Maya
The moment I step into my living room, I know
I'm not alone.
I don't need to check. I don't need to reach for my gun.
There's only one person who would sit in my living room uninvited, sipping my coffee like he owns the place.
I sigh, shutting my bedroom door behind me. "You could at least pretend to knock, Sergei."
He doesn't look up, casually flipping through the newspaper on my coffee table. "And you could at least pretend to change your door code."
"You came all the way here just to make yourself at home?"
"No." He finally sets the paper down, leveling me with that ever-calm gaze. "There's a meeting tonight. A new lawyer is coming in. You need to be there."
I arch a brow. "A new lawyer? What happened to the old one?"
Sergei gives me a pointed look.
Right. The cosa Nostra happened.
I hum, walking over to the kitchen and pouring myself a drink. "You could have called, you know."
"I could have," he agrees. "But I didn't."
I take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of my glass "you're not my father, sergie."
His lips twitch like he's amused. "No. And thank God for that."
"Then stop checking in on me."
"I just wanted to see how you're doing."
I let out a sharp laugh. "How I'm doing?" | set my glass down, tilting my head mockingly. "A lawyer, huh? I don't need one to clean up my dirt. So therefore I won't be going." I pause, smirking. "Maybe viktor does."
Sergei's jaw tightens, just slightly. It's satisfying.
"Pakhan wants everyone there, and that includes you," he says, his voice steady, unreadable. "You don't have to like it, but you'll be there tonight. No distractions. No excuses."
His tone leaves no room for argument, but that doesn't stop me from considering one anyway. I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch, then sigh dramatically.
"Fine." I push off the counter, swirling the remaining drink in my glass. "But next time, use the damn phone."
He chuckles, rising to his feet with the ease of a man who's never once doubted his authority. "Where's the fun in that?"
I don't answer, just watch as he heads for the door.
Just before he steps out, he glances over his shoulder. "And change your code."
I smirk, tilting my head. "And miss the joy of you breaking in?"
He huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, after a beat—
"And also… are you ready?"
His voice is quieter this time, but no less firm. No less heavy with meaning.
I don't ask for clarification.
We both know what he's talking about.
The chaos.
The syndicate.
The blood that's yet to be spilled.
I take another sip of my drink, letting the burn settle deep. Then, finally, I answer.
"I'm always ready."
_____________________________
I park my Aston Martin outside Pakhan's estate, the deep growl of the V12 engine cutting through the night air before I kill the ignition. The sleek, obsidian-black exterior reflects the dim glow of the estate lights, a sharp contrast to the blood-stained world I navigate.
Before stepping out, I tap on my phone, playing the voice notes my mother sent earlier.
"Hey, sweetheart, I just came back from my trip to Jerusalem. I'll send you pictures. And please, give your poor mother a call."
Her voice is warm, a sharp contrast to the cold steel of my reality. I make a mental note to call her after this meeting.
Stepping inside the meeting room, the air is thick with murmurs, low voices bouncing off the marble walls. Men are already seated, their postures tense, some leaning in to whisper while others sit back, arms crossed, waiting.
I slide into the seat beside Damien.
He's the Pakhan's nephew. We're the same age, but unlike me, he rarely shows up to these meetings. It's not his problem, not his world. Damien is the Bratva's best hacker—his wars are fought in codes and firewalls, not blood and bullets.
Seeing him here tonight is surprising.
I arch a brow at him. "You're here too?"
He barely glances up from his phone, smirking.
"Hey."
"I didn't think you cared about these things."
"Apparently, our new lawyer is some big shot," he says, finally pocketing his phone. "Powerful enough to drag all of us here."
I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs.
Interesting.
I don't have time for this so-called meeting.
In forty-five minutes, I have a virtual meeting with Mabel-an actual priority. The last lawyer they hired after those incompetent men got themselves killed? I met him once, maybe during a meeting. He didn't matter.
Just like this one won't.
And then—
The door opens, and something wrong steps inside.
