A few minutes later, the kitchen doors burst back open and my new best friend stalks through. Again, I'm pretty sure this is just a hallucination, a cruel trick of my calorie-starved brain, but I could swear the light of heaven is shining down on the pizza he's bearing in his hand and a chorus of holy angels is oohing and ahhing at his every step.

He drops it in front of me with a not-particularly-subtle sneer, but I couldn't care less-matter of fact, I could plop a juicy kiss right on his thin, peeling lips; that's how grateful I am.

Before he's made it two steps away, I'm already two bites deep. Marinara smears on my cheek where the third bite misses my mouth a bit, but the taste of hot mozzarella hitting my tongue is like an orgasm for my taste buds.

I moan-literally, not figuratively. It's loud enough for the maître d', who's resumed his vantage point at the front of the restaurant, to turn and give me a nasty glare.

I just smile back with a mouthful of cheese.

The fourth bite is as good as the first three, and the fifth is even better than that. My whole body unclenches as I go to town like a starving racoon.

It's only when I'm on the verge of picking up the plate to lick up the crumbs that I remember my whole "spread it out over three days" plan. As soon as I do, I'm hit with a wave of nauseous guilt that's almost as bad as the hunger was.

Fuck.

Okay, Paige, I counsel myself, just breathe. This is all fine. It's gonna all be fine. You have a full belly now-well, sort of-so you can think clearly, and you'll solve this. You made it through losing Clara, and you loved her, so you can definitely make it through losing Anthony, because he was a piece of shit and you're better off without him.

Weirdly enough, that little pep talk actually does the job. All credit goes to the pizza-cheese really does work miracles.

But then the maître d' drops the bill on my table, and my world flips upside down again.

I read the number on the bottom of the check half a dozen times. But it doesn't change. Sixty-one dollars...

"Is this a joke?" I gasp out loud.

He freezes halfway across the room, pivots robotically like a Nutcracker doll, and marches back over to me. "No part of this is a 'joke,' ma'am," he spits. He says "ma'am" the way you'd say "mutt" to a dog that just bit your child. I shiver at the casual, dismissive cruelty.

"Sixty-one dollars for a pizza has to be a joke," I insist. "Was there gold leaf in the crust or something?"

"Is that an actual question?"

"No," I retort, "it's an outrage."

The man's face quickly sours. "I'm afraid I have no control over the menu, ma'am. Or the pricing. You'll need to pay for what you consumed."

"Are you sure you don't want to just cut out my kidneys instead?" I snap.

"Ma'am-"

"I really, really need you to not call me that."

"Listen, miss-"

"No!"

I jump up, knocking my chair over backwards. The front door chimes just then as a couple walks in off the street, bundled up against the cold, but beautiful and beautifully matched together. They both gawk at me with jaws wide open.

I know how I must look to them: crazy. Unhinged. My hair is a mess and my eyes are still red from all the crying I've done over the last two days, and I'm yelling at this stupid, condescending server for something that is maybe partially but not really his fault.

This is rock bottom, I think. Turns out it smells like pizza. Who knew?

"I'm not paying sixty-one dollars for a pizza," I insist, my voice catching and wobbling dangerously.

"You will pay," the man snarls. He reaches for me, that pale, grasping claw of a hand looming closer and closer like something out of a nightmare.

I swat it away and stumble backwards. There's a hall behind me that leads to the bathrooms and, at the very end of it, a black door marked EXIT. I trip my way there, feeling frantic and desperate. The walls are closing in around me.

The maître d' follows. His face is twisted into an enraged mask. "Listen here, you stupid bitch, you are not running out on my-"

"Francesco."

My head snaps to the side. I hadn't even noticed there was another door in the hallway. But there is, and it's open, and there's a man standing on the threshold. He's huge, tall enough to almost brush the ceiling, and broad enough to take up the whole of the entryway. The intensity of his pale gray eyes takes me by surprise. I find myself leaning away from him on pure instinct.

Something about him terrifies me.

"Mr. Orlov," the maître d' balks, his demeanor changing immediately to contrite and submissive. "I'm sorry about this, sir. This woman is trying to-"

The man holds up a hand. Francesco-how fitting; a stupid name for a stupid guy-clams up instantly.

Then the man looks at me. He doesn't blink, and I can't help but stare back. Those eyes are shockingly silver. Full moon on a cold night kind of silver. "What is your name?"

I swallow, suddenly afraid for reasons I don't think I could ever possibly explain. "Paige," I croak.

He's undeniably gorgeous-roguish five o'clock shadow, dazzlingly white teeth, a devil-may-care je ne sais quoi that radiates from him like if "getting into trouble" were a cologne.

