Page 2 of Bratva Baby

Maks is my cousin. He learned early that the easiest way to hurt people is to sound reasonable while doing it.

He never wastes fury if charm can get him the same result.

When we were younger, he used to let other boys pick fights for him, then step in at the end and speak like the one decent man in the room. Adults loved that since they found him full of promise.

By the time my father died, Maks had already started moving closer to power.

Officially, my father suffered a heart attack eighteen months ago. He’d given too many hours to the work and taken on far too much stress.

His was a life spent managing men who thought paperwork existed to clean up after appetite, and in the end, it wore him down.

That’s the accepted version. I haven’t believed it for a second, though I don’t have proof.

In the weeks before his death, he changed. He worked later, stopped trusting the office servers for certain files. He started showing me backup habits he’d once kept to himself. He made me memorize names and old storage systems and one awful little rule that still lives in my head.

If the numbers ever start getting ahead of the house, don’t wait for permission. Run.

I didn’t understand then why he was looking at me like a man trying to leave behind tools instead of comfort. I understand it now.

A server passes with champagne. I take one glass so I have something to do with my hands and bring it to my mouth without drinking.

Around me, conversation rolls on. Someone laughs over my right shoulder. My aunt lifts her chin at a woman across the room in a way that passes for greeting among rich enemies.

The doors open again and Anton Reznikov strides in.

He’s taller than most men in the room, broad through the shoulders, narrow through the hips, and built like he’s used to taking up space without asking permission.

His suit is dark enough to drink in the light, cut close over a powerful chest and a hard waist, and the clean lines of it only make him look more lethal.

His face is the kind that could ruin a woman’s judgment in under a minute.

Strong jaw.

Crooked nose that must’ve been broken years ago and somehow only made him better looking.

Dark hair cut short.

Heavy brows.

A mouth that looks mean until it moves.

After lazily scanning the room, he looks straight at me.

My cheeks go hot so fast it feels stupid, a rush of heat climbing from my chest to my face like my body has decided to humiliate me in public. I tighten my fingers around my glass and hold his gaze anyway.

His eyes are dark brown, nearly black from across the room, but the chandelier catches in them when he turns his head and for a second they burn warm, rich, dangerous.

For a moment, I feel alive in a way that lands low in my body and stays there.

I know exactly who he is, and my body still answers first.

He looks away first, and I curse under my breath and take a moment to ground myself.

The Reznikov Brotherhood grew from a different soil than we did. My family likes to be ornamental.

Their side likes reputation. Leonidov money learned to hide inside trade law, shell firms, and political favors. Reznikov power came up through prison alliances, debt collection, protected clubs, and the kind of loyalty men swear after surviving ugly things together.

We both ended up rich.