Chapter 1

Anton

Vodka. Bottles and bottles of it. I squinted, my vision blurring. The bottles were… tiny. Dancing and jittering all over the table in front of me.

For a split second I thought that perhaps it was an earthquake. And then I remembered where I was.

I was on a plane. Our private jet. One of our private jets. This one was actually not mine… the colors were slightly off. It took a moment before I recognized the silver and grays of Andrei's plane. We must have run out of vodka because we were into the tiny bottles the staff kept on board for guests. My brothers and I always travelled with our own stock. A case or two, usually. Sometimes three, particularly when we travelled together.

Which meant I had drank quite a bit.

I felt momentarily proud of myself for that bit of crack detective work. But my brain was not yet working properly. In fact, my head was too busy pounding to do much actual thinking.

My brothers were nowhere in sight, so I assumed that they too had exceeded our usual levels of debauchery. As nothing seemed urgent in my immediate environment, I closed my eyes again. Everything went dark for quite a while. It was much later when I awoke, still feeling the effects of overindulgence.

Was this a memory or a dream? I wondered as I twisted in my sheets. Sheets meant bed, not the spacious cabin of Andrei's jet. Was it my bed, or one of the juicy stewardesses I bedded from time to time? Or one of the willowy fashion models or dancers I dallied with on occasion?

I could never be bothered to remember their names, except for the most famous of my playthings. I rarely saw any of them more than a handful of times. As a result, they were in my phone as the location I had met them and a physical description.

Bed club Miami, blue eyes, for example. Sometimes I even used these names to their pretty, but altogether forgettable, faces. So far, no one had ever complained.

In fact, these fantastically beautiful women fell into my bed almost too easily. I barely had to do any hunting at all. It could be extremely annoying, if I thought about it too much.

A man needed something to work for, or he became fat and lazy. That would never happen in my case, but for others, it was certainly true. I did occasionally long for a challenge, however.

People knew who I was, of course. And women of all ages and socioeconomic status ran towards a powerful man in an expensive suit like pretty little moths to a very dangerous flame. The illegal and violent nature of my lifestyle only added to my allure. None of that surprised me. I was a man of the world, after all.

But so far, no one had held my interest for more than a moment. For more than the time it took to undress them and enjoy what they so eagerly offered.

The only thing these women had in common was their beauty. They were all notable beauties. Every last one.

But even on the rare occasions when women did not know who I was, they still flocked to me. It was quite ridiculous, honestly. I did not understand men who had to pursue, or God forbid, pine for a woman. No female was out of reach to me, or to my brothers. It did not matter if they were famous, rich, poor, married, or otherwise spoken for.

The world was my oyster. But for some reason, I found it all quite boring. My brothers had complained of the same thing in recent years, to the extent that Alexei had given up on women altogether.

Speak of the devil and he will appear.

Both of my brothers loomed over the bed. I realized where I was now, reality crashing in like a rough wave. We were home, in the palatial estate where we had been raised, in the suburbs of Moscow.

We had renovated while traveling to some of our other properties for several months, which is why these familiar walls looked less familiar.

"Get up. We need to handle something," Alexei snarled.

"What the fuck time is it?"

I rolled over, squinting. The sun was far too bright, I realized as Andrei threw open the heavy velvet curtains. So, not morning. No excuse for this nasty hangover. I prided myself on being able to drink like a fish with zero to little recovery.

I'd rolled out of the club and hit the gym more than once, forgoing sleep altogether. I was trained to be tough. My father had always, and still did, demand it.

The first time he had gotten me drunk was still fresh in my mind. I had been twelve years old. He had forced all three of us boys to drink until we puked. He had done it again and again until we were able to hold what he deemed a sufficient amount of liquor.

Which was a lot.

Drinking had become a way of life. A way to let off steam. And a testament to manliness.

Our manliness was the most important thing we had. Along with our reputation for cruelty. Our power and wealth were secondary.

Even with our monumental wealth, without manliness and the respect of every man, woman, and child who laid eyes on us, we were nothing,

‘Nothing, nothing, nothing' I could hear my father's words hammering into my brain.

"Get up, svolach," Alexie said with a kick. He was the far less considerate brother. Although perhaps, truth be told, I was worse.

I had far less sympathy than he did in times like this.

Or was it empathy? A woman had once accused me of having zero empathy after I told her she could leave after a truly debauched night of love making.

To be fair, I'd climaxed thirty seconds before telling her to ‘hit the curb', in so much words.

We'd been in New York, though. No reason to assume a woman had tender feelings there. She wouldn't last long if she did. So I'd told her to leave, and she had. The encounter stuck in my mind. Not because of the fantastic sex, or her beauty, both of which I had zero memory of. But simply because of her reaction to my request for privacy.

And now it was my turn to suffer.

"What is the job?" I asked, showing no weakness as I stood and accepted the glass that Alexie held out to me. Pure vodka, I realized as I swallowed. My hangover was instantly gone.

"A mark who is late on payments."

"Send someone else," this sort of task was so far beneath us that it was laughable.

"He's not just late. He's a year late."

"A year? Why is he still alive?"

My brothers shared a meaningful glance. I waited, without any semblance of patience. There had to be a reason. No one was ev r late with payments to the Aslanov Bratva.

"It's Barlov," Anton said simply.

"Why is he a year late? That is unlike him," I added, turning towards the bathroom to splash water on my face. Staring at my face in the mirror, I rubbed my jaw and decided not to shave. I was good-looking enough.

Too good-looking, if you asked my father. All of us were. He probably shouldn't have impregnated three up and coming fashion models if he didn't want us to be shockingly handsome, I thought without a hint of ego.

I knew what I looked like. I didn't place much importance on it. I was used to being stared at, lusted after, feared, respected, and desired. It was just the way things were.

I was an alpha predator. The alpha predator. One of the deadliest creatures on earth.

"He's sick."

"Sick?" I asked, surpassing the twist of regret that pulsed through my guts. I didn't like many people. I had been treated with respect, but not kindness, since birth. The old man in the candy shop had been one of the few. Perhaps the only one, to ever show a hint of care.

It was unspoken, but I knew my brothers felt the same.

"He's dying. His daughter is trying to run the place, and failing. Badly," Anton added unnecessarily.

"I didn't know he had a daughter."

"His wife was pregnant. She died giving birth to the girl."

"I thought she was a promising musician," Alexie said, clearly not caring one way or the other.

"A violinist," Andrei answered.

"I knew nothing of any of this. Why was it kept from me?" I asked, selecting a shirt and tie to go with my customary brown wool suit. I had dozens of them in different shades of taupe and weights of wool.

Alexie was partial to shades of blue, to match his shockingly blue eyes, and Andrei favored shades of gray. Other than our coloring, our features, stature, and builds, we were nearly identical.

How on earth had one of our interests been allowed to fall so far behind? Barlov was small potatoes. Just the owner of a modest candy shop in Moscow. If he hadn't been located in an area under our control during a different phase of our father's empire building, I doubted he would have been tempting to any of the other crime syndicates, let alone the biggest in the world.

"Not kept from you, brother. Just bits and pieces I overheard and noticed. I haven't been to Barlov's shop since I was a boy."

"Me either."

I nodded. I was the same. I knew things without knowing how I knew them. My hackles had risen for some unknown reason, but they quickly settled. My brother's always had my back.

Unless we all wanted the same woman, or the last bit of vodka, or to make the killing blow when handling a traitor.

Then, all bets were off. We would battle each other without mercy. Without holding back. We all had the scars to prove it.

The funny thing was, I could not remember the last time that had happened.