But beneath that is a darkness I can't touch or name. That's what scares me.

Silver Eyes nods like he expected exactly that. "Are you still hungry, Paige?"

I hesitate. I'm considering not saying anything, but then the undeniably loud rumble of my still-famished stomach betrays me.

The corner of Silver Eyes's mouth twitches at the noise. I'm pretty sure it's the closest he'll ever get to a smile.

"I thought so," he murmurs. Without looking away, he tells Francesco, "Put what Ms. Paige ate on my tab. She and I will also take a pollo e funghi and a sorrentina. You can bring both items to my table."

"Y-yes, sir," Francesco stammers. He bows, then scurries away.

I almost miss him when he's gone. He's a rat bastard, but I'd rather take my chances with him than with this handsome, terrifying man who gives orders like he's a god and looks at me like I'm butt-naked on my knees in front of him.

No, scratch that-he looks at me like he can see straight through to my soul. To every bad thing I've ever done. He looks at me like he knows me.

"Come with me, Paige," he commands quietly, in a tone of voice that says it's not really a question. "I want to hear your story."

I gulp as he brushes past me. Correction to my earlier statement: rock bottom does not smell like pizza.

Rock bottom smells like him.

MISHA

A FEW HOURS EARLIER

"Misha."

My sister's hand lands softly on my arm. When my eyes flicker down, she removes it immediately. "Sorry," she mumbles. "You were off in your head somewhere."

She's not wrong. I was remembering things that are probably better off forgotten. Shaking the memories away, I notice she has her little black clutch white-knuckled in her fist. "Leaving so soon?" I ask.

She nods and points her chin towards where our mother stands near the cathedral's pulpit. Agnessa Orlov is wearing a black mourner's dress, her petite frame stooped with grief. But for ninety minutes, she's been shaking hands and accepting condolences from every crime lord in the city. Not once has her smile faltered.

"I can't believe Otets ever found fault with her," Nikita murmurs. "She's flawless."

"Otets could find fault with anything."

Nikita turns her back on the crowd and faces me with an arched eyebrow. The thick layer of makeup under her eyes is an obvious attempt to hide that she's spent the last few days crying. She starts to say, "I know I shouldn't ask-"

"Then don't."

Her lips harden with determination. "For fuck's sake, Misha-as much as you might wish it, we aren't robots. We're allowed to have human emotions. Especially today. So just tell me, honestly: how are you holding up?"

"I just told you not to ask."

She shakes her head in disappointment. "That happened fast."

"What did?"

"Your transition to don."

I grit my teeth. "Don't start, Niki. It's too soon for you to resent me for doing what I have to do."

She squints at me for a few seconds, assessing. "But that is what you are now, isn't it? Father is dead and Maksim is dead, so you're in charge. You're the big bad wolf now. All hail."

I don't know why I'm surprised at her bitterness. We all developed our own coping mechanisms over the last three days. Ways to deal with the grief we hold so close.

Mama got quiet. I retreated inward.

Nikita picks fights.

I don't give her the satisfaction of a reaction. "Go home, Nikita. Go home and wipe all that makeup off. You aren't fooling anyone."

Her eyes narrow. That's the thing about siblings: you know each other's secrets, even when they haven't been shared. Maksim knew all of mine. And even as we lowered my brother into the ground less than an hour ago, I couldn't help but think, Who's going to keep my secrets now?

"You should come home, too," she fires back. "Mama wants to have a family meal. None of this bullshit pageantry, this 'showing the strong face of the Orlov Bratva so the city knows we're still here.' It'll be just us."

"You know I can't."

"Misha-"

"As you correctly pointed out, I am the don now," I say coldly. "I have business to attend to."

"On the day of your brother's funeral?"

"Maksim and I discussed this possibility years ago," I answer, marveling at how easily my tone hardens into frozen iron. "He would want me to follow the protocol he set in place. So that is what I'm doing."

My sister's eyes are gray, like mine. But they're more turbulent. More erratic. Like the sky before a thunderstorm. "Fuck protocol! What do you want to do?"

"I want to do what is expected of me."

She looks away from me, disgust and disappointment rolling off of her like heat waves. "The Orlov men and their godforsaken rules," she grumbles. "Don't you wish you could just throw that rulebook out the window?"

Yes, I scream in my head.

"No," I say out loud.

Nikita just grimaces at the answer she knew she should've expected. For a moment, we stew together in the tense, painful silence.

"I've decided that Cyrille and Ilya should move in with Mother," I tell my sister abruptly.

