5. Mikhail

Chapter 5

Mikhail

I know every single building in this city. Who owns it. Who designed it. Who paid for it. It goes further; I know who owns the land and what lies beneath it—whether that be a sewage system or a nuclear bunker or a whole lot of dirt. I know everything that happens in this city's real estate, because I own the largest portion of it.

Up until recently, I owned damn near all of it—well, the Monrovia family does, and as its head of house, that means me.

So when I stare at a building I intimately know, from the architect's name to the construction crew that built the damn thing to its current owner and manager, and can't step inside, I'm pissed.

"What do you mean I'm barred from entry?" I bare my teeth at the security guard, some guy who should be on our payroll but apparently isn't, and try not to laugh. This whole thing is absurd.

"There's a gas leak," the guard tells me, sounding bored out of his mind. I would be too if I got paid to babysit an abandoned warehouse. "Gotta wait for the city inspectors, then the repair crew."

I look past the man to the empty office inside, spotting the still-steaming paper cup next to the half-full coffee pot. There are papers strewn across the admin desk, like whoever was there couldn't clean up before the end of their shift, or before they were kicked out by an alleged hazard.

Or , if they were interrupted by my unexpected arrival.

I flex my hand, stretching my fingers. If Ezra were here, I'd have him tussle with the man to get him out of my way. But seeing as he's not here, and my talents lie elsewhere, I'll have to make do with another tactic.

I reach into my wallet and pull out a wad of cash. I only deal in hundreds, and by the guard's widening eyes, I'd say he knows of my reputation. I can be a generous bastard when I want to be. "You got any kids—" I glance at the name embroidered on his uniform—"Mr. Simmons?"

He clenches his jaw. "You need to leave, sir. This is private property, and like I've told you, no one is allowed inside."

I tap the crisp edge of bills against Billy Simmons' chest, committing his name and face to memory. "On account of the gas leak."

"Yes."

He doesn't move to take the money, so I remove one bill from the stack and tuck it into his shirt pocket. "Alright, then. Give Marcus my regards, will you?" I fold the money back into my wallet and turn to leave, already in the process of calling Andrei when Billy Simmons says something that sets my teeth on edge.

"You didn't hear? Marcus died last week."

The world comes to a screeching halt. Andrei chooses to pick up at that precise moment. "What is it?"

"Marcus is dead," I repeat, lifting my eyes to Billy. "When?"

"Last Tuesday. His brother didn't want the property, so he sold it to some out-of-state guys. The firm handling the estate jumped on it. Marcus' body wasn't even cold yet, man."

"Get the name of the real estate company," Andrei orders, "and every single person on staff, past and present, for them and the warehouse?—"

It's clear he's not talking to me, so I pull out a few more bills and tuck them into Billy's shirt pocket. "Who's the new owner?" I'm surprised I didn't hear about any of this, but with how shitty my own real estate company's been performing lately, it's no wonder they missed a competitor swooping in.

"That's above my pay grade."

"Of course it is." My smile tightens. Oh, how I so don't have time for this. Andrei's going to have to do some digging, and all the while, our woman is God knows where. Playing these games while Valentina is with Liam is like peeling your own skin off one slow inch at a time. Fucking unbearable.

In fact—I don't have to do this shit. It takes all of two seconds to slide my phone in my pocket and grab my gun. Billy doesn't have the experience to know that a man like me is always armed—that, or he's just really bad at his job.

Pressing the barrel underneath Billy's chin is like a breath of fresh air. Shouldering him against the glass front door kicks my pulse up a notch, and all of a sudden, things are a lot more tolerable. "If you want to keep your brains inside your skull, Mr. Simmons, I suggest you start talking. What are you really guarding, because let's be honest, it's not this trash warehouse."

Billy's eyes narrow, his entire body tensing as I dig my elbow into his ribs. "Put the gun down, Mr. Monrovia. No one has to die today."

What a stupid, cliche thing to say.

