Page 27

YULIAN

The funeral is a solitary affair.

Slavik didn’t want one at all—left it written in his will, the meticulous bastard—but Rurik wasn’t so forward-thinking.

Then again, he had no heirs, no strings tying him to this world.

No one to leave anything behind for , or to .

Why bother with a notary when you know damn well the only people who’ll show up to your death are the ones you sacrificed yourself for?

Not that Rurik sacrificed, exactly. He got a bad break, that’s all. But he was bold enough to be out in the open when most were hunkering down underground, and that’s enough for me. His insubordination, those sharp-tongued accusations lodged in my brain—I’ll let them be bygones.

Because if the dead can’t testify, they certainly can’t be held responsible for what they’ve said in life, either.

We’re out of town, where the roads narrow and curve like veins through the landscape, far from the glass-and-smoke breath of the city.

The chapel is old, sun-worn, with ivy curling like skeletal fingers across the faded stone facade.

Inside, the pews are cracked and creaking under the weight of the years.

There’s no priest. No prayers. No false absolution. Just two urns—dull, heavy, unadorned—and a few lowlifes who thought they owed the dead men a nod, at least.

Behind me, boots crunch on the old wooden floor. I don’t even need to turn to know who it is.

“It can’t go on like this,” comes a low grunt.

Zhenya . She’s wearing the signature white pocket square of recruits, a half-assed attempt at disguise, but her voice carries that same heat it always does. “I’m not sitting on my ass, waiting to be picked off.”

“You should be in hiding.” My voice is gravel, ground down by responsibility. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week. Haven’t blinked in what feels like hours.

If it weren’t for Mia, I’d have lost it by now.

Every time I feel like I’m at the end of my rope, her touch brings me back to life. We’ve been fraying the dangerous boundary between casual and not casual at all—between desire and feelings.

She still hasn’t forgiven me. But right now, that’s on the backburner. What matters is keeping her safe and warm in my bed, where I can touch her, hold her, make her cry out in pleasure instead of pain.

“You should be in hiding, too,” Zhenya replies. “And yet here you are.”

“I’m the pakhan ,” I say, turning now, catching her eyes. “If I went underground, we’d lose all respect in the city.”

“And we’re your vory .” Another voice joins—Kazimir. “If you go down, we go down with you.”

“I’m with Z and Kaz on this,” Anton joins in, sweat beading at his brow like he’s never felt a cool breeze in his life. “Though I’d love it if we could avoid another bullet-to-the-head situation while we’re at it.”

Great. Even the resident coward is showing some backbone. Maybe death has a way of doing that—of scraping people down to their truest, rawest selves. And sometimes, what’s left beneath is sharper than you expect.

“If you stick around,” I warn, “I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“Not to be rude, boss,” Kazimir says, tilting his head, “but we’re Bratva . If I wanted a cushy job, I’d have gone into politics.”

“Bunch of stubborn bastards, aren’t they?” Maksim chuckles at my side, arms folded. “But then again, they’re your bastards. You pick ’em, you keep ’em.”

I roll my eyes and rub at the tension coiling in my temples.

Fuck me, he’s right.

I picked them. Every last one. Some for their brains, others for their brawn. Some because they had bloodlust in their teeth and nothing else to lose. I made my choices. I built this empire from flesh and fire and reckless trust. I knew they’d bring the fight when the time came.

And the time has come. Hard and fast and bloody.

Can’t exactly bench them now.

But then Desya might win. It’s a creeping doubt at the back of my neck, that feeling of your hair standing on end, like someone’s watching you from afar. Ever since Desya came back from the dead, I just can’t stop feeling it. The need to stay alert, to watch my six every waking moment.

Prizrak has the advantage. Always did, really. They know who we are, where we are, and how to pick us off. Ghosts in the night, crawling out of the woodwork to claim their victims and then sinking back into the shadows. Invisible, impossible to catch, made of air and water and gunfire.

But they’re not ghosts. They’re men. And as much as he likes to pretend otherwise, Desya is just a man, too.

I didn’t kill him back then—that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t.

He murdered my family. Now, he’s going after my new one. No doubt, he thinks it’s only a matter of time before the chips fall in his favor.

Think again, mudak .

It’s high time we flip the script.

My vory are here. They’re ready to fight this to the end. This isn’t just personal to me now—it’s personal to all of us. Desya killed two of ours. He’s threatening to kill more.

And after that…

After that, he’ll turn his sights on Mia.

Like fuck am I going to let that happen.

Something starts to solidify in my head. A reckless, dangerous plan. No blueprints, just the hazy outline of it. It’s half-formed, but it’s unmistakably mine.

I turn to them, all of them. “You said you’re willing to risk it all,” I say. “If you stay, I’ll hold you to that. If not, the door’s right there.”

Not one of them moves.

Good .

“Then we’re going fishing.”

I take the vory into a private side room, deep in the chapel. The light is low, spilling from a lone bulb overhead, casting long shadows over our faces as I lay out the plan.

“You want to use bait? ” Anton balks.

“Yes.” I steeple my fingers on the desk. “It’s the only way to smoke them out.”

“Clever,” observes Kazimir. “But we’d need something worth dangling in front of them.”

“How about the girl?” It’s Zhenya, blunt as usual. “They went for it once before. Maybe?—”

“No.” I’m already on my feet, voice low and lethal. It’s not a shout, but it strikes like one. “No one touches her.”

Zhenya blinks, then frowns. “It’s our best bet. Desya kidnapped her, didn’t he? It’s clear he wants her. All we’d have to do is?—”

My fists slam into the desk, and the crack echoes through the room like a gunshot. Even the walls seem to flinch.

“No. One. Touches. Her.” I hook every single gaze in the room, leaving Zhenya for last. “She’s mine. ”

Zhenya swallows, shrinking slightly from me. “Fine,” she mutters. “No to the girl. Who does that leave, then?”

“You.”

She straightens. “Me?”

“He means all of us,” Kazimir interprets. “We’re the target. Makes sense we’d be good bait.”

Zhenya settles back into her chair, deep in thought. Anton looks greenish at the prospect of being dangled in front of the sharks. Maybe he’s regretting that he didn’t leave earlier. That he didn’t drag his sister with him and run for the hills.

Too late. They’re in this now.

Maksim wolf-whistles. “Bold move, boss. Shall we go over the details?”

“Let’s.”

We stay there for hours, ironing out the plan. By the time the sun starts sinking over the horizon, our trap is laid. Sharp, perfect, lethal.

We’re coming for you, motherfucker.