“Don’t, malysh,” he whispers.

  The word hits like a physical heat under my skin. I still, my breath misfires. I don't remember anyone ever stopping me like that. I don't turn toward him. Not with Petrov watching. I won't give him that satisfaction. But Petrov’s smile sharpens knowingly as he studies Jonah once more.

  “Oh, Viktor,” he says. “Your uncle is eager to see whether you learned anything from the last time you misjudged your own perimeter.”

  He straightens his coat and looks at his watch as if we are already late for an appointment. “He’s waiting at the docks. Warehouse seven. Right now. I will leave you to it. The clock is already counting.”

  Then he turns and walks out. The door shuts, and the bass from the club swallows the silence he left behind. Nikolai exhales slowly. “So this was the game. Petrov clears the path. Sokolov fires. Of fucking course.”

  “Sasha.” The guard steps closer immediately. “I want a list of everyone who had access to the perimeter tonight. Cameras. Doors. Shift changes.”

  Her jaw tightens. “Da.”

  “Find the one who let him in,” I continue. “Quietly.”

  A beat passes while I feel the heat of the room and the weight of Jonah's gaze. “And when you do,” I add, already turning toward the exit, “kill them.”

  Jonah’s hand tightens around my wrist. “Viktor.” His voice is strained. “What happens now?”

  Looking at him, I see the fear in his eyes. I see the man who just called me malysh and settled my rage with a touch. Knowing Petrov was the one who opened the door makes the air in my lungs turn to lead. “We go to the harbor.” I glance at Lev, who’s already reaching for his phone to coordinate the cars. “You wanted war. So let’s fucking finish it.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  JONAH

  The city passes the windows in broken strips of light. One block disappears while another takes its place. These are streets I used to walk. Streets I used to know. But looking at them through the tinted windows of the Maserati, I realize how little I ever understood.

  We pass the hospital and my breath catches. Would they miss me? Would they even notice I’m gone?

  Viktor sits beside me, our thighs pressed together. Tension rolls off him in waves. He hasn't spoken since the bar. I wonder if he’s going to die tonight. I wonder if he thinks it too.

  The second car stays close behind, Sasha following at the rear. At one stoplight, she turns her head toward the mirror, her eyes meeting mine through the glass. She gives a small nod. I close my fingers around Viktor’s hand. He glances down. His palm opens for mine without hesitation. I may have squeezed his hand harder than I intended. He answers with one firm squeeze.

  Nikolai’s voice crackles through the radio, breaking the silence. “Two cars already at the docks. They’re Sergei’s men. The bastard counted on you showing up. Petrov has also arrived.”

  “Of course he did,” Lev mutters from the front seat. “Doctors love a front-row seat to the autopsy.”

  “Focus, Lev,” Viktor states, his voice a low rasp. “I don't want jokes. I want targets.”

  “I can do both, Vitya,” Lev counters, though I hear him chambering a round. “It’s called multitasking. Nikolai, tell me the perimeter is clear.”

  “Clear enough for a Maserati and a death wish,” Nikolai’s voice returns. “Sasha is in position. Try not to get shot in the face, Levushka. It would be a waste of a good suit.”

  “I’m wearing my lucky socks,” Lev retorts. “I’ll be fine.”

  I look at Viktor, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Nikolai is right. About the suit. Tell Lev to be careful.”

  Viktor’s gaze shifts to me, a small, dangerous smile ghosting his lips. “My brother has survived worse than a stained lapel, krasavchik. I'll make sure he keeps the mess off himself.” Then his expression hardens. “You stay close to both Nikolai and Lev. No matter what.”

  Something cold moves along my spine. I want to argue. Instead I nod.

  “Good boy.” Viktor brushes a finger over my cheek. The rest of the ride he seems absent, as if he’s already preparing for what’s to come.

  When we roll onto the docks, both cars cut the engines. The sudden quiet is almost violent. Night air pours in through the vents, carrying salt and oil. Sodium lamps cast long cones of yellow light across the concrete.

  Lev knocks twice on the wall. The interior lights fade. He cracks open the center console and takes out a compact radio, handing it to Viktor. Viktor’s thumb rests against the metal side button. His posture changes, shoulders settling. His face goes cold, every line sharpening. Then he presses the transmit key.

