Page 44 of Royal Bargain (Royals of the Underworld #3)

LIAM

T he city feels different when we come back.

It’s not the traffic or the skyline or the way the wind kicks up off the harbor, carrying the sour tang of exhaust and ambition. It’s not even the people. It’s something underneath. Like the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for a match to strike.

Ana must feel it too. She hasn’t looked up from her phone since we crossed into Thornville proper. Lily’s asleep in the car seat, drooling on her stuffed frog, but Ana’s thumb keeps scrolling, tapping, replying. Her face is a mix of focus and dread.

“What is it?” I ask, keeping my tone light even though I know it’s not nothing.

Ana doesn’t answer at first. Her lips press into a thin line as she types something. Then she sighs, finally turning the screen toward me. I glance over while keeping one eye on the road.

Messages. Aleksey. Sasha. Even her eldest sister Sofia.

Aleksey: We’ve got a problem. Bratva’s splitting. Some backing your father. Some backing Dariy. It’s getting ugly.

Sasha: Tatiana’s made her choice. She’s with Papa. Don’t trust Dariy. He’s making moves. Quiet ones. Dangerous ones.

Aleksey: Tell Liam to keep his head down. He’s a target now. Not just you.

I let out a slow breath. “Jesus.”

Ana nods. “It’s happening already.”

We don’t talk much the rest of the ride.

When we get back to my place, it’s like walking into a memory that doesn’t quite fit anymore. The couch is still a mess. The baby gear’s still in a pile by the door. But the silence is sharper now. Not peaceful. Suspicious.

While Ana settles Lily down for a nap, I step onto the balcony and make a few calls. I need to know what the hell is happening on our side of the city.

I get my answer fast.

Rory’s voice is tight when he picks up. “Burns wants us at headquarters tomorrow. Big donor meeting.”

“Rory—” I don’t even know how to start. “We need to talk about him. About what we’re doing.”

He exhales like I’m already exhausting him. “Liam, not this again.”

“He’s compromised. You know he is. That press leak? That speech change? The ‘anonymous’ tips to the Tribune ? All of it stinks of Miranda.”

“I’m not denying she’s involved,” Rory says carefully, “but we can’t afford to pull out now. He’s too tied into the contracts, the funding, the optics. If we back off, we lose everything we’ve built.”

“We lose everything if we stay too,” I snap. “You think Miranda’s gonna let us walk away clean? You think Burns is still calling the shots?”

There’s a pause. Then, coolly, “We’ll talk about it later.”

He hangs up.

I text Lucky.

You free? I need backup. And beer.

The diner’s nothing fancy—greasy menu, chipped linoleum counters, a waitress who calls everyone “hon.” But it’s quiet, and nobody’s looking twice at two Irish guys with dark circles and heavier-than-usual silences.

Lucky slides into the booth across from me, shoving his sunglasses onto his forehead. He squints at me. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. “Appreciate the warm welcome.”

“Anytime.” He signals for coffee, then tilts his head. “You back in town a whole ten minutes and already in a panic spiral?”

“It’s not a spiral,” I lie. “It’s situational awareness.”

Lucky snorts. “You only talk like that when you’re spiraling.”

I don’t answer. Just run my hand through my hair and stare at the chipped edge of the sugar caddy. The waitress drops off two mugs and a pot of coffee. Lucky dumps in way too much cream and gives me a look. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Burns,” I say. “And Miranda. They’ve got something going. Something big. Rory won’t see it. Kellan’s cautious, but he’s not making moves yet. And meanwhile, the Russians are imploding. Dariy and Anatoly are splitting the Bratva in half, and we’re caught in the goddamn middle.”

Lucky leans back slowly, letting that sink in. “Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”

“You’ve noticed it too?”

“I don’t think you’re wrong,” he says. “Burns has changed. His eyes don’t match his words anymore. Every time he talks about ‘cleaning up the city,’ it sounds less like policy and more like a goddamn purge.”

“Exactly.”

Lucky sips his coffee. “And Miranda’s always three steps ahead. Burns isn’t calling the shots anymore. If he ever was.”

I sit back, staring at my brother, grateful and also annoyed it took this long to say it out loud. “So we’re on the same page.”

“Pretty much,” Lucky says. “Though I don’t think Kellan’s totally blind. He’s just trying to get us out without flipping the whole table. He’s playing chess.”

