I placed my booted foot against Mikhail’s throat. In Russian, I said, “I am not going to say it again.”

I saw the fine bones at his neck quiver under my weight and held it, poised to crush those bones if I didn’t get the answer I wanted. Don’t push me, man. Neither of us wants to do this. I heard a noise like Mikhail was trying to speak, and I lifted up slightly.

“I… don’t… know anything!” Mikhail gasped, flailing his arms.

I snorted. “This is not my first day on the job, Mikhail Popov.”

“I know, I know. Viktor, I know who you are,” he exclaimed, his breath coming in heaving gasps against my size thirteen boots.

“Tell me how you knew about the shipment.” I pressed down again, this time making sure it was hard enough to cut off Mikhail’s air entirely. After twenty seconds, I let up an inch. His ribs expanded with a panicked gasp.

“If I tell you, he’ll kill me.”

My laugh held no humor. “And if you don’t tell me, I will kill you. And I promise you, it’ll be a lot worse than anything Ivan does to you.”

“But Ivan is an underboss like you. He’s family to you,” Mikhail pleaded, clearly grasping at straws to draw out the last of his unfortunate smelling breath.

“Not like me. If he were like me, we wouldn’t be having this…conversation. Ivan clearly tipped off one of the other families as to the time, date, and location of the shipment—a shipment that was conveniently taken off our hands not more than twelve hours ago. And the thing is…only Ivan and I knew about it. And I sure as fuck didn’t tell anyone,” I said.

“Now,” I continued, holding down Mikhail with my foot and grabbing a crowbar off the table with my right arm, “We’re going to start this over. And you’re going to have one minute to tell me everything you know.”

I hated Mondays.

“Boss, I have the information that you asked for,” I said into the phone, climbing into my Mercedes-Benz G-Class and pulling away from the curb. I waited for the car’s Bluetooth to connect, and then dropped my phone into the cupholder.

Boss Petrov’s voice filled the leather-scented interior. “Good, good. I knew I could count on you. Now, head back to the warehouse. We have business to discuss.”

“More business? It’s nearly midnight, sir.”

Negotiations with Mikhail had gone longer than I’d anticipated. I thought—no, hoped that the little weasel would crack after the first swing of the crowbar. My fists clenched and unclenched automatically, trying to ease my tired muscles from heaving the crowbar repeatedly. Since I became a Vor—a “made man”—my taste for violence had diminished at the same time that more was expected of me.

“Urgent business. Something only the obshchak are invited to. And I want this kept private,” he ordered.

As if I needed the reminder. After half of my life working for the bratva, I didn’t need the Boss, or anyone, telling me what needed to be private. It all needed to be kept private.

Rolling my eyes to the empty car, I said, “I understand, sir. Am I to assume that Ivan will not be attending?”

The Boss paused a moment. “Ivan is being handled.”

I knew exactly what that meant and didn’t need any other details. “I’ll be there in forty minutes.” I could be there sooner, but I needed to change into some clothes that didn’t have blood spatter on it.

I heard the beep before I saw that Boss Petrov had disconnected. I relaxed back into the leather bucket seat and turned on Audible to get through another chapter of Eugene Onegin. Maybe it would be a good selection for the Billionaire Book Club. A fleeting smile crossed my face as Audible loaded my selection.

If someone would’ve told me ten years ago that I’d be driving a SUV that cost more than a house, and be part of a book club, of all things, I probably would’ve hit them. Hard.

But I actually enjoyed the club. Hearing the other guys’ opinions was interesting, if remedial at times. Especially that idiot plastic surgeon, Perry.

I revved into the machine and sped through the next set of lights. And then the next set, until I was finally at the warehouse, prepared to meet the Boss for the second time tonight.

I greeted the Byki at the door, their unfamiliar faces indicating that all the Krysha were already spread throughout the city and something was going on. My hand went to my forehead, as though rubbing my finger across the crease there would erase the last two hours. Over the years, I’d learned how to school my expression into complete blankness, swiping my hand over my face to make it impassive.

It was a critical professional skill. In my personal life… who was I kidding? I didn’t have much of a personal life.

I waited until I was inside with the other underbosses before asking Igor what was going on.

“I don’t know. The Boss hasn’t told anyone. Said we were waiting for you,” Igor told me in Russian. Odd.

After twenty minutes, Petrov addressed the avtoritet gathered in the large warehouse. He spoke in our native tongue. “Thank you all for coming this evening. Unfortunately, most of you are aware that Ivan is…no longer with the family.”

I fought a laugh. That was one word for it. Family. Mafia. Gang. Whatever you wanted to call it, once you were in… you didn’t leave.

“Our position with the Ramone family is shaky at best. We need to secure our future and to do that we are increasing our stock in international imports.” He leaned back, pausing to see if anyone had questions. Nobody dared breathe, much less speak.

“We have a very important package coming in and I need to know whom I can trust to secure that package. And know that if word gets out again, I will take care of anyone who betrays me, personally.”

Pakhan Piotr Petrov was not a man to be played with, and even I would not take him on. He was loyal to the death; but if you were disloyal, death was your best-case scenario.

I’d been biding my time until I could navigate my way out. I knew it was impossible. There were only myths of getting out of the Russian mafia, but I had to try. I didn’t want to get to be like Igor, who was 60 years old and still working for the boss. No family, no children, nothing to keep him afloat except money and power. Admittedly, I cared about money, but not that much and I did like power, but I didn’t crave it or need it to survive.

What I needed what something big that would force the Boss’s hand into letting me go, without the futile ugliness of blackmail. Even better—to make him think that my departure was his idea in the first place.

All the underbosses around me raised their hand but I kept mine down. Sheep. I sat there, still and silent as stone. It drew the Boss’s attention to me, which was exactly what I wanted.

“Viktor?” he asked.

I stood slowly, making sure that I was heard loud and clear. “You should know without asking that you can trust me, Papa. I would never betray you.” Unlike some of the others in this room, went unsaid but understood.

Most of the men in the room sat back, and I knew that I had just put a target on my back. In truth, I had more faith in their loyalty, but only because I knew that they were scared and spineless. That wasn’t the same as trustworthy, but it was pretty damn close as far as I was concerned. It was a difficult position to be in—did you trust those too weak to cross you, or trust those too high up to risk losing their rank?

Petrov simply nodded. “Da. Name your price.”

“One favor.”

The entire room hushed at my audacity.

No one requested a favor from the Boss. No one charged him. The Boss might ask, but it was a rhetorical question.

Petrov just looked at me, his eyes dark and questioning. Then, a moment later, he gave a small nod. I focused on keeping my expression neutral, and my relief invisible. The Boss had every right to gun me down where I stood, but instead he was showing mercy in front of the rest of the Boyevik there. Whatever this package was, it was important to him—which told me all I needed to know.

The details didn’t take long to hash out. I was picking up the package at the airport, arriving at JFK from London—luggage with a red tag on it, and a yellow suitcase. I needed to secure it without detection, and return it to the Boss. I didn’t know what was in the package, and I knew better than to ask. Drugs, money, secrets…whatever it was, it was better not to know.