The glass suddenly shatters behind him, so loud that I almost miss the pop of a gun beneath the sound of cracking glass. A grunt passes Billy's lips as his body jostles from the invisible bullet, then we both tumble through the doorway and onto the floor. As I push myself up off of his chest, blood bubbles past his lips and his eyes start to fade. Glass cracks under my feet as I duck behind the front counter for cover. Billy stares motionless up at the ceiling, already dead. "Fucking Christ, Andrei, get me some fucking backup!"

His voice sounds from my pocket. "I told you to take a team."

"You know I don't like teams!"

Footsteps thud down the hall, then a door slams open in the distance. Billy's killer is running away.

I jump up to follow. "I'm in pursuit."

"Don't get yourself killed."

"Not planning on it."

The chase begins as I barrel through a door onto the gritty warehouse floor, and one glance at our surroundings confirms that, much like me, my target is working alone. The warehouse is fucking empty . Gutted to the studs to undergo some kind of overhaul, which has not been approved for a permit. That much, at least, I know.

The killer is still running toward the far end of dock doors, each one shuttered closed. They should have picked a better escape route, but judging by the way they run in a straight line, I doubt they're used to running for their life.

Young, inexperienced, or downright stupid.

Sunlight filters in from the windows way up high near the ceiling, giving the room enough of a glow that I can see through the dust kicking up. Everything is in muted shades of brown and ugly as fuck.

It's a terrible place to die.

As the assailant tries the back door and finds it locked, I slow to a jog to witness their panic. The way they breathe hard through their mouth, jerking their arms around as they try to open not just the regular door but also the closest dock door by hand, failing to notice the pin that keeps it in place. It rattles but doesn't open.

I hold my gun at the ready as I pick my way across dusty debris, careful with where I step. "If you surrender now, I'll make it quick."

Not that they deserve it after killing their own hired help.

I push thoughts of Billy from my mind. I hope he didn't have any kids, after all.

My gun's already raised when they remember theirs, twitching for it. It's a tiny silver thing, shoved into their front pocket. Good aim is what took Billy down, not firepower.

"He didn't have to die, you know. I wasn't going to kill him." I step closer, taking in the baggy cargo pants, the ratty black shirt, the unkempt hair, and Jesus , the terror in his dark eyes. I'm not facing a Bratva man with a kill record—he's just a kid . Lanky and underfed, from the looks of it.

Billy may have been his first.

His breaths are shallow and fast, like a cornered rabbit, as we stare each other down.

I take a deep breath. "Easy. I don't want to hurt you. I just need to know what you're doing here and who you're working for."

This building used to be under our jurisdiction two weeks ago, but when my people somehow misplaced our contracts for multiple properties across the city, shit went sideways, and we still haven't recovered. I fired those responsible, but now I'm thinking I was too hasty. Maybe they were paid to sabotage.

Maybe the Madame had gotten to them, too. I think back to all those people at the wedding chapel a few days ago—all those traitors breathing our air and drinking our champagne, laughing and making fools of Ezra, Andrei, and me. Thinking they're going to win. Thinking they're going to take her from us, take our Bratva , take our city .

No one can take this city from the people who live and breathe it every day. I was born in Harlin Heights, as was Andrei, and we'll fight for it tooth and nail.

An outsider won't win, especially not someone using children to fight their battles. It reeks of desperation and poor planning, which means that whoever is orchestrating this—Katya, I suspect—doesn't have the resources we think they do.

I stop my advance, frowning at the kid. If he pulls any shit, I'll shoot him in the leg, but I won't kill him. He was probably trying to survive on the streets when he got tangled in Bratva business. Someone must have snatched him up.

"What's your name?"

The door we originally came through opens, and someone flicks on the lights. They sputter to life one click at a time, and the monotones of the room brighten enough for me to see how truly vast the room is without any shelves or scaffolding in the way. You could fit so much shit in here. It's a great place to house munitions, or vehicles, or?—

I squint at the boy now that he's bathed in fluorescents. If I thought the room was dirty, I underestimated the kid—he looks like he's been rolling around in dust for days. Dirt's caked on his neck, dusting his clothes and hair, packed under his fingernails?—

Ezra appears beside me a moment later, his scowl deep and a muscle in his neck twitching as he eyes the boy. "There are six more in other room. You did not sweep building."