She doesn't even bother to look surprised. "Oh, how wonderful. Excellent idea. It'll be good for Ilya to be closer to his grandmother, especially now that he's lost his father and his uncle."

"Don't!" I snarl at her viciously, losing my composure for a moment.

Nikita beams at my uncharacteristic outburst. "Ah-ha! So you are still in there somewhere."

"What do you want? You want me to get drunk and angry?" I demand. "You want me to blubber like a baby? Will you be satisfied if I fall apart, Nikita?"

Her triumphant grin sours. "What would have satisfied me is if my nine-year-old nephew had been allowed to cry at his own father's funeral," she hisses. "But he wasn't allowed to, because of the fucking rules-"

"Tears can be interpreted as weakness."

"He's nine, for God's sake!"

"No, he's a target," I remind her. "We cannot appear weak. Even here, even now, we are being watched. Maksim didn't drop dead of a heart attack, Niki-he was murdered. As we speak, Petyr Ivanov is probably plotting new ways to chip away at our family."

She exhales. I can feel our shared grief in that sigh. "You're right. Fuck, I hate it when you're right." Straightening herself up, she fixes her hair and puts her mafia princess face back on. "Very well. I will do my part."

She places her hand on my arm again, not caring how much I hate the intimacy. It doesn't last long. Just one fleeting millisecond of contact before she pulls back and walks to where our mother is now standing with Ilya.

I look around and spot Ilya's mother-Cyrille, my brother's widow-in the entrance hall.

The mourners around her disappear like mist meeting the sun when they see me coming. Cyrille gives me a shaky smile that betrays just how much today is stealing from her. "Hi, Misha."

"The car is here to take you home."

"To take me-" She shakes her head, realizing that can't be right. "Nessa's home, you mean."

I nod. "In time, it will start to feel like yours."

Her blue eyes are clear, but her nose is uncharacteristically red. "My home was with your brother. Now that he's gone, I don't have one anymore. So your mother's house is as good as any, I guess."

"I will take care of you, Cyrille. You and Ilya are family."

It's the most assurance I can give her, pitiful as it is. She takes no comfort in it. With a bleak nod, she walks down the steps toward the armored black sedan waiting in front of the building.

A second later, Mama appears at my side. "It's funny," she observes as she looks me up and down. "I never thought I'd see you in this position. But now that we're here, you look like you were made for it."

I frown. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"

She almost smiles. Almost, but not quite. "I don't expect you to come home right away. But after the council meeting, after things are settled... do try."

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. All I want right now is a strong drink and my bachelor pad in the city.

But as of eleven hours ago, I no longer have a bachelor pad in the city. What I have is what I inherited.

An eleven-bedroom mansion.

A thousand-man Bratva.

And a giant fucking target on my back.

"Ready, boss?" my best friend Konstantin asks as he takes my mother's place at my side.

"Don't call me that."

"Don Orlov, then?" I shoot him a glare that makes his smirk wither. "Sorry, man. You know I'm not good at funerals."

My cousin's coping mechanism is humor. He's still never quite learned when he ought to keep it tucked away.

"We're one dysfunctional family, aren't we?" I mutter under my breath. Then I shake my head in dismay. "Come on. The men will have gathered by now. Time to get this over with."

3

MISHA

"The Crimson Orchid," Konstantin mutters, looking around the room with incredulity. "Really?"

I understand his skepticism. The back room of the restaurant is small, sparse, understated. The Orlov Bratva owns a hundred properties more impressive than this one. But we're here for a reason.

"It's where my father hosted his first meeting as don," I inform him. "My brother, too."

I don't tell him this, but we're also here because it just feels right. I wasn't around when my father held his first council, but I watched my brother navigate this same chaos after our father's death. It's funny, in a grim sort of way-Maksim is six feet beneath the earth right now, and I'm still following in his footsteps.

"Don Orlov," Klim Kulikov greets as he walks into the room.

He's followed by the five other men I've appointed as my Vors. All of them served my brother. All of them will serve me, too.

Konstantin takes his seat beside me. He is the only change I made to the status quo. This will be his first sit-in at a don's council. The older men pretend not to eye him, but I don't miss the questioning glances, the furtive looks.

"Be seated."

Shuffling feet and scraping chairs fill the room as the seven of us take our seats. The table is round, which was an intentional choice. Maksim told me a long time ago that it is easier to gain respect if you make your men feel like your equals.

Then again, he also told me that a don's word was law.

I'm still not sure if there's room for both their opinions and mine. I suppose we'll find out in a moment.

