Chapter 8 I don't have time for distractions. That's what I keep telling myself as I stare at the turquoise file spread across my mahogany desk. 8½ x 11" evidence of my own stupidity. The text on the pages stares back at me. Two bolded words at the top. Big words. Impudent words. Vesper Fairfax. Even her name sounds like trouble when I say it in my head. The kind of trouble that makes smart men do incredibly dumb shit. The photograph clipped to the inside cover shows her in that pristine white coat, but there's something untamed in her smile. A hint of a proud dimple that whispers she's never met a rule she didn't want to defy. Her dirty blonde hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and those three little freckles on her right cheek look like Orion's belt-a constellation I used to point out with Luka on the nights he couldn't sleep because his mother and my brother were arguing too much. Fuck. I slam the file shut, but the damage is already done. I can still see her face. Can still feel the phantom heat of her skin when I cleaned that wound on her shoulder. My nose is still full of her perfume and sweat mingling, taunting, teasing, tempting, torturing me. And that, that right there-that's the "incredibly dumb shit" I was talking about. I've built an empire on focus. On never letting emotions cloud judgment. I don't have time for distractions. But distractions, apparently, have plenty of time for me. A knock interrupts my brooding. Osip's bald head appears in the doorway, his boyish grin failing to hide the concern in his hazel eyes. "The vory are assembled," he says. "Ready when you are, pakhan." I don't look up for a second. As if it has a mind of its own, my hand drifts to stroke the edge of the photograph. I toy with the corner for a second. Get it the fuck together, Kovan. "Give me two minutes." Osip's eyebrows lift slightly, but he nods and disappears. Instead of standing and getting it the fuck together, though, I look for the thousandth time today at the background report. Have I memorized every detail already? Of fucking course I have. But that doesn't stop me from reading through it yet again. Dr. Vesper Antoinette Fairfax, thirty-one years old, pediatric surgeon extraordinaire. No husband, no boyfriend, no significant attachments. She lives alone in a cramped apartment that's more medical library than home. Her refrigerator contains three bottles of wine, expired yogurt, and enough Folgers to last her through the goddamn Apocalypse. She owns two cooking pans that have never been used and three coffee machines in various stages of exhausted destruction. The woman has replaced food with caffeine, sleep with work, and any semblance of a personal life with saving other people's children. That last part hits too close to home. What really gets me, though, are the complaints she's filed against the hospital board. Page after page detailing documented corruption, misappropriated funds, and medical equipment so faulty it's basically attempted murder. She's been fighting this battle alone for two years, throwing herself against an unmovable wall over and over again. When I've bothered with women in my life, I prefer the ones who want something I can offer-money, protection, status-and give me something in return. It's better that way. Clean. Simple. Uncomplicated. Vesper Fairfax is the exact fucking opposite of uncomplicated. I close the file and lock it in my desk drawer. But what's less easy to stow away out of sight is the memory of how she felt pressed against me in that supply closet. Vanilla. Sweat. Blood. Fire in her eyes, black silk on her waist, three birthmarks like distant planets shining on her cheek. It's all a blur of color, shape, scent, and light. And it's distracting the hell out of me. As if I don't have actual problems to contend with right now. On the other side of my office door, my vory are waiting for me. Might as well be a room full of fucking hyenas. Ihor has been whispering poison in the ears of my father's old guard, trying to rip my foundation out from under me. Yana, Luka's useless mother, is deadset on throwing her son into the line of fire like he's a fucking pawn in a game of street hustler chess on the corner of Market and Powell. I'm short on allies outside the room, too. The Keres turned a children's hospital into a war zone. They won't hesitate to do worse if I don't give them what they want. I stand up, straightening my suit jacket and rolling my shoulders back. Time to be the pakhan these men need. If I don't make the hard choices that will keep my nephew safe and my Bratva intact, no one will. So I'll do what I've always done. I'll lead. I'll conquer. I'll subdue. And I'll set aside all thoughts of powder blue eyes and constellation birthmarks and the way a certain doctor's voice gets husky when she's trying not to be afraid. Those things don't matter anymore. They can't. The garage is soundproof, which makes it perfect for the kind of conversation where people might end up screaming. Twenty men wait in the golden light, arranged in a loose semicircle between my cars. Fifteen faces I trust. Five I don't. Especially not Afanasy and Abram, Ihor's lapdogs. They stand slightly apart from the others, arms crossed, already radiating defiance before I've said a word. Good. This'll go faster if they want a fight. "I'm going to cut right to the chase," I announce, my voice carrying easily across the space. "The Krayev Bratva is done with organ trafficking. Effective immediately." The murmur that ripples through the group is expected. Most of my men look