“I don’t play chess,” I mutter. “I play survival.”

“Then here’s your survival tip.” Lucky leans forward, tone dropping. “We can’t be tied to Burns when the fuse hits the powder. We have to get out.”

“And Rory?”

“He’ll follow if the house starts burning. But he’s not gonna walk out until he smells smoke.”

“And you?”

Lucky smirks. “I already brought the fire extinguisher.”

That gets a laugh out of me, tired and rough around the edges.

“You got a plan?” he asks.

“Not yet. Just… instincts. We pull back. Quietly. Cut ties where we can. Keep eyes on Miranda. And we don’t trust anyone. Not even our own damn allies.”

Lucky nods. “Alright. You pull me in when you move. I’ll do the same. We stay in sync.”

He taps the edge of his mug twice. A Brannagan signal if there ever was one.

“Liam,” he says after a beat. “You okay?”

I blink. The question catches me off guard. “Yeah. I mean—no. But I’m dealing with it.”

“You’ve got Ana now. And Lily. You’re not just fighting for the business anymore. You’re fighting for them.”

“I know.”

Lucky leans in, serious now. “So fight smart.”

By the time I get back to the apartment, my head’s pounding. Too much coffee. Too many conversations that feel like mazes. Too many ways this could all fall apart.

The door creaks when I open it. Ana’s on the couch with Lily balanced on her knee, humming softly under her breath. Her phone’s sitting face-down on the coffee table, for once.

She glances up. “Hey.”

I try to smile. “Hey.”

I toe off my boots, walk over, and drop a kiss to the top of Lily’s head. Then I kiss Ana too—just a quick brush of lips, but she leans into it like she needs the contact as much as I do.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Getting there.” She lifts Lily and stands, pressing the baby into my arms. “You hold her. I talk.”

I chuckle, settling Lily against my chest. “Uh-oh. What’d I miss?”

Ana grins. There’s a light in her eyes I haven’t seen in a while—something steadier than adrenaline, brighter than survival. “I made a change today.”

My stomach flips. “What kind of change?”

“I have a new manager.”

That wasn’t what I expected. “Wait—what happened to Ingrid?”

“She’s still technically my label contact, but I’m not working directly with her anymore.

She’s passing me off to one of her producers.

” Ana walks to the kitchen and comes back with a water bottle, cracking it open.

“His name’s Sebastian. He’s newer, younger, but he’s got a great ear. And more importantly? He listens.”

“And Ingrid just agreed to that?”

Ana gives me a coy look. “I may have implied that my father—the one who leads a multinational crime syndicate—was deeply unhappy to hear his daughter was being pressured to compromise her values for the sake of her career.”

I blink. “You threatened Ingrid with Anatoly?”

“No,” Ana says primly. “I mentioned Anatoly. Very gently. And then asked if she might have someone else more aligned with my artistic vision. Like… one of her other producers. Someone I could feel safe with. She got the message.”

I stare at her, impressed. “You little shark.”

Ana shrugs. “He’s really good. Sebastian. He wants to keep me in control of the sound, the image, the pace. No last-minute gigs, no dressing me like a bottle blonde pop star. Just music. My music.”

“That’s…” I exhale slowly. “That’s amazing, Ana.”

“I know.” She smiles wide, brighter than I’ve seen in weeks. “It feels good. Like I finally pulled one piece of myself out from under someone else’s thumb.”

I nod, shifting Lily in my arms. “One piece down. We’ll get the rest.”

Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, there’s this quiet understanding between us—this feeling like maybe, just maybe, we’re not drowning anymore.

Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, there’s this quiet understanding between us—this feeling like maybe, just maybe, we’re not drowning anymore.

Lily squirms in my arms, little fists curling against my chest, and Ana reaches out to brush her hair back gently. Her touch is so soft it makes something in me ache. Not in a painful way—just… full. Like my ribs can’t quite contain everything I’m feeling all at once.

I glance around the apartment. The exposed brick walls, the half-unfinished bookshelf project in the corner, the baby stuff that’s spilled into every inch of my bachelor chaos.

And I say, before I can second-guess it, “This place doesn’t feel right anymore.”

Ana looks at me. “You mean… with Lily?”

