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CHAPTER EIGHT

Doran

Blood spreads across the concrete floor like spilled wine, dark and damning in the fluorescent lights of the warehouse.

The man kneeling in front of me—Bogdan Krupin—whimpers through broken teeth, his hands zip-tied behind his back.

"Twenty percent," I say calmly, wiping his blood from my knuckles. "You skimmed twenty percent of our shipment."

"I needed—my daughter, she's sick?—"

"Then you should have asked." I pull out my gun, check the chamber. "I'm not unreasonable, Bogdan. But stealing from me? That's unreasonable."

My father watches from the corner, arms crossed, evaluating.

Always evaluating.

Even now, years into running my own operations, he observes like I'm still that boy learning to break fingers in the basement of our old house.

"Please," Bogdan begs. "I'll pay it back. Double."

"With what? You already spent it on medical bills that don't exist." I crouch in front of him. "Your daughter's in college. Pre- law, isn't it? Following in daddy's footsteps before he decided to become a thief."

His face goes white.

The threat is implicit—touch his family, make them pay for his sins.

"Doran," my father says quietly.

A reminder, not a reproach.

I think about Revna.

In six hours, I'll pick her up for dinner.

She'll smell like vanilla and law books, and I'll have to pretend I didn't spend my morning covered in someone else's blood.

The duality of my life has never been more stark.

"You have forty-eight hours to return every cent," I tell Bogdan, standing. "With thirty percent interest. Mikhail will be watching. You run, your daughter gets a very different education than the one you're paying for. Understood?"

He nods frantically, relief and terror warring on his face.

"Get him out of here," I tell the men waiting by the door.

They drag Bogdan out, leaving smears of blood on the concrete.

I'll have to have the whole floor redone.

Again.

"You're going soft," my father observes once we're alone.

"I'm being practical. Dead men can't pay debts."

"Your grandfather would have taken a finger for every percentage point stolen."

"My grandfather was the devil according to you, so why would you compare me to him? I appreciate everything you’ve done to teach me." I strip off my bloodied shirt, reach for the clean one Mikhail always keeps ready. "But things have changed, Father."

"Some things don't." He watches me button the fresh shirt. "This dinner tonight. With the girl."

"Revna. Her name is Revna."

"You're getting attached."

"I'm marrying her in nine days. Attachment seems like the appropriate course of action, don’t you think?"

He makes a sound that could be agreement or dismissal.

With my father, it's hard to tell.

"Your mother wants to know about the honeymoon plans," he says, shifting topics. "She's concerned you haven't arranged anything."

"We'll figure it out after the wedding."

"Will you? Or will you throw yourself into work and neglect your new wife?" He studies me with those cold eyes. "Marriage requires effort, Doran. Even arranged ones. Especially arranged ones."

"Is this wisdom from experience?"

"Your mother and I have been married for a very long time. We've survived because we make the effort." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "The girl—Revna—she has spirit. Like your mother. Don't crush it trying to control it."

"I won't."

"See that you don't. Broken things hold no value."

He leaves me with that thought, and I consider his words while cleaning the blood from under my fingernails.

My parents' marriage has always fascinated me—the Bratva prince and the Irish mafia princess slash designer, violence and beauty intertwined.

They've made it work through sheer force of will and, apparently, effort.

"Mikhail has updates on the boyfriend," my father calls from the doorway.

Right. Njal.

Another problem to solve before dinner.

I find Mikhail in the office adjoining the warehouse, multiple screens showing various feeds and reports.

He looks up as I enter, already pulling together the relevant information.

"We found his car," he says without waiting for me to say a word."Abandoned at a rest stop off I-10, heading west."

"How long?"

"At least twelve hours. Maybe more." He pulls up photos on his tablet. "But that's not the interesting part."

The images show Njal's apartment—or what's left of it.

The walls are covered in photos of Revna.

Hundreds of them.

Some I recognize from my own surveillance, but others are new.

Recent.

Taken after I thought we'd secured her completely.

"He's been watching her too," I say quietly.

"For months, by the look of it. And there's this." Mikhail shows me another photo—a journal, pages covered in manic writing. "Our contact at the department got us copies. It's... concerning."

I flip through the scanned pages.

The writing starts coherent—declarations of love, plans to win her back, but it deteriorates quickly into paranoia, grandiose delusions, promises to "save her from the monster."

That monster would be me.

