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CHAPTERONE
DANIIL
I standwith two hands pressed against the railing of the second-floor balcony and survey my kingdom below. The casino floor of the Bellair Grand—the newest addition to my family’s empire.
There’s something inherently extravagant about a place where huge sums of money are exchanged, but we’ve taken all the expected glitz and glamor and turned the dial up to eleven, because the Bellair is only for those with serious money to burn… or money to clean.
Tonight, every table buzzes with action under glittering lights and crystal chandeliers, a mix of socialites, famous faces, and the biggest players in New York’s organized crime world. The beautiful and ruthless mingle while dressed to the nines, sipping free champagne, and happily feeding their money into our pockets.
My younger brother, Leo, joins me at the railing, pressing a tumbler of whisky into my hand before his eyes dip to the action below.
“I’d say opening night is a success. Congrats,brat.” He pounds me on the back, and I have to tighten the hold on my drink. Sometimes I’m not sure what gene pool Leo sprang from. He reminds me of a Russian Jason Momoa, hulking in stature with dark eyes and hair always pulled back in a ponytail. A contrast to our older brother Andrei and I, who inherited our mother’s lighter coloring.
“I’m not complaining,” I acknowledge. But now the hard work begins, and that hard work falls on my shoulders. The Bellair is my vision—a high-stakes, members-only casino—that I sold Andrei on, and I’ll be responsible for the day-to-day operations. He’s not only my older brother but also the Kozlov Bratvapakhan. Our leader.
But the real draw? The casino is a veritable laundromat for illegal cash. Bring it in dirty and pump it out squeaky clean. Every mob boss from here to Moscow will be knocking down our door for the chance to rinse their bills. Or at least that’s the plan.
“We might have your first customer right there.” Leaning his forearms casually on the railing, Leo gestures below to where Andrei stands by the circular glass bar in the center of the room. His wife, Georgia, is tucked into his side as they converse with a striking, sharply dressed couple. The man has slicked-back hair, bronzed skin, and a crooked smile—a smile I’m familiar with. He’s known as Jorge “The Madman” Días. Top lieutenant to the notoriously reclusive Emilio Morales, head of the Zega Cartel.
I’m not surprised to see him here, considering it’s a who's who of organized crime. The Zegas are based in Colombia, but over the last five years, they’ve expanded to Miami, and I have no doubt they're looking to grow the base of their cocaine trafficking up through the East Coast. Which likely explains why Días is hanging on Andrei’s every word. He’s making nice with the pakhan. No one traffics in our territory without our nod of approval and a hefty cut.
The Madman’s arm is snaked around a stunning woman with flowing chestnut hair, wide-set brown eyes, full red lips, and fuck…that body. Curvy as hell with full breasts and a proper ass poured into black Dior.
She looks up, as if she feels me staring. Captivated, I grip the edge of the railing, unable to take my eyes off her. She holds my stare, and a sliver of electricity passes between us before she turns to rejoin the conversation. There’s no ease in her posture, but she’s breathtaking all the same.
Something twists in my chest. Who is she? And what’s she doing with a man that has all the charm of a poisonous snake?
“What’s The Madman doing here?” I ask Leo, my voice sharper than I intended. “I don’t remember including the Zegas on the invite list.”
Leo shrugs, running a thumb over his bottom lip. “Andrei must have invited them. With the DEA all over the Mexican border, it’s time to cozy up to the Colombian cartels.”
I swallow a mouthful of whisky. It slides down my throat and warms my chest but does little to shake the flicker of unease. “There’s something about that guy I don’t like.”
We’ve never done business with the Zegas so there’s no specific reason he rubs me the wrong way. It’s just a gut feeling, and my gut is never wrong.
Leo’s chuckle is low and dark. “Well, he is called The Madman for a reason. I heard he skinned an entire family alive because they were late on one of his protection payments for their little family-run restaurant.”
“Khuy,” I sneer, proof that I called it right. Only the lowest of the low would hurt a woman and children. Dragging a knuckle over my jaw, I lower my gaze to watch Días laughing too hard at whatever Andrei just said, his bleached-white teeth are practically blinding, even from this distance. His arm remains shackled around the gorgeous woman beside him, his hand tightly clamped on her hip. I don’t miss the way she flinches at his touch. I make a mental note to find out who she is to Días before the night is over.
A statuesque brunette saunters in, fashionably late, and heads over to greet our sister, Kira, who is deep into a game of craps. I count down from ten in my head, and just as I get to zero, Leo straightens, placing his empty glass on the bar behind us with a soft thud. Checking his cuff links, he announces, “Time to mingle.”
“You mean, mingle with a certain unattainable bombshell?”
Leo’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, his eyes track Alyona’s graceful form as she takes her place at the craps table.
Alyona is the younger sister of Yulian Nikitin, head of security for the Kozlov Bratva, and our oldest friend. Their father was the right hand to our papa before he was killed in a shoot-out. Like his father, Yulian grew up to be avor, a made man in the Russian mafia, but Alyona has always refused to have anything to do with bratva life, spending the last few years in Paris working in fashion.
Leo and Alyona have been circling each other for years—since we were teens, really—but have never moved forward. Every time she comes home for a visit, Leo is in fucking knots. Even if he refuses to acknowledge it.
Like right now.
He huffs out a breath, flips me the bird, then prowls away, probably to go hit on some unsuspecting woman in hopes of making Alyona jealous.
I turn around and motion to the bartender for another whisky. I’ll need it to get through the rest of the night. Mixing and mingling with polite society is not my thing. I’d much prefer to be balls deep in some hot blonde or two. My idea of a good night is one where no-strings-attached sex is all that’s on the menu. But alas, duty calls. I might be the spare to Andrei’s heir, but tonight is my night.
The alcohol has the intended effect. Feeling looser, I head downstairs to work the room, chatting up various guests ranging from a famous actress to a notorious Chinese triad boss. After an hour, my face hurts from smiling, and I need a moment to hear myself think.
The outdoor terrace overlooking the Hudson is mercifully empty, probably because of the cool September evening. I settle into a lounge chair, lighting a Cohiba cigar as I bask in the stillness. This might be the last moment of calm I’m afforded for a long time. Because running New York’s most exclusive casino is a huge undertaking, but it’s a challenge I’m ready for.
