Chapter 1

As I knock on my father's office door, I remind myself that keeping the business running is the most important thing. Countless souls rely on us. I can't think about the fact that, under different circumstances, I might kill my father.

He croaks, "Come in," and then starts coughing violently.

His office is shrouded in smoke, with faint Las Vegas sunlight shining through the thick shield-like curtains. He smokes his pipe, staring at a projection on the wall. It's the value of Sokolov Securities, the business we use as a front for our not-so-legal activities. My father doesn't look at me. He takes another suck of his pipe while staring at the wall. It's like he's trying to convince himself everything he has done was worth it.

"You wanted to see me," I say tightly.

Over the years, my father and I have developed a working relationship but not much else. My father is the Pakhan, the boss, which means he controls more than just Sokolov Securities. Until recently, he's kept me away from the other businesses—the credit card fraud, the hacking, money laundering—but lately, seemingly out of nowhere, he's started involving me.

My father doesn't respond as I take a seat. He just keeps smoking.

I remember when he asked me to become the official CEO of Sokolov Securities. He had a sick grin on his face, as though I was four and not forty, and I should forget all the times I watched him do bad things. It was like he wanted me to drop to his feet with gratitude.

"I'm dying," my father says after a long pause.

I make a sound, something like a grunt. It's probably not the reaction he was looking for, but it's the most I can drag up from deep inside of me. I'm not sure what he wants me to say. I'm not sure what he thinks he has any right to expect.

"Cancer?" I ask.

He looks at me sourly, his eyes shrouded in smoke. His hair has thinned and grayed over the years. His skin is sagging, and his hard living makes his body swollen, so he now walks with a cane. Yet he's still a large, broad, tall man, like all the Sokolovs.

"How did you guess?" he asks dryly, then coughs as if to prove the point.

I'm sorry, I almost say, but that's what he wants. My father thinks now that he's ill, suddenly everyone should treat him like some new, better man. That's not how the world works. He has only gotten away with all his sins because of his name and power. Power is all he ever wanted, after all.

When I don't reply, he says, "I've been forced to think about the future of my empire. I've been forced to face certain realities. You, Dimitri, will now become the leader of the Sokolovs and all our businesses. It's also time you found a wife."

He says this matter-of-factly. I stay silent, though I'd prefer to snap at him. He drove my mother away and made her life hell. The only reason he even let her go, I found out years later, is because she threatened to leak some sensitive, intimate photos to the public that would have ruined his image. I don't know what they were, but I bet they weren't pretty.

He drove his wife away, but he wants me to find one.

"In fact," he says, "I've already handled that."

Under the table, I clench my fist. The old man stares back at me.

"Handled?" I say, keeping my voice calm.

"Have you heard of the Petrovs?"

"Of course, I have," I snap.

He grins like he's saying, Ah, like father, like son. He wants me to snap and rage and let out my darkness like he always has. While we, the Sokolovs, run Vegas, the Petrovs have operations in LA and Orange County.

"We're going to join with them," he says, as though it's already decided. "Together, we can run the entire West Coast, but you know what the Petrovs are like. Skittish. Violent. Paranoid."

He could easily be describing himself.

"To that end, I have arranged for you and Mila Petrov to marry. She's a nice girl, by all accounts?—"

"She won't be when she becomes a Sokolov," I growl. "She won't be when I cheat on her every weekend, when I belittle her, bully her, hate her for not being what I think I deserve when I'm not even one-tenth of what she deserves."

He doesn't have to ask who I'm really talking about—him and my mother.

"You don't have to like it," he says flatly, "but it's happening. To ensure this, we've put it into writing."

"Put what into writing?" I say, voice dark.

"Nikolai Petrov and I have agreed that if Mila Petrov doesn't become a Sokolov by the fall, he will have free reign to take over all our off-the-books operations. Several of my key men have also been notified of this."

I grit my teeth, my head feeling light. "Do you have any idea what that means?" I growl. "If we let the Petrovs take over this town, within weeks, they'd flood it with their dirty drugs and God knows what else. We've kept this city clean?—"

"I don't care what they do," he cuts in. "I won't be around for much longer. I would've sold all that myself if I had their connections and if our other businesses weren't so lucrative. Mila will arrive tomorrow. Would you prefer her to stay at the family home or your apartment?"

"The family home," I say straight away.

The family home is a big compound outside the city, with enough food for several weeks, safe rooms, pools, and lots of luxury. It's where I grew up, a place I'm not fond of. Right now, I think Ania, my half-sister, is the only one staying there.

"So if I don't marry Mila, you're going to kill dozens, if not hundreds of people."

