Chapter 1 - Boris

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," a short, white-haired man says, stalking into the dimly lit warehouse, his eyes darting around the stacks of crates and shadows. Quintino Nevio, the premiere arms dealer in Las Vegas, known for his penchant to move guns. And for the many, many men he has killed when they cross him.

I size Quintino up, my gaze lingering on the expensive suit that seems out of place in this warehouse. He's alone, a rare sight in our world. My instincts scream to scan the space, to find the hidden threats, but I resist. Showing weakness is not an option, not now that I'm the head of the Bratva in Las Vegas.

And the last thing I'm going to do, now that I'm the head of the Bratva in Las Vegas, is show weakness. Unbidden, my cousin Kervyn's booming mind echoes through my head, and I picture him sitting across from me in the dimly lit club, snubbing his cigar on the table. He was relaxed, leaning back, but I couldn't. He'd called me in for a meeting, and I wanted more than anything for him to entrust me with a branch of the family. To make me an avtoritet—a person of authority in the Bratva. Leader of one of the family's arms.

And he did.

I could hardly breathe as Kervyn, surrounded by his brothers, laid out the details about the new responsibilities I would be managing in the area. One of which was to expand the family's operations into arms dealing—no easy feat, considering the local government's current crackdown on the practice.

"Did you find that in an English phrasebook?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow at the Italian, who laughs, his face showing mirth, but his bright eyes never letting down their guard. Having been raised in a Russian home with immigrant parents who rarely spoke English outside the confines of our house, I'd found myself seeking information about English idioms more than once.

"You seem to have— read me like a book ," Nevio says, raising his eyebrows to indicate I should laugh at the joke.

"Let's not put the cart before the horse, Nevio," I say, playing along but keeping a straight face. "Before we joke like old friends, I would like to ensure our business transaction can proceed smoothly."

If our negotiations go well, Nevio will become our new contact for weapons logistics, helping us supply the family's other arms with weapons and sell them on the black market. Kervyn is convinced that, with the other mobs in the area suffering under the government's thumb, this is our chance to take a piece of the pie.

"Ah, yes," Nevio says, tucking a handkerchief into his pocket. "I believe the terms of the arrangement are sufficient for me. However, there have been recent…murmurs. Regarding the loyalty of those within the Bratva."

My entire body sways forward with the urge to grab the little man by his head and smash him against the wall until his brains are nothing more than a pink dribble, but I resist the urge. To insult me—to insult the Bratva—like that, to my face, is a privilege he's earned through his decades of high-quality arms dealing. And the fact that he's never once been caught by the police.

Quintino Nevio is likely not even his real name.

"I assure you," I say through gritted teeth. "That this branch of the Bratva is more than prepared for this arrangement. And if—by some chance—I happen to find even the whisper of betrayal within my men, I won't hesitate to bring it to a swift end."

Nevio purses his lips, then nods once, running his hands over his suit to smooth non-existent wrinkles.

"All right, then," he says, "show me what you have."

I nod to my men, and they break off on either side of me, unearthing a matte black container from beneath a tarp. The moment they pick it up, and neither of them has to grunt with exertion, a chill runs up my back.

Something is wrong.

I suddenly wish I had brought Roman or Viktor along with me.

But it's too late—the men set the crate down, and Nevio approaches. One of them unlocks it and opens the lid, revealing the velvety black inside but no weapons.

This morning, when I arrived at the warehouse, the container was filled to the brim with illegal assault rifles, pistols, and even a few grenades. Now, it's completely empty, with nothing left but the imprint of where the weapons had been before.

And I have no idea who managed to take them right out from under my nose.

I hear the click of a gun, and when I turn, Quintino Nevio has a pistol cocked, pointed right at my head. My men have also drawn their guns.

I'm not worried that Nevio is going to fire—he wouldn't dare—but I am worried that I have somehow managed to fuck up the very first objective from Kervyn. I need him to respect me and to serve my family in a way that brings us honor.

Instead, I'm staring down the barrel of an Italian's sleek, black gun.

"A test," I say to Nevio, eyeing him smoothly. I do not allow my voice to shake or my gaze to waver. The only way I'll be able to pull this off is if Nevio believes that this little mishap was a purposeful move on my part.

Behind me, the men look at one another. They were both here this morning when I inspected the crate for weapons, and they're clearly confused, but they know better than to speak. By the time Nevio glances at them, they're standing with their backs straight, staring straight ahead.

"A test?" Nevio laughs, his gun still pointed at me. "You expect me to believe you did all this as a test?"

"And you expect me to bring more than a million dollars of product to a meeting with a man that I don't know?" I crack a smile at him, holding my hands up, palms out. "Quintino, let's not beat around the bush here—this was a test. I came to meet with you here today to ensure you're a man of your word. And I've determined you are. So, we can arrange another meeting to manage the real exchange of goods."

"A test," Nevio murmurs, slowly lowering his gun. Then, in a surprising burst of noise, he laughs. "I must admit, I have never dealt with a Russian who took such care in his dealings. If this is how you do business, Milov, I believe we'll have a long and prosperous relationship."

"That's my intention," I say, watching as he holsters his gun. The Italian even offers me a handshake before he turns, muttering under his breath as he exits the warehouse.

When I turn around, my men are already wincing before I've even had a chance to fix them with a piercing stare.

"You will find out who the fuck took our weapons," I say, voice cold as steel. "So, I can make them pay."