  A soft burst of static fills the SUV. “These docks are already ours, but tonight we take back the rest of the city. Tonight is no fucking negotiation.”

  Acknowledgments crackle through.

  Viktor clips the radio to his jacket and opens the door, reaching out to help me out. I blush. Even here, with guns being drawn in the shadows, he handles me like I’m something precious. It makes my heart ache in a way I can't name. “You don’t have to. With everything happening tonight⁠—”

  “I’m still a gentleman, krasavchik.” He crooks a finger. “Now, let’s go.”

  My fingers settle into his palm. He closes his grip and keeps me close as we walk forward. Nikolai and Lev fall into step ahead of us. “You look like you're going to a wedding, Vitya,” Nikolai mutters, adjusting his own holster. “Try to keep the blood off the silk. It’s a bitch to clean.”

  “If there's blood on me, it won't be mine,” Viktor answers.

  “That’s the spirit,” Lev adds, his eyes scanning the containers. “I’ll take the two on the left. Nikolai, you take the crane. Let's make this quick. I've got a date with a bottle of vodka after this.”

  “Only one?” Nikolai scoffs.

  “Make it two,” I whisper, my voice steadier than I feel. “I think we’re all going to need it.”

  Viktor squeezes my hand. “You heard him, Lev. Two bottles. One for the suit, and one for the survival.”

  Sasha brings up the rear, a shadow following a shadow. Viktor’s men fan out across the pier. The wind kicks harder near the open water. I’ve never been at the pier late at night, certainly not surrounded by mafia. The word makes me shiver.

  “Okay?” Viktor eyes me.

  “Yeah.” But part of me feels stupidly exhilarated. Never did I think I’d get to live the true Brava our city is infamous for. The danger doesn't feel like a threat anymore. It feels like home.

  Viktor lifts his chin, eyes fixed on the dark shape waiting at the end of the pier. The voice comes before the man steps fully into the light.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn't the whelp himself.”

  Sergei moves forward at an unhurried pace. His coat is dark and perfectly fitted—the kind meant for boardrooms, not docks. His shoes are polished. Clean. Untouched by the place he’s standing in. He stops a few feet from the edge and looks directly at Viktor.

  “Tell me, Vitya,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

  “Good.” Viktor squares his shoulders as he takes a step forward. “Because I came to take back what’s mine. So thank you for the invitation.”

  Sergei chuckles. “My pleasure. Everything for the family.”

  Viktor scoffs. “That includes shooting your family members?”

  “Of course,” Sergei says lightly. “I told you the old dog wanted to do me a favor.” Then his gaze pins Viktor in place. “But I’m the one who decided you’d live.”

  “You could've left him for us to take home instead of killing police officers,” Lev snaps.

  Sergei’s gaze flicks to him. “Easy, Levushka.” His attention slides back to Viktor. “And didn't it feel good to be back in your bedroom again? Andrei prepared you something special.”

  My stomach turns. I find my voice, sharp and cold. “You didn't decide he'd live. You decided to torture him. There's a difference, Sergei.”

  Sergei’s eyes find me, surprised by the interruption. His lips curl into a sneer. “The nurse has teeth. How cute.”

  “He has more than teeth,” Viktor growls, pulling me closer. “He has my protection. Watch your mouth.”

  Sergei laughs, the sound hollow against the wind. “Why? Will you shoot me here? With half the port watching?”

  “And you were never good at shutting up,” Nikolai mutters.

  Sergei looks back at Viktor, his eyes narrowing, the humor gone. “Tell me. When Andrei lifted your eyelid and checked your pulse on the concrete. Did you know it was me who ordered him to keep you alive?”

  Viktor exhales, controlled, like heat off steel. His hand brushes the knife at his side, the leather of the grip creaking. “Viktor,” Lev murmurs, a warning.

  Sergei steps closer, testing the line. “I could've let you die. One word and you would've stopped breathing. I gave you a chance to kneel. And you wasted the gift.”

  Viktor’s voice drops, turning low. “You shouldn't have come here.”

