Chapter 12

I grab my jacket and head for the elevator. The thought of Rowan hearing that call sends an unexpected jolt of adrenaline through me—part anger, part something else.

This complicates things.

Or does it?

If she overheard, and if she says nothing, it’s a test passed without me even administering it.

If she runs her mouth…

Well, there are rusty chains in Tribeca begging for a new occupant.

The elevator doors close, and I find myself thinking not of the security breach, but of how she looked today. Those nervous glances. The lower lip swollen from her gnawing at it while she concentrated. The flush that crept up her neck whenever I stood too close.

It drove me fucking crazy.

All day long, I felt her presence like an itch I couldn’t scratch. I’ve had more beautiful women. More experienced women. Women who knew exactly how to please me without being told.

But there’s something about her. The innocence? The desperation? How laughable her attempts to hide that crush from me truly are?

No—it’s the chase.

It’s been a long time since I wanted something I couldn’t immediately have.

The elevator reaches the underground parking garage. My Aston Martin awaits. I slide behind the wheel, but I don’t start the engine immediately. Instead, I pull out my phone and send a one-word text to the man who’s been following Rowan.

REPORT

The response comes quickly: Subject returned home. Appears agitated. Hasn’t contacted anyone.

Good. She’s scared but not stupid enough to talk. Not yet, anyway.

I start the car, its engine growling to life like a predator waking from slumber. The sound centers me, reminds me of who I am. What I am.

And what I’m soon to become.

Twenty minutes later, I pull up outside an unassuming building in Brighton Beach. No sign marks its purpose, but the two men standing guard at the door tell the real story.

They nod respectfully as I approach. “Good evening, Mr. Akopov.”

“Dimitri. Sasha.” I acknowledge them with a nod of my own. “Is everyone here?”

“Yes, sir. Waiting for you in the back room.”

I enter the Russian restaurant, the smell of borscht and cigarette smoke hitting me immediately. The patrons are a mix of elderly folks playing chess, young couples on dates, and—in the darkened corners—my father’s men conducting business.

To the casual observer, it’s just a neighborhood joint.

To those who know, it’s the heart of Akopov territory.

I make my way to the private room in the back, where six men sit around a large table. They rise when I enter.

“Sit,” I command, taking my place at the head of the table. “Let’s make this quick.”

The eldest of them, Artem, speaks first. “The Koreans are pushing into our territory again. They’ve opened a front business on 34th Street.”

“A massage parlor,” adds Yuri, the youngest lieutenant. “But we all know what they’re really selling.”

I steeple my fingers. “How many girls?”

“At least fifteen. All underage.”

My jaw tightens. Among the many sins of the Akopov Bratva, trafficking minors is not one of them. We may be monsters, but even monsters have standards.

“Shut it down,” I order. “Tonight.”

“How loud should we be about it?” Yuri asks, always eager for violence.

“Quiet, but effective. I want the girls removed safely, the managers sent back to Seoul with a message, and the owners reminded who really owns that block.” I fix him with a cold stare. “No casualties unless absolutely necessary. Understood?”

Yuri nods, clearly disappointed. It’s fine—he’ll get his fill of blood soon enough, for some reason or another. There are always skulls to crack, fingers to break, harsh lessons to be dealt out to those who’ve forgotten the ways of our world.

The door opens, and a familiar figure strolls in.

“Late as usual, Arkady,” I remark, though there’s no real anger in my voice.

Arkady Szymanski, my oldest friend and right-hand man, grins unapologetically. He might look like a wholesome model, with blond, tousled hair and dimples in his cheeks like he belongs in a fucking Got Milk commercial, but I know better. So does everyone who’s ever crossed us.

“Traffic,” he offers as an excuse, claiming an empty chair at my right hand. “What did I miss?”

“Korean problem,” Artem informs him. “Yuri’s handling it.”

Arkady nods. “Good. The shipment tomorrow—all set?”

“Everything’s in place,” I confirm. “Mikhail is overseeing the dock operation personally.”

“Should I tell him to get his head out of his shit-covered ass and do it right this time?”

I chuckle. “Already told him. Not with your poetry, of course. But the message was received.”

“I’ll get that printed on a Hallmark card in case he forgets. Then I’ll fold the card until it’s all corners and shove it up said shit-covered ass. Only then will it truly be ‘message received.’”

He’s a motor mouth, but the fucker knows how to make me laugh. One of the few alive who does that on a semi-regular basis.

The meeting continues, covering territory disputes, protection payments, and upcoming business ventures. Some of it is legal. Most of it is not. The dual nature of the Akopov empire requires constant balancing—the legitimate face we show the world, and the shadow organization that truly wields the power.

One’s a hell of a lot more fun than the other, though.

An hour later, business concluded, the lieutenants file out to go give the Korean massage parlor a not-so-happy ending, leaving only Arkady and me lounging at the table.

“Drink?” he offers, heading to the bar.

“Vodka. Neat.”

He pours two glasses and returns, sliding one across to me. “I heard you got a new assistant. Vanessa finally get shipped off to Siberia?”

“Singapore,” I correct, sipping the vodka. “And yes, I replaced her.”

“Anyone interesting?”