The temperature in the room drops, subtle but suffocating. The murmurs die down, replaced by an unsettling quiet, an unspoken acknowledgment of something—or someone—that does not belong yet demands its place.
I feel him before I see him.
It's subtle—a shift in the air, a static charge prickling against my skin, a creeping awareness crawling down my spine. The weight of a gaze that hasn't even touched me yet.
But I know it will.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Unhurried.
He moves like he owns the room, like he belongs. Like he's never had to fight for a place at the table because it was always meant to be his.
The men around the table straighten, an unspoken shift in the atmosphere.
Then he takes the empty seat beside me.
Beside me.
No hesitation. No glance in my direction.
The Pakhan clears his throat, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.
"People, this is Ivan Romanov. Our new lawyer.
The best there is."
Ivan Romanov.
I almost laugh.
No, Pakhan.
He's Tobi.
The goddamn pest.
A shadow from my past now sitting in the midst of men who would slit a throat for far less than
deception.
The ghost of a boy I once knew, now unrecognizable. He used to match me step for step, push me to my limits. In another life, maybe he could have been mine.
If tragedy hadn't rewritten my world in blood and vengeance if blood and vengeance. Maybe—just maybe—he would have been more than just a rival.
The boy doesn't belong here.
And yet, somehow, he does.
My grip tightens on the chair's armrest, nails biting into the wood. My breath is steady, but something inside me twists.
Ivan Romanov.
The name is a lie.
The man beside me is a ghost wearing skin. A phantom I should have buried long ago.
My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the blade at my thigh. The room fades into static.
The men continue their introductions, their voices distant, useless.
"And to your left," the Pakhan says, "is our fierce enforcer. She probably won't be needing your services as much as the rest of us."
Then, he moves.
Turns to me.
Looks me dead in the eyes.
Like I'm no one. Like I'm just another contract to be signed, another client to be handled.
Like I'm not the girl he once knew.
Heat prickles at the base of my skull, a slow, creeping rage.
Then he smirks.
"Princess," he murmurs, his voice smooth, tainted with something dark, something knowing. "I'll be here if you ever need my services".
I lean forward, my expression unreadable . "Ty slyshal Pakhana. Mne to ne ponadobitsya."
You heard the Pakhan. I won't be needing it.
His smirk deepens—lazy, almost indulgent. "Ty ne mozhes' byt' tak uverena, Printsessa."
You can't be so sure princess
Of course
He speaks Russian.
Fluently.
There's no hesitation, no accent. It rolls off his tongue as smoothly as If he were born into it.
The way he says Princess—mocking, familiar, like a thread pulled too tight sends something ugly curling in my chest.
I exhale slowly. Evenly.
My fingers twitch against my thigh, itching to leave a mark on his perfectly carved face. But I don't. Not here. Not in front of them.
"Zatknis' nakhui."
Shut the fuck up.
Silence.
The weight of every man's gaze presses against my spine, suffocating, waiting. Sergei watches from his seat. Viktor Popov leans back in his chair, amused, shaking his head.
"Know your place girl," he says, his voice dry with condescension. "A lawyer like him might save you one day."
I don't blink. "Mind your fucking business, boy."
Viktor's face twists, his jaw locking. The Idiot can't take what he dishes out.
He leans back in his chair, his gaze flickers to me, calculating, before he speaks. "It's amusing, really. A woman in your position." He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. "Tell me, do you ever wonder how long you'll last before someone stronger decides you're just... expendable?"
I suppress a groan.
I'm so sick of his bullshit.
"Careful, Popov," Tobi says smoothly, his tone light but edged with something sharp. "You're speaking as if you think that 'someone stronger' is you."
A few men stifle their smirks. The room holds its breath for Viktor's response. His eyes darken, grip tightening around his glass, but he doesn't take the bait.
I grit my teeth. I don't need defending. Least of all from him.
The fact that he responded for me—intervened like I was someone who needed saving—only fuels the fire curling inside me. I don't acknowledge him, don't spare him a glance.
Instead, exhale slowly, forcing my muscles to relax.
Later.