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And then what? He’ll forgive me?

“No,” Celeste replies. “Most people are great. I was just trying to say, sir, that we know how to do our jobs.”

“Yes, thank you. If you see Anton, send him up.”

“Why would I see him?” she says sharply, then realizes what she’s just blurted out. “Yes, I mean. Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I say, smiling.

But deep down, I’m twisted at the thought of Serena serving his table privately. That must say something about me, about us, but I can’t examine that for long. I need to be the version of Nikolai Volkov that people see. Smiling, pulling attention-seeking stunts, laughing, shaking hands. Not the dark prince who will never wash the blood from his hands.

“Boss?” Anton asks, appearing a few minutes later.

“We need to figure out if Cordero is making a power play,” I say. “He’s booked a private party here. Is he trying to intimidate us?”

Anton strokes his bald head, eyes closed.

“What?” I grunt.

“Thinking,” he replies. “Against us… against the club?”

I realize what he means. I’m thinking in terms of DC logistics, in terms of all our businesses and assets and connections. But this is Miami, and I’m all there is here. If Rafael was moving, it would have to be against us here. And we’re the only Bratva men here.

Except for the Sokolov brothers. But they’re in the Everglades. They might as well be on Jupiter. Now that I’ve ditched that party life – that waster life – with my head clear, I need to reach out to them. Remind them that men who mark themselves with different ink, building a new breed of Bratva, should stick together.

“No one’s been following you,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Are we on?”

He says it so simply, so bluntly. And he means it. Being a Bratva man means being comfortable with bloodshed, whenever the time calls.

“No,” I say. “It’s just curious. Maybe he’s trying to figure us out. He can’t be who he is and not know who I am.”

“He can do nothing,” Anton says. “And soon, you’ll get something to make him squeal.”

I swallow. That means information from the women.

“We’ve been dealing in petty stuff,” I point out. “Trust-fund bros admitting to cheating on their college tests, then losing their nerve when we produce some fake documents. Assholes having affairs and paying us what they see as a pittance.”

Anton shrugs. “Money is money.”

“My point is, we haven’t got anything that would put these women in serious danger. We can’t have that. Ever. I’d rather make no money. We don’t have the manpower here for that.”

Anton strokes his chin. “Maksim could send men.”

“I don’t want to call Maksim begging for a damn army to come down here. This is my mess.”

“So, what do you want to do?” he asks calmly, and he’ll do whatever I decide. Anton is a Bratva soldier through and through.

“I’m going to call Dmitry Sokolov,” I say. “He was in Miami before we arrived here, then he disappeared and didn’t see fit to give an explanation. They were in the same industry as Rafael, security. He should’ve fucking told us what happened.”

Anton frowns at me.

“What?” I grunt.

“Nothi—”

“What?”