“With all of it,” I say. “Us. Her. What we’ve been through. It’s not just that the apartment’s small or not baby-proofed. It’s that it was never meant for this. For family.”

She exhales, nodding slowly. “Yeah. I’ve felt it too. Like we’re cramming a new life into an old shell.”

I shift Lily into one arm and reach for Ana’s hand. “I don’t want to cram anything anymore. I want space. I want room to breathe. For her to grow. For you to feel safe.”

Ana smiles faintly, and I can see the wheels turning in her head. “Do you know what I always wanted?” she asks softly. “When I used to imagine leaving my father’s house? I wanted a home with a backyard. Somewhere with flowers. Somewhere I could sing without worrying who was listening.”

I squeeze her hand. “That’s not just a fantasy. We can make that real.”

“Yeah?” she says, teasing. “You gonna buy me a castle, Brannagan?”

“I was thinking more like a townhouse,” I say with a smirk. “Just outside the city. Big enough for Lily to run wild, quiet enough that we can hear ourselves think. Maybe a porch. A garden, if you want one.”

Her face lights up like a sunrise. “A garden would be perfect.”

I brush my thumb over her knuckles. “We build something that’s ours. Not your father’s. Not my family’s. Just ours.”

Ana nods, a little misty-eyed. “A home.”

I lean in, kiss her temple. “A home.”

She rests her head on my shoulder, her fingers tracing lazy circles over Lily’s back. We sit like that for a long while—no threats, no shadows, no explosions waiting to go off.

Just… the idea of a future.

The music’s softer tonight—low jazz spilling through gold-accented speakers, velvet lights painting everything in a warm, secret kind of glow.

The Gilded Cage always felt like a mirage to me. Russian-owned but not Russian-controlled. Safe, but only if you understood the rules. And right now, I’m walking into the lion’s den with my shoulders squared and my phone on silent.

Aleksey’s already waiting when I get there. He’s at a corner booth, nursing a whiskey neat, back straight like a soldier waiting for orders. He watches me approach without blinking.

“Brannagan,” he says evenly.

“Mikhailov.” I slide into the seat across from him. No handshake. No nod. Just silence and the hum of piano in the background.

I get straight to it. “What are you going to do?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You mean when the war starts?”

I nod.

He takes a long sip, then sets his glass down carefully. “I’m loyal to Anatoly,” he says. “That hasn’t changed.”

I lean forward. “Even now? Even with the bratva splintering, with Dariy grabbing power, with Miranda moving pieces you don’t even see?”

A flicker of something crosses his face—tension, maybe. Or guilt. “Anatoly raised me. He gave me a home. A name. I owe him everything.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He exhales sharply, then meets my gaze. “I’m not a fool, Brannagan. I know what’s coming. I know that Dariy is dangerous. That Miranda is worse. And I know that if we all keep clinging to the old ways, none of us are going to make it out alive.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he says, quietly, “Ana told you I was in denial. About a lot of things.”

I nod, wary.

“She was right.” He straightens his posture a little, like the words themselves are armor. “I’ve spent most of my life pretending I didn’t want what I wanted. That I wasn’t who I am.”

I wait.

“I’m not hiding anymore,” Aleksey says, voice low but steady. “I’ve come out. I told Anatoly. I told my people. If they choose to see me as weak, that’s their mistake. But I won’t live in fear anymore.”

My brows lift despite myself. “That’s… brave.”

He snorts. “It’s survival.”

“No,” I say slowly. “It’s both.”

We look at each other for a long moment. There’s still a gulf between us—years of blood, of loyalty, of inherited war—but something shifts. A small, tentative bridge built not out of trust, but respect.

I raise my glass. “To truth, then.”

He clinks his glass to mine. “To whatever comes next.”

And somehow, it feels like the end of something—and the beginning of something else entirely.

I raise my glass. “To truth, then.”

He clinks his glass to mine. “To whatever comes next.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds. The air between us isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s no longer hostile either. For the first time, I think we might actually understand each other—two men shaped by legacy, torn between duty and change.

But then Aleksey sets his glass down and leans forward, his voice dropping low.

“One more thing, Liam.”

I glance up, alert.

His eyes are cold now. Focused. “Dariy won’t stop. He’s not interested in peace, or power-sharing, or saving face. He wants a purge. A reckoning. You and your brothers need to be ready.”