"I was a little preoccupied."

He ignores me, instead speaking Russian to the boy. How many of you are there?

The boy's shoulders relax a little, and I realize he's not just a random teenage squatter—he's Bratva born and bred, although not where he should be, if that's the case. If he doesn't have a family, there are plenty of beds at the children's home and a dozen more foster families who would gladly take him in.

So what the fuck is a child doing here?

I grit my teeth as I fail to come up with any reasonable scenarios. "What's he doing here, Ezra?"

Ezra ignores me, walking up to the kid and asking him more questions. The boy scratches at his neck, and I realize it's not dirt caked on his skin, but thick-lined tattoos, one of which mirrors Ezra's own ink.

The boy's come straight from Russia. He's not one of ours, or we'd treat him fucking better than this. Anger strikes hot in my chest as the boy hands Ezra his gun and allows the older man to clap him on the shoulder.

I'm privileged in that I was born to a modestly wealthy family in American society. I'm still Bratva—but not like Ezra or Andrei, who were raised in its underbelly. I haven't had to climb my way to the top of any ladders. I've been at the top since my life began—given an advantage because of my family name and position within our organization.

The way the kid glares at me shows that he, at least, understands that much. But if I get to mold this city and its Bratva the way I want—if Andrei gains enough power and influence to truly make changes—we'll work together to ensure none of our people suffer injustices like this.

Living in a fucking warehouse.

I scoff aloud and leave Ezra to address the kid on his own. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I'm surprised to see that Andrei's still on the line. "There are kids here. Russian Bratva. Katya likely had them brought over." I enter the front office just in time to watch a clean-up crew zip up Billy in a body bag.

This whole thing is all kinds of fucked up. The kids housed in here didn't even have a proper guard—just some random schmuck out to make some money.

My voice pitches as I hold the phone to my ear. "I want this kid to be the last, Andrei, you hear me? The last one we find like this."

"It's not that simple."

"Make it that simple!" I slam my fist against the wall. "I want Valentina back, but she'll hate us if we have to mow down dozens of kids to get to her." I bet that's Katya's plan—to show Valentina who the true monsters are. Not the woman using kids as a shield, but the men willing to raise weapons against them if it means keeping our wife safe. "Katya's a fucking coward."

"She's desperate. Desperate people make mistakes, Mikhail."

I know what he's implying—we can't be desperate, or we'll risk making a mistake we can't afford. I step outside, avoiding Ezra's team as I head straight for my car. Seeing it reminds me of Valentina in the passenger seat on the day I took her to meet my sister, and my chest clenches tightly.

Once I'm in the driver's seat, I grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles whiten, trying—and failing—to ignore the throbbing ache beneath my ribs.

"I thought she might be here." I smile bitterly at how foolish the idea was—that she'd be locked away in some warehouse, guarded by one man, and one man alone. "I thought that maybe, maybe this was the one. That she'd be waiting for me inside."

It's the twentieth building I've checked since our video call dropped. The twentieth that's gone off our radar over the past few weeks. There are dozens more. Not all are warehouses, some are apartment buildings, some are random lots and residential homes. I'm not sure when our control started to slip, but what was a mere blip on the radar before has become a nightmare.

Katya has been planning this for a long time. How to misdirect our attention and keep our forces thinned. How to stay hidden. How to steal our fucking Bratva out from under our noses.

Our control has always been . . . tenuous. We grabbed the reins from Tolkotsky's stiff, dead fingers and ran with them, only to realize a few months down the line that not everyone in Tolkotsky's advisory council had our best interests at heart. Some were undermining our orders and giving their own. Some were running drugs we didn't sanction. Some were waiting on a tattooed god to smite the whole city and rebuild everything from scratch.

