Chapter 3

"Who the fuck called you?" I snap down the phone.

Angelo, one of our many police allies, sighs. "It was a gunshot, Dimitri. There's protocol."

"The press doesn't know it was suicide."

"No, we're blocking the case files."

"Good," I tell him. "We can't let the truth get out. It will make us look like prime pickings for any bastards who want to move in."

Whether you loved or hated him, my father was good at using fear to keep our illegitimate businesses secret, keep Sokolov Securities running smoothly, and keep other organizations at bay.

"I can't promise anything," Angelo says, "but we'll do our best."

My father would probably have threatened Angelo at this point, but I don't see the use of doing that just yet. It's better to keep the police sweet during whatever comes next. After hanging up, I drum my fingers against the wheel, driving through the desert toward the family home. The compound is the most natural place to stay while we deal with this instability.

As I drive, getting Lia out of my head is difficult. I was standing at my window when I saw her hurrying across the lot toward the office building, which was currently under construction. Something about the swaying in her hips ignited something inside, ignited a piece of me I never thought I'd feel. But, no, this is the time for duty. My body protests, stirring, heating up, but I ignore the hunger. Still, Lia stares at me from my mind's eye.

With her brown hair tied up in a messy bun, a pencil stuck through it to keep it in place, her black skirt hugging her thick hips, her juicy legs, and her large breasts barely contained within her shirt, the base of my manhood aches. I have to stop. I'm going to drive myself insane.

Twenty minutes later, my cell rings. It's an unknown number. I answer since our men often call from burners or payphones when they can find one.

"Hello?"

"Dimitri," Nikolai Petrov says, father to my new bride. I recognize his voice from its gravelly edge and the Russian accent. "My condolences."

"Nikolai," I reply since we've always been on friendly terms when the families meet for parties or functions, basically peacekeeping events. That's because I hide my real feelings about the drug-pushing bastard. "Thank you."

"I wanted to call you personally," he continues, "and express my sincerest wishes to continue with the business your father started."

Translation means marrying his daughter, or he will move into the city and flood it with his filth.

"I'm assuming Mila is still good to arrive tomorrow?" He asks it like it really is a question when we both know it's not.

I stare at the road, the emptiness of it, part of me thinking about just continuing to drive. I could continue until I never had to think about the business, my family, or my responsibility again. Yet I couldn't do that to Mikhail or the countless people who rely on Sokolov Securities to pay their mortgages and feed their families.

Wildly, I think of Lia, not Mila, but Lia. It's like fate is playing some fucked-up games with me, making their names somewhat similar.

"Dimitri?" he goes on. "I know this is a very, very difficult time for you, but your father informed me that everything was sorted just in case his illness worsened."

Typical of my father, telling business associates before his own children.

"I'm looking forward to meeting her," I tell him to buy myself some time.

However, that's a load of crap. After saying our goodbyes, Lia watches me from my mind, that spark in her eyes, the pencil in her messy bun. I can't let myself care about the fact her life is miserable. She's forced to hide her paintings in her workplace. She doesn't deserve that, but she's not my problem. So why does she keep popping up in my thoughts?

I finally reach the compound, two houses inside a property surrounded by tall concrete walls. Between the two houses are long, well-tended lawns, a tennis court, and a small, concreted basketball area. Each home also has its own pool.

The metal doors open as I press my thumb against the thumb pad. As I pass, every guard holds their fist to their chest, a sign of support, condolences, and respect for their new leader. It could all be for show. Who could I trust to protect our city if I didn't marry Mila? Who would stab me in the back if I didn't follow my father's wishes?

Before I can reach the front door of the main house—my childhood home—my little half-sister, Ania, throws it open and runs down the steps. Ania is a very slight eighteen-year-old. She wants to be a ballerina one day, which is probably why she stays here. It has a dance studio in the basement and anything else a young girl could need. She's got straight black hair, wide, sometimes unnerving blue-green eyes, and a skittish way of moving from foot to foot, her hands constantly fidgeting.

She throws her arms around me, letting out a shuddering noise. "It's awful, isn't it?"

I hold my sister, squeezing her shoulder in what I hope is a reassuring gesture. Ania's mother was a prostitute whom she had never met. Our father, the cold bastard that he was, never showed her any love, but even she can find it in herself to mourn him. Ania has always been quiet and introverted. She's only eighteen.

"Yeah," I mutter.

"Is it true you're getting married?" she asks a moment later, looking up at me with shock.

I laugh gruffly. "News travels fast. Is Mikhail here?"

She steps back, fiddling with her dark hair. "Yeah, he's in the study. We talked a bit."

I repress a sigh. Mikhail finds it challenging to interact with Ania, though I know he always tries. "Whenever I look at her, I think of him with another woman…"

When Mikhail first said that to me, I told him our father had been with countless other women apart from our mother, and we might even have more brothers and sisters we don't know about. Supposedly, Ania's mother wanted nothing to do with her, but I'm not sure that's true. If it came from our father's lips, that was reason enough to doubt it.

"How's the practice going?" I ask.

Despite the dark circumstances, a glint of light enters my sister's eyes. "It's going well… I think. I'm better than I was, anyway. Do you think with Dad… Do you think I could maybe perform?"

Our father never wanted Ania to perform. I never understood why, but it was probably just another way for him to exert control. "I don't see why not."

Ania smiles, taking my hand, and we walk into the house together. Yuri, the old butler, stands in the hallway with his hands behind his back. His hair is almost entirely white now. His dedication to his job is such that, until it's time to work, he won't even move.

"Hello, Yuri," I say.