relieved-they've known this was coming. But Afanasy's face turns the color of old meat, and his gold tooth glints as he grinds his jaw. "You must not have thought this through, pakhan." His voice drips with contempt as he says my title with the tiniest hint of a laugh, like it's some inside joke. "That's our biggest revenue stream. Is cutting our own throats really wise?" I let my gaze travel slowly around the room, making sure every man here understands exactly who's in charge. "There's an old saying about honor among thieves. I believe it applies here." "We're not thieves!" Afanasy snarls, taking a step forward. "We provide a service. Those organs save lives." The laugh that escapes me is harsh enough to echo off the concrete walls. "Is that what you call cutting organs out of unconscious people and selling them to the highest bidder?" "People who need them," he argues, his voice rising. "People who would die without⁠-" "For millions of dollars per organ." I shake my head. "If you're going to play the humanitarian card, Afanasy, maybe don't charge more than most people make in a lifetime." His face flushes darker. I can see Abram trying to catch his arm, trying to pull him back from the ledge he's dancing on. But Afanasy shakes him off. Pride has always been his weakness. And today, that ledge won't be enough to keep him from tumbling into the darkness that waits below. "What about the Keres?" he demands. "You think they'll just accept this decision? We all know what happened at St. Raphael's. They're not the type to take 'no' for an answer." Something cold slides down my spine at the mention of that hospital. At the memory of Vesper pressed against me while bullets flew overhead. Or that poor, cowering, brave mother, willing to stand guard in front of her daughter's door no matter who came knocking. "The Keres are my problem to solve." "Your problem?" Afanasy snorts. "When they come for all of us? When they decide to make examples of our families? I'd say that sounds an awful lot like our problem, Kovan." I can feel the tension ratchet up another notch. Some of my younger men shift nervously. But I just smile. "Are you questioning my ability to protect this Bratva, Afanasy?" His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, but his pride won't let him back down. "I'm questioning your judgment. Your father never would have⁠-" "My father is dead. I am pakhan now. And if you have a problem with my leadership, you're welcome to leave." "Maybe I should." The silence that follows is deafening. Even the traffic outside seems to stop. Osip and Pavel move to flank me, their hands drifting toward their weapons. The other men take subtle steps away from Afanasy, reading the wind. But I hold up a hand. "No. I'm going to give Afanasy one chance-one-to remember who he swore his oath to. To get on his knees and beg forgiveness for his disrespect." Afanasy's chest rises and falls rapidly. His watery eyes dart around the room, looking for support he won't find. "Well?" I ask softly. "What's it going to be?" For a moment, I think he might actually do it. Might swallow his pride and submit. Then he spits at my feet. I sigh. Stupid old fool. I don't even blink. Just reach for the custom Swiss Army knife that my brother Vitalii gave me for my thirtieth birthday and flip it open with one smooth motion. "Judgment day, Afanasy." What happens next is swift and brutal. Osip and Pavel grab him before he can run. My knife finds the soft spot between his ribs. A thought scorches across my mind-an idle thought, a ridiculous thought-as I rip Afanasy open at the seams. I wonder if Vesper would admire my technique. Then Afanasy hits the concrete with a wet thud. I wipe my blade clean on his shirt and straighten up, letting my gaze sweep over the remaining men. "Anyone else have concerns about my leadership?" Silence. "Abram?" I single out Afanasy's former partner. "Any reservations?" The man's face has gone gray, but he shakes his head quickly. "None whatsoever, pakhan." "Excellent." I snap my fingers at two of my younger soldiers, then point at Afanasy's corpse. "Clean this up. Make it disappear." As the men scatter to handle their various tasks, I walk back toward the house with Osip and Pavel stepping alongside me. That thorn pulled out of my side should make me happier. But my thoughts remain scattered. Half of them still linger in a turquoise folder tucked away in my filing cabinet. "You okay, Ko?" Osip asks, his voice carefully neutral. "Fine." I force myself to focus. "Double the security around Luka. And I want eyes on Ihor twenty-four seven." "Already done," Pavel confirms. "What about the doctor?" My step falters for just a second. "What about her?" "Should we keep monitoring her? In case she becomes a problem?" I pause. Only a second or so of real time passes, but in my head, I'm reliving the entirety of our interaction, from the moment Vesper came charging down that hallway to the feeling of tile cracking beneath my knees when I saw that she'd done it, she'd saved Luka, that I wasn't going to lose him the way I lost Vitalii. I see the curve of her spine when she turned her back to me in that cramped, overheated dressing room. I see the tiny smudge left by her lips on the rim of the wine glass at dinner. Most of all, I see the fear warring with the hurt in her eyes when I told her that we'd never speak to each other again. I feel that hurt. I am that hurt. "No," I say finally. "She's not our concern anymore." Some people are meant to save lives. Others are meant to destroy them. The trick is always knowing which one you are.