"Classic manic episode," Mikhail observes. "The family history supports it. His brother Bjorn?—"

"I know about Bjorn." I hand back the tablet. "Do we have any leads on where he went?"

"West is all we know. Could be running. Could be planning something."

"Double the security on Revna. And her sister. We can’t be too safe right now."

"Already done. We have teams on both at all times."

"Good." I check my watch. Three hours until dinner. "Anything else?"

"Your mother called. Something about flowers for the wedding. She says if you don't call her back, she's choosing everything herself and sending you the bill."

"Let her. She has better taste than I do anyway."

"She also mentioned something about the bachelor party. Your father wants to fly everyone to Monaco."

"Absolutely not." The last thing I need is my father's idea of a bachelor party—probably involving high-stakes gambling and women who aren't my future wife. "Something simple. Local."

"I'll handle it."

"Good man." I clap him on the shoulder. "And Mikhail? Make sure someone's watching the sister's apartment tonight. Discreetly."

"Planning to keep the bride out late?"

"Planning for all possibilities."

He smirks but doesn't make another comment.

Mikhail's been with me long enough to know when not to push.

I head home to prepare for dinner.

The transition from violence to romance should feel jarring, but it's just another day in my life.

Blood in the morning, beauty in the evening.

My phone rings as I'm showering.

Revna's name on the screen makes me answer, even if water and phones don’t mix.

"Am I interrupting?" she asks, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

"Never. How was class?"

"Boring. Constitutional law is kicking my ass." A pause. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"Unless you're canceling." The thought tightens my chest.

"No, I just... what should I wear?"

The question is so beautifully normal it makes me smile. "Whatever you're comfortable in."

"That's not helpful."

"Wear something red," I say, remembering how she looked in that sundress at fifteen. "I like you in red."

"Possessive bastard." But she's laughing.

"Your possessive bastard," I correct. "I'll pick you up at six."

"I'll be ready."

"Revna?" I say before she can hang up.

"Yeah?"

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Me too," she admits softly, then disconnects.

I stand under the spray thinking about how her laugh sounds different now.

Lighter, like maybe she's starting to accept this—us.

I choose the restaurant carefully—intimate but not oppressively so, public enough that she feels safe but private enough for real conversation.

The owner owes me several favors, ensuring we won't be disturbed.

At exactly six, I knock on her apartment door.

Dalla answers, hostility radiating from every pore. "She's almost ready," she says, not moving aside.

"May I come in?"

"No."

"Dalla," Revna calls from inside. "Let him in."

Her sister steps aside reluctantly.

I enter the small apartment, taking in the lived-in feel—law textbooks scattered on the coffee table, empty wine glasses, photos of the sisters through the years covering one wall.

One catches my eye—them at maybe fourteen or fifteen, arms around each other, identical grins.

Before their lives got complicated.

"Nice place," I offer.

"No it's not," Dalla says flatly. "It's a shithole. But it's our shithole."

"Dalla!" Revna emerges from what must be her bedroom, and my breath catches.

She's wearing red as requested—a simple dress that hugs her curves, paired with heels that put her closer to my height.

Her hair is down, soft waves framing her face.

"Too much?" she asks, noticing my stare.

"Perfect."

Dalla makes a gagging sound. Revna shoots her a look.

"I'll be back later," Revna tells her sister.

"Be careful," Dalla says, but she's looking at me when she says it.

A warning.

"Actually," I say, making a decision. "Dalla, there's something being delivered for you tomorrow morning. Around nine."

"What?" Both sisters speak in unison.

"A car. Same model as Revna's. I had them rush the order." I meet Dalla's suspicious gaze. "The streets aren't safe right now. I protect what's mine, and you're Revna's."

Dalla's mouth opens and closes like a fish. Revna's eyes are suspiciously bright.

"I... what?" Dalla manages.

"Black Audi RS Q8. Bulletproof glass, reinforced frame, GPS tracking for emergencies only." I pull out a card. "This is the dealer. They'll handle all the paperwork."

"I can't accept?—"

"Yes, you can," Revna interrupts, voice thick. "Dalla, please."

The sisters have some silent communication that I can't interpret.

Finally, Dalla nods. "Thank you," she says stiffly. "That's... thank you."

"You're welcome."

Revna and I leave the apartment and once we’re downstairs and exit her building, I open my car door for her.

She gets in the passenger seat and I make my way around to my side.