"Hello, sir."

"He finally arrives," Mikhail says, walking down the large double staircase. At the top, dominating one wall, there's a painting of Mikhail, our mother, father, and me. This was painted shortly before our mother left. Sadly, she wasn't able to enjoy her freedom. She passed away from a vicious flu that took her unexpectedly. Ania was a baby then but isn't in the painting. Our mother didn't want our father's bastard involved, she said. She was better than our father but still had her mean side.

Mikhail has thick, black-framed glasses perched on his head, holding back his brown, floppy locks. His hair is long to his shoulder, and he's wearing a cardigan sweater and jeans with little holes in them. He's always been the more "trendy" one.

Mikhail doesn't even try to hide how unbothered he is, drawing a concerned look from Ania. He bumps my fist. "Howdy."

"Try to take this seriously," I tell him, glancing at Yuri.

Mikhail snorts, clapping Yuri on the arm. "Yuri knew just what type of man our father was, don't you, Yuri?"

"I'm only here to serve, Master Sokolov."

Mikhail laughs darkly. "I guess we need to talk business, brother?"

I nod, wishing we didn't have to. I wonder how soon I can get that painting removed. I'll put a new one in its place—one that includes Ania. The work looks shoddy, anyway. Maybe I can get Lia to paint something.

Ania follows Mikhail and me as we walk toward the staircase. Mikhail waves a hand at her. "It's probably better if we do this alone, Ania."

He doesn't even look at her as he speaks. I want to give him a sharp slap to the head for being so rude, but our father died today—a few hours ago. I've got to give him some slack.

"It's okay, Ania," I say. "We'll talk later."

"I thought you were supposed to be the spare," she snaps at Mikhail, then strides off toward the left, most likely toward the basement door.

"I don't think she likes me," Mikhail says as we walk through the house together.

"You could make more of an effort with her," I tell him.

"Maybe." He readjusts his glasses. "Are the others coming?"

By the others, Mikhail means the other Bratva men, the soldiers, the lieutenants, and everybody else. I lower my voice as we walk down the wide hallway together, past classic paintings that somehow seem bland when I think of Lia's sketch. It wasn't even a complete painting—just a sketch—yet it had more of an effect on me than any other work ever has.

"We need to be careful."

Mikhail glances at me, then nods. "We don't know which men are our father's… and which are loyal to you."

"Bingo," I grunt as we walk into the study.

"You should sit at the desk," Mikhail says, dropping into an armchair and waving a hand at the large desk. "You're the boss now."

"I don't need to do that." I sit in the other chair. "You know what I'm going to ask you."

"Yeah, the same thing as earlier. It's not like I can say no now, is it? It's not like I can abandon you to deal with this alone."

"So you'll be my zamok." My underboss. "You'll help me clean up this mess and stop this city from falling apart."

"Damn, brother. That seems a tad dramatic." Mikhail places his glasses on the arm of the chair, then smooths his hair back into place. "I thought everything was running smoothly."

"It was, but now, unless I marry Mila Petrov, our father arranged for the city to be handed over to her father."

"Marry her, then," Mikhail says. "What difference does it make? Or have you found somebody else?"

"Don't be stupid," I growl with a tad too much aggression. It's like I'm trying to convince myself as much as him. "We can't let the Petrovs dictate what we do. Our father said he notified several key men about this arrangement. If Mila Petrov isn't a Sokolov by the fall, the city is his."

"What's that, then? Three weeks?"

"About that. That's why I need your help. I need a list of the most likely candidates, off-the-books, involving nobody else. I need to know who's loyal to us, not our father."

"What about the ones who are loyal to our father?"

I look at Mikhail coldly. "You don't need to worry about that."

"Imagine being almost forty and still being treated like a kid."

"I thought you wanted nothing to do with this."

"If I'm in now," he says, "I might as well be all in."

I shrug. "I'll exile, hurt, or execute them, depending on how much of an issue they want to make of it."

Mikhail nods. "I'll get to work, but it'll take some time. I'll need some cash to replenish the crypto I need to use."

"For what?"

"Services," Mikhail says. "Paying hackers. Maybe a bribe or two. In the meantime, don't you have some planning to do?"

"Planning?"

"There are wedding bells in the air…"

I stand up, shaking my head. "I've always admired that about you—how you can joke, laugh away serious matters, but not this, Mikhail. This… this marriage isn't funny, okay?"

Mikhail leans back, narrowing his eyes as he looks up at me. "Sure, Dimitri," he says in a searching tone.

I turn away, leaving the room. The end of my days belongs to me. After the business and the stress, I give myself the freedom to change into my workout gear and lock the door to the private gym. As I warm up on the treadmill, I can't stop thinking of Lia.

With everything going on—my father is dead, the Sokolovs and the city are under threat—I still see Lia's messy bun, the pencil in her hair, the fear in her eyes. I still feel the need to help her.

But tomorrow, my wife-to-be is to arrive. I have to remember who I am. I'm not my own man, with my own desires. I am now the Sokolov Pakhan and the CEO of one of the most successful tech companies in the world. In the end, I stop trying not to think of Lia, though. She won't leave my mind.

Midway through the workout, an idea occurs to me while my muscles are straining, sweat coats my entire body, and my clothes are sticking to my skin. It's not something I should entertain. I've got so much else I should be thinking about.

Yet I know I can do it once the sun sets and the world is quiet. What's stopping me? I can get her address from the work database. I can't be with Lia. I can't kiss her. I can't own her curvy, thick, perfect body.

Maybe, though, I can help her. Just this once.