Page 39 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
Then he sees me, and all the color leaves his face.
“Yaromir Volkov,” he says, voice cracking slightly.
I look at him.
He swallows so hard I see it move down his throat. His eyes flick to the gun in my hand, then back to my face, then to the scar, as if he needs to confirm I’m really standing in his hallway.
“P-pakhan,” he stutters, correcting himself.
I don’t react.
People have started calling me that lately. Not to my face at first. In whispers. In back rooms. In the space between my father’s weakening grip and my own hand closing around the city.
A title that once belonged to my father without question. Now the question exists.
That is enough.
I do not need men to say the word. I only need them to understand what happens when they choose wrong.
The club man lowers his head. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t.”
His throat works again. “I heard a shot.”
“Did you?”
“I mean, I thought I heard something.”
“Better.”
He nods too quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Viktor rises beside the body. “Who owns the hallway cameras?”
The man hesitates.
I take one step toward him.
He answers immediately. “Office upstairs. Local drive. No cloud.”
“Bring it,” Viktor says.
The man looks at me for permission before moving.
My power is growing in the city. I know it.
So does my father.
That’s why everything is becoming more dangerous.
The club man backs out, nearly tripping over his own feet in his hurry.
Viktor looks down at the body again. “Markov had people.”
“Not enough.”
“He had buyers.”