  Sergei’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. “Is that a threat, nephew?”

  “No.” Viktor lifts his chin, meeting his uncle’s gaze with a terrifying clarity. “That’s a promise. You wanted these docks so badly you spilled family blood for them. You tried to kill me for the harbor, Sergei. Now look around. You’re standing on my territory, and you’re the only one who doesn't realize it's empty.”

  Two of Viktor’s men move at once. Sergei’s men mirror them. Wind cuts across the pier, and the cold water slaps against the pylons.

  “Put down your weapons,” Viktor orders.

  Sergei sneers, his face contorting. “You think you command this ground? You think my men listen to a whelp?”

  Viktor doesn't blink. He keeps his eyes locked on Sergei.

  “I’m not talking to yours,” Viktor says, the silence of his own men deepening behind him. “I’m talking to mine.”

  A pause stretches out. Three of Sergei’s men hesitate. Two keep their aim raised, their knuckles white. The others glance between Viktor and Sergei, measuring the old king against the new.

  Viktor closes the distance. “You came here to measure me,” he says. “Now you have.”

  Sergei bares his teeth. “What makes you think you walk away from this?”

  Viktor looks past him, straight at the guards. “Because they already know I’m the rightful heir. Not the man who poisoned his brother’s house and spilled blood on our block.”

  The hesitant guards shift. One lowers his gun a fraction, the barrel dipping toward the concrete. Another flicks a glance at Petrov, then drops his eyes.

  Sergei snaps, “Raise your weapons. That is an order.”

  The guard nearest him swallows, his throat working. “With respect, Sergei, the streets are already talking.”

  “Talking?” Sergei spits the word like poison. “About what?”

  “That Viktor lives.” The guard’s grip tightens, then loosens. “He is the rightful Pakhan.”

  A muscle jumps in Sergei’s jaw. Viktor steps closer, his presence expanding until he seems to swallow the light from the sodium lamps. “My father trusted you. You killed him for it. Tonight I finish what you started.”

  The middle guard lets his weapon fall. The metal clatters against the concrete, the sound echoing over the water. Sergei whips toward him, his face twisting. “Pick that up.”

  The guard doesn't move. He meets Viktor’s eyes instead, ignoring the man he was supposed to protect. “You stand after a bullet like that. Men notice.”

  Viktor’s voice stays even. “Put down your weapons.”

  Two more obey, their barrels dipping toward the ground. Sergei turns back, breathing hard, his chest heaving under his heavy coat. “This means nothing. A few wavering dogs? You think this is victory?”

  “It means the city is listening again,” Viktor says, his gaze never wavering. “And you are running out of men willing to die for a ghost.”

  Sergei turns, expecting his remaining men to form up. No one moves. “Point your guns,” Viktor says quietly.

  A beat of heavy, salt-chilled silence passes. Then, three barrels lift and fix on Sergei. Sergei freezes, the blood draining from his face. “You traitorous sons of⁠—”

  “They were never yours,” Viktor says. “They were Father’s. Now they are mine.”

  Sergei looks from face to face and finds nothing left but the end of his reign. “I’ll kill you for this, Vitya. I’ll⁠—”

  Headlights spill across the pier, cutting through the light in sharp white beams. Nikolai swears, his hand flying to his holster. “What the hell is that. Police?”

  Lev steps in front of me, his body a solid wall of protection. “Nah. They’re too quiet for cops.”

  The sedan glides to a stop at the edge of the concrete, its tires crunching over the grit. No one moves. The tension is a wire stretched to the snapping point.

  “Hold,” Viktor says, his hand raising to stay his men.

  The back door opens. A silhouette steps out, elegant and ancient.

  “Babushka?” I whisper.

  Viktor goes still beside me. Then she steps fully into the light.

  “Matushka?” Sergei breathes, his voice cracking.

  She doesn't look at him. She looks only at Viktor. “Vitya. You look tired.”

  The woman from that first night at the Morozov table is still there. She looks like a woman who has spent every night since the shooting counting the cost of her family's blood. Babushka walks forward. Her own guards move with her. They don't look at Sergei's men. They only look at Viktor.