"You all made your pledges of fealty to my brother," I begin. "You swore to follow him until the end of your lives or the end of his. As of three days ago, those vows have been upheld. But now, I'm asking you to make another one. To me."

Vasily Novikov is the first to turn his dark gaze on me. "You are the don's brother and the rightful heir to the throne of the Bratva. There is no question of our loyalty to you, sir."

The others follow along with similar sentiments. I greet each one with a solemn nod. I figured they would support me, but it's reassuring to hear it out loud. I'll need their help in the coming days. Petyr Ivanov will not die easily.

Danil Vinogradov is the last to offer his oath. "Don Orlov?" he ventures hesitantly once he's made his pledge.

I can't decide if the words grate against my nerves because of his raspy voice or the title he chose.

Three days ago, I was simply "Misha."

Now, I'm Don Orlov.

The idea of Misha is dead.

"Speak freely," I tell him.

"I don't mean to be disrespectful in moving onto business so quickly in your time of grief, but there are some things that need discussing. Our position now is fragile. We need to re-establish our strength and fortify our defenses."

"What we need is to hit back," Klim hisses before I can answer. "Petyr Ivanov killed our don. That is an open declaration of war. It must be met in kind."

"So what you're proposing is a suicide mission," Konstantin interjects.

Klim's eyes narrow. As the eldest man in the room, no doubt he's not thrilled about being questioned by the newest member of the circle. "What I'm proposing is necessary."

"What you're proposing is stupid," Konstantin mocks.

"Enough." I don't even have to raise my voice. The moment I speak, the room falls silent and every pair of eyes turns to me. "You are both right. We cannot let this go unanswered. But the Ivanovs are too strong at the moment. It's the reason Petyr made such a bold move against us. He knew he had the upper hand."

"So what do you suggest?" Klim asks.

"I suggest a shadow war. We fight quietly. We peel open their defenses with scalpels, not swords. We buy up their resources. We bring them to their knees without them even knowing it. And when they're sufficiently weakened, that's when we cut off their heads."

The men exchange glances.

Isaak Egorov leans forward. "What you're describing sounds like a hostile takeover."

I nod. "That is precisely what I'm describing. We will dismantle them from the inside. The most difficult thing will be having patience."

"It will also give us time to shore up our defenses," Yuri muses. "Sir, if I may be so bold, perhaps one of the best ways to do that would be... with a strategic partnership. The kind that demonstrates the extent of our reach. An unassailable show of resources."

For a moment, I wonder why everyone is looking at me. Then it clicks in my head what Yuri is suggesting.

A marriage.

My expression falls flat. "No."

"Don Orlov-"

"I just buried my brother. I'm a little full-up on ceremony at the moment."

"Not now, of course," Klim demurs. "But... in the near future, perhaps? A marriage alliance will not only bring us added strength; it will also ensure an heir."

Jesus, we are already talking about heirs? It makes me sick to my stomach. My brother should be here, right fucking here-but he's not. He's dead, and the weight of the world is crushing me.

A mere three days ago, all of this would have seemed like a hilarious fever dream.

Now, it's all sickeningly real.

"My brother's son-"

"Is a threat to you," Yuri cuts in firmly. "Unless you would consider Cyrille Orlov as a bride...? Marrying her would counteract the possibility of a splinter faction rallying around the boy."

I look around the table, jaw clenched tight. Konstantin is the only one who remains pointedly silent. If they'd brought this up with him beforehand, he'd have been able to warn them not to mention it.

"You want me to marry my newly widowed sister-in-law as a political ploy?" My voice is low, gravelly, dangerous.

"There will be men within the Bratva who wish to throw their support behind the son of the deceased don, not the brother," Klim warns carefully.

His implication is obvious. Schism. Mutiny. Civil fucking war.

I grimace. "The son in question is currently nine years old. If they wish to do that, they're welcome to. They'll find him less interested in hostile takeovers and more interested in video games."

"Sir-"

I slam my fist down on the table and the room falls silent a second time. "Let me make this very fucking clear: my nephew is not a threat. My sister-in-law is not a pawn. I will not use either one of them in this game-and I will not take a wife. This is the last I wish to hear about it."

I look around the table, searching for signs of dissent or disapproval. I'm met with nothing but acceptance.

I nod, satisfied. "Our goal now is simple: take down the Ivanov Bratva. Once we do, Petyr Ivanov will have nowhere to hide. Then he will finally be made to answer for my brother's murder."

Konstantin clears his throat. "So once the mourning period is over-"

"No," I say, cutting him off. "There will be no mourning period. We start immediately. We start now."