Page 27

VADKA

“This is not good,” Matvei mutters. His jaw’s tight, the muscles twitching.

Matvei, Rafail’s cousin, is one of the coldest, most brilliant minds in our crew. If you need someone to decode a message, hack a system, or find patterns in chaos—he’s your man.

“Take a look at this.”

He turns the screen toward us.

“Motherfucker.” My voice is low. My hands curl into fists. “They want my son? Over my fucking dead body.”

“I know,” Rafail says, slow and measured. “But we have to be careful. No rash moves.”

“You’ve got bodyguards at your house, right?”

“Of course. Luka’s safe. ”

Still, for my own peace of mind, I pull up the app on my phone. The nanny’s washing dishes, and Luka’s at the kitchen table, coloring happily. I see guards stationed at every entry point, cameras everywhere. Nothing’s getting through that perimeter.

Still… that sinking feeling doesn’t leave me. Because only a monster would target a child. And monsters do exist.

“What about Ruthie?” I ask, voice tight. “Do they have anything on her?”

Matvei scrolls. “No. Nothing yet.”

“How do we know this isn’t a setup? Or misinformation?”

“We don’t,” Rafail says. “Which is why we keep it business as usual. Until we know more.”

He blows out a breath, then shows me the message on his encrypted channel.

Sever the bloodline . The letters are crimson, bold.

“Sever the bloodline,” I echo.

Rafail nods. “They mean us. The Kopolov bloodline. That includes our children. Our wives. All of them are targets now.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “What the fuck, Rafail?”

“How many of them did you kill?” he asks, tone sharp.

I shake my head slowly.

“You don’t know… because you stopped counting.”

I check the Wi-Fi—encrypted and locked. GPS jammers in place. Cameras. Patrols. Motion detectors. Nothing's getting through, not unless we let it.

Still.

“Nothing,” I say. “But I need to speak with Rafail. Privately.”

Matvei gets up and steps out of the office.

Rafail glances at me. “Something I need to know between you and Ruthie?”

I scowl. “You judging?”

“Of course fucking not,” he says. “You think I’d judge you? After everything? You think I’m a heartless bastard?”

I shrug.

He punches my arm, light but firm. “Don’t answer that.”

Then he softens. “Seriously though, Vadka. What’s going on between you two?”

He has a right to know. He’s my brother in every way that counts.

So I tell him. Not everything, but enough.

“I love her,” I say. Quietly. Like the words might shatter if I speak them too loud.

“I feel so fucking guilty.”

He leans forward, hands steepled beneath his chin, studying me.

“That’s why most people avoid falling in love, Vadka. It makes you vulnerable. I can kill a man, but I can’t kill the ache that comes with losing someone who matters.”

“I know.”

“What’s the problem, then?”

“She’s my wife’s sister.”

Rafail nods slowly. Then leans in, his voice deliberate.

“Correction, brother. She’s your dead wife’s sister. There’s a difference.”

I flinch. I knew he’d say it. Still hurts.

“I think she thinks I’m only interested because she reminds me of Mariah.”

He leans back. Ever the pragmatist. “Well. Are you?”

“No. God, no. She’s night and day from Mariah.”

“They didn’t even look alike,” he agrees. “You could tell they were related, sure. But they were nothing alike.”

“Exactly.”

“There’s a simple solution to this,” he says flatly, the kind of pragmatism that grates when you’re barely holding yourself together.

“You want to test how she feels? How you feel?

Make sure you're not leaping in with both feet before you've had a damn second to breathe, to process? Is that what this is?”

I shrug, but my throat feels like it’s caving in on itself.

“I don’t know. Is it?” A hollow laugh, humorless. “Who the hell knows anymore? ”

“Then give it time,” he says, always the rational one. “Stay out of her pants.” His eyes cut to me hard. “Don’t even look. As tempting as it might be to bury your grief, it’s only going to cloud your judgment, brother.”

He's right. Of course he's right. But fuck, I hate that he's right.

“You’re worried about Luka,” he adds, voice gentling. “She’s good with him. Makes sense. If my wife weren’t here anymore, I’d be worried about my kids too.” He pauses, lets the weight of it settle before he adds, “But I’m more concerned about how she is with you .”