***

"Fucking Corsican ?" I yell, kicking a trash can and watching it fly across the room, smashing into the wall and spraying paper over the carpet. My breath comes hard and fast, and it feels like my eyeballs are bursting from the sockets.

I refuse to believe that the French mafia—a group that has had no real power in the United States for decades—decided to try and target me—taking more than a million dollars.

"Fucking James Allard ," I mutter, quieting, turning and pacing back through my office. "Of all the enemies I thought I would have to deal with when Kervyn gave me this responsibility, it never occurred to me to even consider the fucking French."

Roman glances up from the table, where he's filing his nails lazily. With the same dark hair and eyes as the rest of our family, Roman has a simple, straightforward manner that negates any attempt at layers or mystery, so he doesn't even attempt those. Instead, what he says is always what he means.

"Perhaps we should kill them all," he says, his voice quiet but steady. Anyone else might think this a joke—I know better. Roman genuinely believes this is a solution to our problem.

"Oh, yes!" Viktor says, jumping out of his chair and grabbing a knife from his bag as if we might head out right now to go after the French mafia. "I've been dying for some action. Things have been way too calm around here."

"Sit your dumb ass down," Anya says, glancing up from the shorts she's working on. She's been learning embroidery lately, and it looks like she's adding flowers to her shorts. I normally wouldn't want her sitting in the room while we discuss family business, but I'm so angry I can't deal with telling her to get out right now. "You're rattling the table."

"Want to say that to my face?"

"I just did, asshole."

"That's it—" Viktor says, moving like he's going to step toward Anya, which I know will end badly for him. As a guy with a lower back injury, it's not wise for him to fight Anya, who knows how to use your body weight against you. Once, when she flipped him onto his back and put her foot on his throat, it took him three hours to sit up again.

"Calm is good ," I growl, interrupting them and gesturing for Viktor to take his seat. "Action means I'm not doing my job correctly."

Don't get me wrong—I love a good fight. But I don't love losing men. And I don't love confrontations that result in my family getting hurt. Kervyn advised me to use my brain and avoid the fight—make the other guy take himself out.

Fight without killing. Find a different way to hurt the motherfucker.

"You know what?" I say, pounding my fist against the desk. "I'm going to need more information on James Allard. Anton—what can you find for me?"

"The guy is a big name around here. Couple of businesses that are clearly for money laundering, one daughter, pretty small family for a mafia guy—"

"What did you say? What was the last part?"

"Small family?"

"Before that," I growl, glaring at him.

"The daughter?" Anton asks, raising his eyebrow. "She's in college, interning at her dad's company—a nepo baby, apparently—loves to party."

"Let me see," I say, stalking over. Anton holds up his tablet, and I take a look. Olive has her face pressed up against another pretty woman, their faces lit up by several candles on a birthday cake. She's gorgeous, a determined look deep in her eyes, even in this picture

. I was unaware the French could produce women who were anything but willowy and unsubstantial.

"What is she doing tonight?" I ask, a plan forming.

Anton taps around on his screen for a moment, looking intense as he scrolls, before clearing his throat and reading out loud: " Another Friday night at my desk—boo for having to do a job #intern #workinglife ."

"So, she'll be at one of Allard's businesses?"

"Looks like it."

"Figure out which one and send me the address."

Roman looks up, raising an eyebrow at me.

"You're going to kill the guy's daughter?" he asks, a wrinkle appearing between his brows. "Seems a bit overkill, even for you. Not like she's the one who stole the guns—probably a Mafia princess, like Elena. Not like she's going to know anything about stealing the guns. I'm looking through her Instagram right now, and it's a lot of partying. Lots of dresses. She may not even have any idea what her dad is up to."

"Oh, I'm not getting her for intel or killing her," I say, stalking across the room and grabbing my bag. This is an operation I can complete all on my own. "I'm going to torture that asshole by taking the one thing he cares about most."

"So, what," Anya says, shaking her head. "You're just going to abduct her and keep her here? Forever?"

"I'm not just going to abduct her," I say, "I'm going to change her last name. Bind her to this family permanently, by law, so he will know that she's property of the Milovs from now on."

Roman's eyebrows shoot into his hair and Anton sets his tablet down on the table.

"Now, brother," Anya says, shaking her head. "Forcing someone to marry you? I'm not sure that's—"

"I didn't ask for your counsel on this, sister ," I said, shouldering my bag and nearing the door. I can feel it in my bones—this is the right way to move forward.

I think of Kervyn again and remember how he and his brothers found their wives. They each brought a good woman into the family through a method like this. Perhaps kidnapping a Mafia princess would even gain us some intel. And a woman who already knows what it's like to live in a mafia family would eliminate the awkward need to explain what I do for a living and how she would need to get comfortable with violence, pain, and torture.

Before I leave, I turn in the doorway and say, "And would the three of you get off your lazy asses? There's still the matter of how Allard's guys managed to get those guns from us in the first place. I want an answer by the time I get back."

"Which will be…?" Anton says, his tablet up in front of his face again.

"I don't know," I say, grinning at them villainously. "I guess you'd better get straight to it if you want to keep your place in this Bratva."

"This power is going straight to your fucking head," Roman mutters, setting his nail file on the table and stretching languidly. "Good luck with your marriage plan, brother."

"Oh, you'll be there for it," I say, watching as they all turn, their shocked faces only firming up my desire to see this plan through. "I'm bringing her back here to the chapel, just like Mom would have wanted."

"I hardly think, Mom—" Anya starts to say, but I'm out the door before she can get another word in.