. “He’s an asshole.”

“Not to your friend, he isn’t.” That much is true. I’ve never seen Roman so hooked on anyone as he is on Lucia Lopez, and I’ve known the motherfucker since he was screwing whores in the back streets of Miami.

“He better not be.” Abby’s tone is fierce. “Because if he hurts her, I’m going to have to kill him.”

That makes me smile. “Good luck with that. Roman is a very difficult human to kill, and believe me, many have tried. ”

“That I would believe.” She turns to me. “What about you? Let me guess. You’re Roman’s human shield.”

I grin. “Something like that. Although he’s not bad in a fight himself.” The thought of Roman hearing himself described as not bad in a fight makes my smile even wider.

I’ll have to tell him that one next time I get him in the boxing ring.

Should make for a good few rounds.

“So who’s the asshole we’re going to meet at Pillars nightclub?” I drive through the streets as slowly as I can get away with.

“How do you know he’s an asshole?” she counters.

“If he’s hanging out at Pillars, he’s definitely an asshole.” I loop my hand over the steering wheel, clenching my fingers to stop myself trailing them up her bare leg. “And if you’re breaking up with him, he’s clearly a dumb asshole. Which means you’re absolutely doing the right thing.”

Abby shakes her head, but she’s laughing. “You just don’t give up, do you? How do you know Pillars, anyway?” She looks at me curiously. “You don’t strike me as the type for imported beer and chatting up a waitress-slash-model.”

“Thank Christ for that.” The streetlights make loose strands of her blonde hair gleam in the dark.

I have a deep urge to know what they’d look like spread over my pillow.

“I never go near the place if I can help it. Unfortunately, Roman owns Pillars, and his imbecile of an adopted brother runs it. Or rather, fails to run it. Which means I have to spend a lot more time there than I’d like. ”

Abby is staring at me. “Owns it,” she repeats hollowly. “Of course he does.” Shaking her head, she turns away to stare out the window.