Page 36

YULIAN

I hold Mia close until she falls asleep.

For hours, I watch her. Stroke her hair, her back, the curve of her pregnant belly. Keep her near me, tucked against the broad expanse of my chest as if it could protect her from harm. As if I could shield her from everything.

But I can’t.

It’s a hard truth to swallow. Until now, I’ve acted as if I’m invincible, when the world has already proved to me that I’m not. That bullet that grazed her at our engagement party, so long ago—that was a sign.

Just because nothing happened to her tonight, it doesn’t mean it won’t next time.

She isn’t safe. Not with me, not with anyone.

Not until Desya’s sick game is over.

It’s that thought that pushes me out of bed. Mia stirs in her sleep, searching blindly for my warmth that’s suddenly disappeared. It kills me to leave her like this, but I don’t have a choice.

I have to act tonight.

I slip out of the penthouse like a thief. It’s the dead of night, hours before dawn.

Maksim greets me outside my door. “Going for a midnight walk?”

“Something like that.” My gaze flicks back to the apartment. “Don’t leave them unguarded. Not for any reason.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, boss.”

I don’t doubt it. Even if his girlfriend wasn’t sleeping in our guest room, he’s the most trusted man I have. If anyone wants to get to my family, they’ll have to do it over his dead body.

Which means I have even more to lose than I thought.

The streets are quiet. Not deserted—Manhattan never sleeps, after all—but less crowded than usual. No cars stick to me for longer than a block or two. It’s a quick drive to the safehouse.

I still take the roundabout way, just in case.

Outside, Nikita greets me. Though “greet” doesn’t feel like the right word for the venomous glare she shoots my way.

“Come to lay me off for good?” she asks.

“I’m not here for you.”

“Good, because I’m not moving,” she declares. “Zhenya’s my division boss. I’m not leaving her side.”

She crosses her arms, shoulders squared. Her jaw is set, her expression unflinching. The bags under her eyes are deep enough to hold water.

Earlier, I snapped at her. Accused her of letting Desya go on purpose. My instincts tell me I wasn’t entirely wrong, but I might have jumped the gun. She hesitated—that much is undeniable.

But so did I.

Twenty years ago, I could have ended this thing before it even started, but I didn’t. I could have made better choices then, but I can’t change that. I can’t change the past.

I can only make better choices now.

No—I have to.

“Keep your post.” I don’t let any emotion seep into my voice. “I’ll expect you back at the penthouse tomorrow.”

After Nikita’s performance tonight, I can’t take any chances in the field. But she’s proven herself to be a reliable bodyguard, and a good friend to Mia.

Right now, Mia needs that.

Nikita’s shoulders relax slightly. “I’ll be there.”

I nod and walk inside.

This safehouse isn’t anything special. An old bunker converted for our needs, with a few bunks and a barracks-like atmosphere. Last night, I had it fitted with state-of-the-art medical equipment. The second Zhenya was rolled out of surgery, we brought her here.

Hospitals aren’t safe for people like us. Not for long stays, at least. The cops will already be there, asking questions, but that’s not the real danger.

Prizrak is.

Monitors are beeping as I enter. Half the bunker has been walled off with glass, made sterile and safe for Zhenya’s recovery. She’s hooked up to a million different machines, all humming with the effort of keeping her alive.

My fists tighten.

He did this. He put two of mine in the grave and one in a hospital bed.

And he’s not going to get away with it.

I push the door open.

Two heads spin towards me: Kazimir, with his bandaged foot lifted up on a spare chair…

… and Anton.

The second he sees me, his face goes red with rage. “You.”

Then he’s hurtling towards me, fist poised to strike.

“Anton, wait!” Kazimir shouts uselessly. He tries to hop down, but his bad foot won’t let him cross the room fast enough.

Not that there’s any need.

I catch Anton’s fist mid-air. “Calm down, man.”

“Like hell am I gonna calm down!” He tries to hit me with the other, but I block that one, too. Anton is a useful paper-pusher, but a fighter he has never been. “It’s your fault she’s in that bed!”

“Remind me who left his post again.”

His face burns brighter. More fury, perhaps, or shame. “Someone had to shoot that bastard . ”

“That someone was me.”

“Then why isn’t he fucking dead?!”

Anton’s insinuation pours gasoline on my own rage. “Because you left your goddamn post,” I growl. “You made yourself a target. And the only reason your sister is in that bed is because she ate that bullet for you. Now, are you done taking swings at your pakhan or do I have to discipline you?”

Anton freezes. He knows what the word “discipline” means. He may be grieving, but he hasn’t lost all self-preservation yet.

Slowly, he drops his fists. “She’s all I have,” he murmurs. “It’s always been just the two of us. Now, that surgeon’s been saying she’ll never walk again. How do I tell her that?”

“You don’t.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “I do. That’s why you have a pakhan. ”

I should be punishing him. Raising your hand against your pakhan— that’s a capital offense. Grounds for a summary execution.

And yet, the fact that he even took a swing at me at all would have been unthinkable twenty-four hours ago.

The Volkov twins made vor together, with Anton largely riding on his sister’s coattails.

She was always the tough one, the ruthless one, shoot-first-ask-questions-later.

Anton? He only ever fired his gun if it was to save his own skin.

Now, here he is, fighting me . Someone bigger, badder, stronger than he could ever hope to be. All for the sake of someone else.

This is what war does to people. It changes them—for better or worse. Anton’s living proof of that.

And so am I.

“Kazimir,” I say, “get the planning committee on the phone.”

He blinks. “Boss, it’s three in the morning.”

“I’m aware.”

“Alright, alright.” He puts his hands up placatingly against my black mood. “I’ll do it. What do you want me to tell them?”

“Tell them I need a gala. Next week.”

His eyes go wide. No doubt, he’s thinking I’m crazy. These events ordinarily take months—a week won’t even be enough to find someone for catering.

But I don’t give a shit if it’s impossible. They will make it possible. Because I said so, and because I need it.

Because, next week, we lay our final trap.