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Chapter 1 - Mikhail
I stand atop the skeleton of steel and concrete, master of all I survey. The buzz of construction thrums through the soles of my Italian leather shoes—jackhammers chiseling, welders sparking, laborers shouting. Chicago cowers below, a carpet of ants scurrying between the towering monuments to my empire.
I carved this kingdom from nothing with my own hands. I clawed my way out of the Bratva, sacrificing everything, including my family, just to shoot my own shot at carving a destiny of freedom. Now my name is whispered in fear and awe throughout the corporate conglomerates. The city knows its true king—Mikhail Zolotov.
In just under seven years, I turned nothing into an empire of billions.
I oversee the progress, imperious eyes scanning for imperfections. The foreman approaches, cap twisted nervously between meaty hands. “Mr. Zolotov, we’re ahead of schedule. The top floors will be finished within the month.”
I nod, sparing him barely a glance. “See that they are.”
He scurries away and I return to my survey, hands clasped behind my back.
Just then, Dima comes running. “Have you seen this?” he asks, breathlessly.
I can barely hear him above the drilling, hammering, and purring of machines, but when he shoves his cell phone under my nose, I grab it immediately. It’s video footage, of my brother, falling to the ground.
My heart beats faster, but my hands and eyes are laser-focused on collecting the facts as blue and red headlinesflash across the screen. “Breaking News Just In: Assassination Attempt on Ivan Zolotov.”
I turn the phone off and hand it back, questions barraging my mind, but this is not the time or place. I nod for Dima to follow me and stride to the far right of the site, motioning the supervisor to call for the pulley. The minute the pulley reaches the floor, Dima and I get in and the operator begins to take us down fifty-four floors.
“Call the limo,” I shout into Dima’s ear, to be heard above the howling wind. He nods and sends out a text. The minute we reach ground level, I jump out, Dima at my heels, and we make way toward my vehicle.
The chauffeur opens the door and Dima slides in. I enter right behind and turn on the TV in the back of the limo before the chauffeur even manages to close the door behind me.
“Svolochi,” I spit out. Bastards, whoever came for my blood.
Dima looks at me, petrified. I don’t blame him. I might be the calmest of us four Zolotov brothers, but even then, Bratva blood runs through me. I might have escaped my former life in the Rublyovka Bratva crime syndicate, but I can’t escape who I am.
“Begin,” I order, the news playing on mute in the background. I prefer the facts from my right-hand man.
“Your brother was walking out of a restaurant when someone tried to shoot him.”
“What’s his status?”
“Alive,” he sighs with relief, releasing a deep breath and crossing his fingers over his chest.
“Good. Where is he?”
“At the hospital.”
“Hurt?” I look up, fear crawling into my heart. I cannot imagine my brother being injured, or dying, without seeing him one last time. I haven’t seen, talked or heard from him in seven years. That was the price I paid for freedom—freedom he paved the way for me to achieve. I owe him, my brother, everything.
“Unharmed. He’s with Anton. The man took the hit in place of Ivan.”
I nod. That sounds more like Ivan Zolotov. Ivan always stands by those who stand by him. I put in a silent prayer for Anton’s recovery and thank him for his sacrifice. With Anton down, my brother no longer has a right-hand man by his side, which only makes Ivan weaker.
As the news continues unfolding, I turn it up. “Is this the beginning of the end for the Zolotovs?” it asks, over and over again.
Right now, I am furious.
After all, I, along with the entire world, am watching this incident portray my oldest brother as weak. As a man who can be killed just walking down the street. A petty criminal, like all other petty criminals who get shot in standby shootings.
It shows us as weak, penetrable.
Which means just one thing.
My older brother must be fucking pissed.