“What the hell does that mean?” I shoot back, sharper than I intended.

He stares at me. Long. Measured. I just made a guy kiss pavement for disrespecting him and won’t fall into the same mistake now myself.

Rafail levels me with a look. We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember, but right now, I’m reminded that he’s a little older, and he has younger siblings he’s raised. He crosses his arms on his chest.

“Are we going to have an honest conversation? Or are you going to take everything personally?”

My spine stiffens. I let out a long, slow breath.

Rafail continues. “You’re wealthy. Powerful. Attractive. Women like that shit. They’re drawn to it. And as your brother—and frankly, your boss—I need to make sure she likes you for the right reasons.”

“And what are those?” I ask, jaw tight .

He tilts his head. “See? You’re not even sure yourself.”

And I don’t answer because I’m not. Everything about this—about her—feels confusing and unsteady and charged in ways I don’t know how to handle.

“Does she support who you are? Do you even know if your values align? Is there real chemistry? 'Cause the most perfect person on the damn planet can be in front of you, but if there’s no spark—no fire—it’s dead on arrival.”

“Yeah, I got it.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Answer to those questions? I don’t fucking know. I really don’t.”

“Maybe you don’t need to know right now,” he says more gently. “Just make your decisions. Protect what’s yours. And then? Let the rest come as it comes.”

It sounds good on paper. Real good. But it’s a hell of a lot harder when your heart—and someone else's—is on the line. What do I even have to offer her?

I go looking for her. But Ruthie’s not where I left her.

Zoya is though.

“Where’s Ruthie?”

I don’t even think to check the tracker app—she was right here. I pull it up now.

“Sorry,” Zoya says, grimacing like a kid who knows they’ve screwed up. “She said she had to get to work. I tried to get her to stay, but she said her job was important.”

“Did you even check her?” My voice cuts sharp, too sharp, and Zoya flinches .

I want to be the one who takes care of her. The one who keeps her safe. “What the fuck did she do with her ankle?”

The room behind me shifts. Rafail’s pissed at how I’m talking to his sister. His presence is like a storm building, suffocating us with an undercurrent of danger. I sigh. “Sorry, it’s not your fault.”

“It isn’t,” Rafail repeats. Then he turns his attention to Matvei and while they talk shop, I make plans to get the hell out of here so I can track Ruthie down, check on her, and give her hell for taking off.

Matvei is back working in the office. I can hear the quiet hum of his laptop. I know he’s not just working but plotting, likely staring at video footage that would make anyone else tremble. He’s the one who keeps things in line, the tactical mind behind this war.

The war—it's not just about the Irish anymore.

It's about power, survival, and keeping the Kopolov family at the top.

The Irish have been bold—too bold—and they think they can break us.

They've stirred up more than a few dark corners of this city and aligned themselves with forces that threaten our stability. I’ve seen the intel, the whispers in the shadows—it's bigger than we thought.

The Irish are targeting our supply routes, cutting us off from resources, trying to weaken our grip. But it’s the personal vendettas that make it dangerous—betrayal runs deeper when it’s in your own blood.

Then there’s the pressure on Matvei. He’s the one who has to keep everything together and make sure the enemies don’t slip through our fingers.

I feel the weight of the decision that’s been thrust onto him, a war he didn’t ask for but is now bound to lead.

The stakes are high—more than just the family’s wealth is on the line.

This is about territory, about loyalty, and about control.

Violence is inevitable, and when it comes, it will be brutal.

Outside, the tension in the streets has been escalating.

People talk, and every whisper feels like a threat.

Those who are loyal to the Kopolovs are on edge, unsure of what’s coming next.

We’ve been forced to make alliances with people we wouldn’t normally trust, and every meeting, every handshaking deal, feels like a moment where one wrong move could spark an all-out war.

The calm before the storm. I can almost taste it in the air—the anticipation, the fear, the certainty that we are standing on the edge of something we won’t be able to stop.

Rafail’s anger, Matvei’s cool control, and my own uncertainty about how much longer we can keep this balance…

it all feeds into the dread. The war is coming, and it’s going to tear apart everything and everyone I love.