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YULIAN

THE NEXT SUNDAY

I wish Mia didn’t have to look so goddamn good while defying me.

She’s wearing a tight black dress that does nothing to hide the swell of her pregnant belly. On the contrary, it juts out proudly, like her chin when she faces me. “Ready to go?”

I’m not. I’ll never be ready to put Mia in harm’s way. Even now, I’m fighting the urge to crush all the work we’ve done to repair our relationship and lock her up in my penthouse. Better yet, put her on a plane with her son and never see them again, so long as I know they’re safe .

But she won’t have that.

So I stride past her and head out the door.

I hear her steps behind me. Not heels, but flats—better suited to running if the situation calls for it. First smart choice she’s made all week.

A small part of me whispers, That’s unfair. She’s doing this for you.

But I don’t want her to be doing things for me. That’s not how this works. I’m the one who’s supposed to protect her, not the other way around.

And yet, Mia’s as stubborn as they come.

“Not gonna speak to me?” she needles on the way over.

“Got nothing to say.”

“Right. Silent treatment.” Her lips press into a thin line. “Real mature.”

About as mature as shoehorning your way into a death trap while pregnant? The words are on my lips, but I don’t say them. Right now, I can’t afford to lose myself in another argument. I need to keep my head, keep my cool, and survive the night.

We both do.

We take the elevator to the rooftop terrace. The sun slants over the horizon, daubing the sky red with the last rays of sunset. Against the glare, countless rooftops surround us, lower by a story or ten.

Every single one of those rooftops is manned by my people tonight.

By the time we step onto the terrace, the gala’s in full swing. I spy a couple of investors I know, but the others must be last-minute admissions from the waitlist. Probably the only ones willing to drop everything on such short notice to attend.

“Hi there!” Tikhon’s voice trills. “What a party, huh? Lots of new faces! I’m so glad I got to see you again, Mia.

How’s little Eli? Oh, oh, almost forgot!

That prototype you pitched me? The ingestible chip for monitoring vitals?

Huge success. We’re working on accelerated FDA approval for medical use.

And that’s not all! I’ve been toying with the idea of ingestible equipment for covert ops: mics, scanners, frequency jammers.

Well, not ingestible exactly—they’d stick to the inside of your cheek—but how cool would that be?

I’ve already made a couple of prototypes and set up remote stations for real-time download of the collected data.

Here, take a sample, we’ve got loads. We’re waiting to pitch this to the CIA?—”

“Tikhon, shut up.”

“Got it.” He takes a step back and motions a zipper across his face. “Shutting up now. Enjoy the party!”

Once he’s gone, Mia scolds, “That was rude.”

“Didn’t hear you chime in with praise.”

“You didn’t exactly give me the time.”

“I didn’t realize you were waiting so eagerly for Tikhon to take a breath.”

“You know what? I really thought we’d gotten past this.” She crosses her arms, fixes me with a glare that could cut through steel. “You bossing people around, telling them when to speak, what to do.” Her face turns bitter. “Or where to live.”

Irritation flares through me. “Forgive me for trying to save your life.”

“See? That, right there.” She sticks her finger in my face. “You think you’re king of the world. That you know better than anyone, that only you get to make the decisions. News flash: that’s not how it works, Yulian!”

“I’m the pakhan, ” I say. “That’s exactly how it works.”

“Maybe in your Bratva,” she says. “But not in real life. Not with family. And certainly not with me.”

I have no idea how this argument started. I’m supposed to be surveying my surroundings, making sure everyone’s in position, but Mia’s tirade makes me see fucking red.

Family. That word in particular sticks like a knife.

Back then, I wasn’t strong enough. Wasn’t smart enough, quick enough, decisive enough. It’s because of that indecisiveness that my family went unavenged. Because of my blind faith in someone whom I considered a friend that I lost them to begin with.

She thinks family isn’t supposed to be run like a Bratva? She’s dead wrong. It’s supposed to be run exactly like a Bratva.

Otherwise, you lose it.

I stare Mia down. “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” I tell her coldly. “And until I do, I’d rather you keep it to yourself.”

She reels back as if slapped. “There it is,” she whispers. “It’s always hot or cold with you. Never any middle ground.”

“You knew who I was when you came back.”

“No, Yulian,” she corrects. “I don’t know who you are.

All I know is what you show me, and right now, it’s two different people.

One cold, one hot. But I can’t keep guessing which one I’ll get every time I open my mouth.

” Tears gather at the corners of her eyes.

“I just can’t keep up with you anymore.”

I hide my wince. Is that what I am? Two different people? A man wearing two faces, never knowing which one’s the mask and which one’s the real thing?

Is that why the woman I love is crying now?

Guilt crashes into me. I want to say something, but the words all stick in my throat. Apologizing is out of the question: a pakhan never undermines his own work. A pakhan never makes mistakes to apologize for in the first place.

Right?

“Mia,” I call out, reaching for her.

But then her eyes go wide with terror.

For a fraction of a second, I think it’s because of me. Because I’ve fucked up too badly, broken us in too many pieces.

Then I realize she’s looking past me.

Slowly, I turn too.

And that’s when I see him.

Disguised. A waiter’s clothes hiding the wolf beneath.

A black eyepatch. A tray in one hand.

And a gun in the other.

“Yulian!”

Her scream echoes in my head.

Then I’m falling to the ground.