  “You know, when your father and I came from Saint Petersburg to America, we did it for the family,” she says. “When he worked nights at the factory, it was for the family. For you. For your brothers and sisters. For the Morozovs.” She stops in front of Sergei. “I was proud of him when he left that job and built something of his own.” Her hand lifts his chin, forcing his gaze down to hers. “Years later, I helped him choose his first Jaguar.”

  She turns her head slightly, just enough that I see the shine on her cheeks. “You had Sokolov shoot your own blood, Serёzha. You kept that boy locked in his childhood room. You let Andrei drug him until he forgot who he was. Thank God I found Jonah.”

  My breath catches. She hasn't looked at me once, but she seems to know exactly where I am.

  Sergei lets out a brittle laugh. “You mean you gave Viktor a fuck toy? Someone who⁠—”

  The slap cracks through the pier. “Enough.”

  Sergei brushes a hand over his cheek, blinking like he can't quite believe it. “What?” he scoffs. “You are my mother, but do you think you have the right to kill me? I am the Morozov king now. And there’s nothing in this fucking world that can stop me. Not you. Not even the whelp.”

  “Do you really think I sat in my home pretending not to see how you were destroying everything we built? Do you think I was alone in tying the net around you?” she asks. Her guards move in behind Sergei’s men. There is a moment of confusion. Then acceptance. And I understand why. This woman. This brilliant woman.

  Sasha steps forward. Sergei stumbles. “Sasha, you⁠—”

  “Me.” Her lips curl as she dips her head.

  Babushka doesn't turn. “Kerrill never placed her in Sergei’s crew. I did. To protect my nephew.”

  Nikolai blinks, the realization settling in. “I guess I passed.”

  “You did,” Babushka says. Then she finally looks at Sergei again. Her voice goes cold. “Shame the same can't be said for my own son.” She steps closer. The space between them tightens. “I’m sorry, Serёzha. I truly am. But this is the way.”

  She turns and walks back toward her car. Her pace doesn't falter, but the weight of the decision shows in the line of her back.

  “Seize him,” Viktor orders.

  Guards grab Sergei. I barely register it. My eyes stay on Babushka. I wonder what it would be like to order your own child’s death.

  “You’re still that frightened boy in the bedroom, Vitya,” Sergei snarls, struggling against the hold. “You always will be.”

  “And you’re a traitor,” Viktor says evenly. “And you die as one.”

  He moves in a single, decisive motion. The blade leaves its sheath. He steps inside Sergei’s reach, grips his coat, and drives the knife under the ribs. A broken sound tears out of Sergei’s throat. His hands clutch at Viktor’s shoulder, his knees buckling. Viktor holds him for a brief beat, supporting the weight of the man who tried to destroy him. Then he pulls the blade free and lets him fall.

  The body hits the concrete with a dull thud. My vision blurs. My knees soften. I’ve never seen someone die like that. Not this close. The sound of the knife entering flesh is something I’ll never forget. It’s the sound of the world shifting.

  Lev’s hand steadies the back of my neck until my breathing evens out. Viktor doesn't look at me. I don't know if I’m grateful or not.

  “The traitor is dead,” Viktor says, his voice projecting across the pier. “You’ll follow my lead now.”

  “Not me.” Petrov steps forward, his gun lifted. “I’m done answering to any of you.”

  My stomach drops. Not now. Not after everything we just crossed to get here. Viktor huffs out a laugh, though the sound strains as Petrov flips the safety. The guards hesitate, waiting for a signal that isn't coming.

  “You drugged me,” Viktor says, his voice flat. “I won't grant you freedom.”

  “Then I’ll take you with me,” Petrov snaps. His hands shake. The barrel stays locked on Viktor’s chest.

  “Andrei,” Lev says carefully, holding his palms up in a universal gesture of peace. “We can talk about this.”

  “No,” Petrov barks, his face contorting. “I want⁠—”

  A knife whistles through the air, cutting the night with a sharp flash. It strikes Petrov square in the forehead with a sickening thud. His eyes go wide, the pupils blowing out as blood begins to run from his nose. The blade shudders once in the bone, then he gurgles, stumbles, and collapses onto the cold concrete.