We eliminated them one by one and regained the ground we had lost, but it took time. Money. Lives. Things we couldn't afford to lose.

Everything would have been so much simpler if Valentina hadn't left. As one of the older Bratva families, the Baranovas have always had an obsession with blood, and following the bloodline for succession has been tradition for as long as the Baranovas have existed. If Valentina had stayed and married Andrei, our ascension wouldn't have been called into question nearly as much as it had.

The fact that we're still fighting to keep our empire despite everything we've put into it proves that we've let too much slip from our fingers.

It's put our queen at risk. I wouldn't be surprised if she tries to leave us for good, after this. Not that she can. Not that we'll let her.

No, Valentina won't be getting away again, and we'll get a chokehold on our fucking Bratva as soon as this bullshit with Katya is over. When the old woman lies dead at their feet, the dissenting half of the Bratva will realize they put their faith in a brittle promise of the past.

Nothing will be the same, and I'm damn sure looking forward to it.

"It's only a matter of time until we find her." For a man who spent five years searching for his lost bride, Andrei has been very calm about losing her again. Part of that comes with the title of pakhan . He can't show weakness, or that he's just as rattled as Ezra and me.

But I'm held to no such standard. I can be as dour about our situation as I want. "It's been two days."

Andrei's silence is suffocating. He hasn't said it, but I know he's angry about my little wager. Seven days may not seem like a lot of time to him, but to me, it's a lifetime. It's a death sentence.

If I can't find Valentina in seven days, I'll go crazy and burn the entire city down, looking for her. Ezra's ping on the video call helped narrow our search to the south side, but it's still like finding a needle in a haystack.

Very fucking annoying.

"Maybe she'll find us," Andrei muses, sounding damn near wistful about it. "Maybe she's already on her way."

"I don't know how you're not losing your fucking mind." I feel like I'm losing mine, and I haven't been in love with her for half a decade.

"I'm confident we'll find her, just like I'm confident Liam will suffer when we do." Andrei may not physically be in the car with me, but his commanding presence lingers. His confidence is contagious, and my heartbeat slows from a fucking jackhammer to something resembling normalcy.

Ezra raps on my passenger window, and I unlock the door for him. He slides in easily, grunting in greeting. "Seven boys total. All speak Russian. They do not yet know loyalty." He scoffs. "First mistake was not training them."

We sit in silence for a moment. None of us have been sleeping, and if we happen to slip unconscious, it doesn't last but a few minutes, at most. We're running off of caffeine and adrenaline, although I have a sneaking suspicion that Ezra is hitting something harder. Something from his soldier days that keeps him wired way too long and way too tight.

He lights a cigarette, and I'm too tired and stressed to yell at him for smoking in my ride.

"Where would snake hide?" Ezra blows out a puff of smoke. "Where would Katya feel safe inside city? She would not leave Valentina alone, or somewhere unsafe."

That's likely true.

"She has friends in high places." I rub my forehead, willing the ache in my skull to subside. "She wouldn't be in bed with just anyone, and she couldn't have made a large purchase without us knowing about it. Anywhere worth living around here is at least one mil."

The former Madame, her chosen usurper, and the true blood heir to the Baranova Bratva won't be hiding in your everyday hotel or house. Our people would be just as likely to find them as we are, if Katya dared put them somewhere within the general public's sphere.

"She's with someone who can hide them in plain sight. Someone with money."

"Or influence," Andrei agrees.

"Or both." Ezra pinches his cigarette between his fingers. "When did you last hear from mayor?"

Andrei's exhale crackles across the speaker. "I haven't heard from him since we left his birthday party last week."

The mayor is an older man, someone from the old guard inducted during Tolkotsky's reign. He has power, and influence, and money. We've been lining his pockets generously, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't turn on us if given the opportunity.

I'm already turning the ignition when Andrei's order comes across the line.

Meet me at his penthouse.

Time to pay the old fucker an unwelcome visit.