Another man might deny this. My father might say I'm twisting his words, but he just smiles, lays his pipe down, and leans forward in his chair. Suddenly, he looks like the man I've always known, the towering giant who always gets his way.

"Yes, that's right. Don't look so upset. You look like a woman when you pout like that. It's easy, anyway. Just marry the bitch. You can still screw whatever you like on the side."

My father disgusts me.

"Is there anything else?" I say.

"Maybe a hug, my dear son, for a dying father?"

I stand up and hurry from the room. My father's security watches me as I leave. The Sokolovs are supposed to be one cohesive unit, but my father has men who would do anything he says.

Getting into my car, I drive through Vegas, avoiding the strip, my head thumping. I've spent my life keeping my head down: working, working out, trying to keep the legal business and the family going, and trying to stop Mikhail and our father from killing each other.

Speaking of my little brother, my cell phone rings, and I quickly switch to speaker to answer. "Yeah?"

Mikhail laughs, sounding lighthearted as usual. I wonder if I'm the only one who can see through that shield. "Hello to you too, brother."

"I just met with Father," I tell him point-blank.

"Not good, I'm guessing?"

"I'm getting married."

"Ah," Mikhail sighs. "We both knew this day might come."

He's right. We've talked about the idea before.

"You always said it didn't matter," Mikhail goes on. "Our procreators ruined marriage for you anyway, so who cares, right?"

"Yeah, but that was before it was real, and I had to think about walking down the aisle, trying to be a good husband, and trying to care when I know I can't."

"So, so grim," Mikhail says. "Maybe you'll like her."

"Hmm. Maybe."

But I've never liked anyone. I've been cold and distant, the way a Sokolov man is supposed to be.

"Did you know about the cancer?"

Mikhail grunts. "No, and I don't give a damn."

It's sad, maybe, two sons who are mostly indifferent about their father's passing, but it's not like he ever gave us much reason to care.

"I need you," I tell him, "in the office as my righthand man."

Mikhail groans. "I've already got a job…"

"I know," I say, "and I'm sure this video game you're working on will be fun. I'm sure people will love it, but this is bigger than that. Our father's got men loyal to him, not the Sokolov name."

"I don't know, brother." I can almost see Mikhail sitting at his computer, his glasses perched on his nose, stroking his short beard with his long hair flopping over his face. "I'm called the spare for a reason."

"He calls you the spare," I say. "I've never called you that, and I never would."

Mikhail sighs. "I'll have to think about it."

I grind my teeth, but I won't push him. With a wild spirit like Mikhail, that will make him want to say no even more. He might even leave Vegas and travel again, like when he spent three years touring Europe.

"I've always hated that name," I tell him. "The spare. Like two years makes all the difference in the world."

"You're the first son. In our world, it does."

"Think about what I said."

I hang up the phone before I can say something I'll regret. He's my brother, my blood. So many times, I protected him from one of our father's beatings, but I can't blame him. Without the pressure of being the firstborn son, he's been able to carve out something like a life for himself.

I try to focus on what I've got to do today while driving to Summerlin, where our offices are located, fifteen miles from the Strip. Sokolov Securities has contracts with several major companies and even some government agencies. We're one of the best cybersecurity outfits in the game, which makes our hacking, fraud, and other enterprises even more questionable.

I've just reached the office when my cell rings again. It's a Facetime video call from my father, the man of the hour. This is one of the strangest things I have ever seen. I can't remember a single time he has ever Facetimed me. I answer the call, knowing I have to keep him sweet even if it pisses me off.

When I answer, he is sitting in the same chair as when I was there. The curtains are open now. He's got his eyes closed, and he's smiling.

"Yes, Father?" I say, finding the smile just as weird as the call itself.

"I don't want to die in the dark," he says, his eyes still closed.

"You've got time," I mutter.

He opens his eyes, his smile turning to what most would call sad, but this is my father, the ruthless Bratva man who berated his sons for the smallest thing. "Ah, yes, time for what little hair I have left to fall out, time to become weak and skeletal. No, Dimitri, I can't have that. I just wanted to tell you that I know I could've been better and done better, but anything I did was always for you, my heir. My legacy." I may have been important to him, but his legacy always took precedence.

He reaches off-camera. When his hand comes back into view, he's holding a pistol. He brings it to his head.

"A Sokolov always chooses his terms."

I've imagined this moment, or one like it, countless times, fueled by the beatings, the bullying, and the control. Yet in all those times, I never thought I'd shout for him to stop.

Bang.

The phone falls, the camera showing spatters of blood on the ceiling.