Page 86 of The Bratva Sinner

“Cinder called you, too,” I say.

“She did.”

“And?”

Damien opens his laptop on the kitchen island and turns it so I can see the screen. He's built a map. Pins across Miami identify my clubs, houses — Coral Gables, the Grove, Brickell, and two others — distribution points, and supply routes. Red pins for incidents in the past two weeks. There are more red pins than I want to count.

“Walk me through it,” I say.

“They’re not hitting you with force anymore,” he says. “Not head on. They learned from the first round. They know what it costs to come at you directly.” He points to the screen. “So they changed tactics. They’re squeezing. Here, here, and here—three of our liquor suppliers have been approached. Two are reconsidering their contracts. One already pulled out.”

“I’ll find new suppliers. There’s no shortage of people wanting to sell me alcohol.”

“That’s not the point.” He moves his finger across the map. "The client who hurt Priya last night wasn't there for sex. That was Arlind showing every woman in your network what happens when they stay." He looks at me. “And when women start believing it, they leave. And when they leave, your houses go dark. And when your houses go dark, your income drops.”

“I look weak,” I say. “To the bratva. To anyone watching.”

“To everyone watching.” He closes the laptop. “He’s not trying to kill you right now, Maksim. He’s trying to starve you. Bleed youout slowly, until you either hand her over or you’re too weak to hold onto anything.”

I hate that it's smart. I've underestimated Arlind's patience. I assumed he'd keep coming at me with guns and fire, because that's what angry men do. But Arlind isn't angry; he's methodical. He's cutting off my air supply one inch at a time and watching to see how long I last.

“What’s our headcount?” I ask. “Across all houses.”

Damien pulls a number from memory. He’s always been better at the operational details than I am. "We were at forty-eight women across the five houses, plus another twenty working the clubs independently. With the departures this week, we're down to forty-four. The club girls are spooked too. And if we lose the ones Emily says are considering leaving, we're looking at real damage."

“And the clubs?”

“The clubs are holding. The foot traffic is still there. But two of our floor managers have had conversations with people they shouldn’t be talking to. I don’t know yet if it’s curiosity or something more.”

“Find out.”

“On it.” He refills his own coffee. “So, what’s the move, boss?”

I think about my brothers and the weight of the Sokolov name. That name used to be enough. It's not enough right now.

That ends today. When they make me look bad, it makes my brothers look weak.

“I need to talk to all the mothers,” I say. “In person. Not over the phone.” I stand up. “Today.”

“And Lila?”

I glance toward the ceiling.

“She’ll be here.” It’s not the question he’s asking, but I wouldn’t let her go for all the clubs and money in the world. “I want the camera upgrades finished by the time I’m back. Every blind spot covered.”

“They’re working on it.”

“Work faster.” I head for the door. “The client who hurt Priya. Do you have a name?”

“I have a description.”

“That’s enough.” I slide on my sunglasses. “Find him.”

I get home before midnight. Earlier than usual. Sampson says something when I get out of the car, and I wave him off. I don’t want to debrief, or sit in my office and think about the clusterfuck my businesses are becoming. I want to be in my bed.

I want her.

Wanting to go home to something—someone—is a new feeling. I've never had a reason to leave early. Lila’s rearranging my life without even realizing she’s doing it. And I’m not complaining.