Page 51

YULIAN

Cards slap down in quiet rhythm. A flick, a breath, the shuffle of chips.

“More vodka,” Rurik snaps at a tux-wearing waiter.

Same old Rurik. Utterly unsuited to this game as he is to everything else that requires more than thirty seconds of deliberation.

Russian poker isn’t about luck—it’s a test of patience. Reading your opponents before they get a read on you.

I needed a distraction, though this wasn’t my first choice. If it were up to me, I’d be shooting targets in the woods tonight. Moving targets, ideally. Spies we caught, enemies we saved for later like canned beans in a doomsday bunker.

But it’s been too long since I’ve kept tabs on my vory . Leave this bunch alone too long, and they’ll start plotting your demise. Fucking sharks, but that’s exactly why I have them.

The Goldenrod’s private lounge is thick with smoke and vodka. It’s overbearing, but it helps.

Anything to chase her scent away.

Kazimir lounges back, a smug grin plastered on his face. He tosses a queen of hearts over a half-built straight. A bluff. As always.

Slavik leans forward, fingers steepled, eyes hawkish. He plays a slow, deliberate game, folding a full house just to bait Rurik into false confidence.

The Volkov twins sit across from me. Zhenya pushes her luck with a bold raise on three of a kind, her poker face perfectly unfazed.

“Damn, Sis. You got me.” Anton flashes his cards before folding with a wink.

Rurik knocks back his third shot of horilka and sneers. He tosses a messy pile of chips forward with a jack-high hand.

Maksim grins like a madman, a Cuban cigar hanging from his teeth. He’s playing recklessly, but then again, when isn’t he?

“Nice hand,” he whistles at Rurik. “Not as nice as this one, though.” He tosses two queens on the table.

I tap my knuckles against the felt. “I raise.”

“Our pakhan plays a dangerous game,” Kazimir teases. “Someone bolstering your courage, boss? Perhaps your girl?”

The mention of Mia is enough to make my knuckles go white. Fucking Kazimir. Never knows when to shut his vodka hole.

“Shut up and play,” I growl.

“She’s not his,” Rurik grumbles. The ice in my voice seems to have gone way over his head. “Not yet.”

“You’re so old-fashioned,” Anton sighs. “He will marry her. It’s only a matter of time. And when he does, it will be good.”

“Will it?” Rurik grumbles. “If you say so.”

“Of course it will,” Slavik bristles. “A married pakhan sends a message. It tells our allies we’re strong, stable. Most of all, it tells our enemies.”

“You bunch sure love to talk.” Maksim barks a laugh. “I thought we were here to play, not gossip like bridesmaids.”

“How about you put your money where your big mouth is?” Rurik snaps.

“Sure.” Maksim pushes all his chips in the center. “How’s this? All in.”

Whistles slice the air. Slavik and Rurik follow suit, too competitive to let someone else steal the spotlight. Kazimir, too, because he’s an agent of chaos and thrives on it.

Anton folds. Zhenya keeps her cards close, lost in thought, and doesn’t say anything.

“Something on your mind, sestra ?” Anton asks.

“Maybe she misses the gossip,” Kazimir says. “Maybe she actually wanted to play bridesmaid.”

Zhenya shoots him a glare that says I’ll turn you into a bridesmaid if you don’t shut the fuck up. But then her face turns thoughtful again.

“The wedding will be good for us,” she says.

“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Rurik snarks.

“Then don’t. Take history’s. Empires strengthen with bonds,” she observes, as if reading off a goddamn textbook. “And heirs.”

That word lands heavy.

“That’s a bit premature,” Anton laughs awkwardly, aware of how dark my glare has turned. “But sure, I suppose that’ll come, too.”

“Of course it will,” Slavik grumbles. “That’s the whole point.”

I don’t respond. But inside, something twists horribly. Rage, loss. Guilt.

Mia.

I’m playing a game with her, too. With her goddamn life. She deserves better than that.

In another life, perhaps, I could have given her more. I could have leaned in on Friday night, stolen that kiss off her lips, walked her upstairs. Let her put the kid to bed before taking her to bed, no tucking in involved.

I could have stayed the night. Woken up to the scent of half-burnt pancakes in the morning. To a family .

I could have given her everything.

But I had a family once already. It was taken from me, ripped from this world in the cruelest way.

And I won’t rest until the mudaki who did it are six feet underground.

Can you really do it? It’s the cold, dark voice inside me, questioning my every move. Can you really stomp on your feelings for her, when you don’t even know what they are?

Can you stop caring about Mia Winters?

I have no fucking clue.

I tell myself I’ll protect her when the time comes. That I’ve saved her once. That I can do it again.

It’s the only thing that keeps me sane.

“C’mon, people,” Maks yawns. “Less chattering, more playing. I’m dying of old age here.”

“Before Rurik and Slavik?” Kazimir grins. “That’s a feat.”

“Laugh all you want,” Slavik sighs. “But if I died tomorrow, I’d die without regrets. I’ve built my legacy.”

“As have I.” Rurik puts down his cards, still covered. “Now, our pakhan will.” He squeezes out a raucous laugh. “Let’s just hope the girl isn’t taken off the board before she’s done her duty.”

The room stills. Silence falls like a guillotine.

My chair scrapes back with a scream. I rise, slow and deliberate, every muscle tight with rage.

“Say that again,” I order.

Rurik scoffs and doubles down. “It’s not like it’s a secret. You’re still in the crosshairs of your old man’s murderers. They won’t let you sire an heir without taking a shot at your lady. In fact, they’ve already tried.” He downs the rest of his vodka. “It’s not a question of ‘if,’ but ‘when.’”

“Careful, brother.”

“I’m just telling it like it is. Sure, she’s a spitfire and all, but even she won’t survive a bullet to the skull.” A cold, piercing laugh echoes in the room. “The least she can do is shit out a son before— blargh !”

The punch leaves my body before I’m even aware of my arm moving.

The table jolts, cards fluttering to the floor. Rurik’s body hits the ground with a dull thud.

“No one touches her.” My voice cuts through the smoke. “As long as I draw breath, no one will so much as look at her wrong. If you imply otherwise again, Rurik, I’ll take that breath from you myself.”

His face drains of color. He sees it now—that I’m not bluffing. Beneath the title of pakhan is still the man who carved his empire out of the blood and bones of his dead family.

Even Kazimir stops smiling.

I look around the table. “Any other thoughts?”

No one speaks.

No one dares.

I nod once, then turn to Maksim. “We’re done here.”

He moves without a word, falling in beside me as I stride out of the lounge. On the table, where I sat moments before, my cards rest uncovered.

Ace of spades, ace of hearts.

I don’t stop to collect the pot, though. I just force my feet to move before my itching hand can reach for my gun and leave me one vor short.

The door swings shut behind us, silence falling in our wake.

“Was that wise?” Maks asks once we’re out of earshot, on our way back to the car. “Making an enemy of your oldest vor ?”

“He’s the one who made an enemy of me.”

“No. He was crass and rude, but he wasn’t lying.” Maksim steps between me and the car door. “I’m serious, man. You’ve made your decision. Either change your mind, or learn to live with it.”

I don’t answer him.

I can’t.

Because I know, as I fold into the Maybach and slam the door hard enough to crack it, that he’s fucking right.