LEV

S

he's still here.

When I step back out into the hotel room, the steam from the bathroom creeps out. Krystal, lounges on the bed, still naked.

Her blonde hair, soaked in sweat, sticks to her skin and she's wearing a smile that might be considered seductive by some. Not by me, though. She served a purpose. Now we're finished.

"I told you that you need to return to the party," I say. As I get dressed, I keep my gaze on her, waiting on a reply. Her tongue flicks over her bottom lip. Her hands curve around her breasts. She thinks we're playing some kind of game-my willpower versus my libido.

What she doesn't know is that, if she really saw the kinds of games I like to play, she'd run screaming.

"Oh, but I thought we could go for round two," she purrs. "I bet you can't fuck me as hard the second time."

I don't bother replying to her obvious bait. I pick up her dress and throw it at her before finishing buttoning my shirt.

"Get dressed and go."

She gets up onto her knees, the bed shifting under her weight. She rubs her hands down from her breasts to her thighs, her thumbs crossing over her slit.

"Come on, Lev. Please? Let's visit your place. I've heard it has enough rooms that we could be having sex for hours. I just want to see the lion's den. I could be your little kitty cat, you know?"

She smiles again, oozing sex from every pore.

I just stare back.

"Are you a journalist?" I snap after a tense silence.

She blinks, her hands dropping down to her sides. "What? Like ... newspapers?"

"Or do you work for another vodka company?"

She wrinkles her forehead in confusion. "I told you when we met. I'm a model."

"Why are you so invested in coming to my house? Is there something that you want?"

She laughs, a high-pitched giggle.

"I want you, Lev," she drawls. "Don't be so surprised. You've got that boxer's body, you know? All muscle. But without those gross ears."

She pauses, gnaws at her lip, then glances up at me again through heavy-lidded eyes. "I just thought I could see your house, that's all. If you don't want that, we can stay here and I'll show you what I can do with my tongue."

"You're not going to my house," I state. "I don't know if other people think this dumb bitch act is endearing, but I don't care what you want. I didn't get to where I am by catering to the needs and desires of obnoxious, boring women whose only talent is spreading their legs."

It takes a moment for my words to register. When they do, her smile slips away like I slapped it off her face. A flush of red fills her cheeks.

"You son of a bitch!" she screams, yanking her dress on over her head. "You narcissistic asshole!"

She stumbles off the bed, which only pisses her off more. I try not to laugh.

Krystal snatches the bottle of wine off the nightstand. Her arm cocks back. I step to the left as she throws the bottle. The bottle slams against the bathroom doorframe. Somehow, miraculously, it doesn't break. It just falls to the carpet with a thud.

"I hope you die!" she screeches. "I hope-I hope you know I'm going to the media about you. I'm going to tell them all what a cold, sexist, self-absorbed asshole you are. I'm going to tell them that you were terrible in bed and that your vodka tastes like shit."

I smile thinly. "The media has said far worse things about me. And if you knew which parts were true, you'd get out of my goddamn room."

I point to the door.

She huffs and puffs, but when I don't even blink, she just hisses and stomps out.

As she passes by me, she tries to take a swing. I grab her wrist before her fist reaches my face.

We stare at each other for a second before she drops her gaze and her hand relaxes. I let her wrist go. She skulks out of the room, pouting.

When she's gone, I pick up the wine bottle. There's not a single chip out of it. I pour a glass and take a sip. It's not strong, but I've been drinking all night.

The hotel room has large windows that allow New York City's lights to shine through. Other people might call it beautiful. All I see is territory that either belongs to me already, or will belong to me soon enough.

I see a city that wants to be under somebody's thumb. It just doesn't know it.

Yet.

I pluck my wallet from the nightstand, sliding it into my back pocket, and head out.

When I leave the hotel room, a drunk couple walking by lift their half-empty bottle of Mariya's Revenge to greet me.

"Good shit, brother! Best yet!" the man bellows drunkenly. His girlfriend laughs and shushes him.

I ignore them and take the stairs down to the ground level.

Booming music from the hotel's main ballroom shakes the floor. When I step into the ballroom, it's a world of bad decisions.

My event coordinator, Anya, insisted on an orange theme to fit the celebration, given that we're releasing our newest product: orange cream Mariya's Revenge vodka. But all of the models dressed in shades of tangerine look repulsive under the lights. I should have kept a closer eye on the details, but Anya should know my expectations better by now. I'll have to express my displeasure to her in the morning.

A man walks up to me before I get far. His baby face and spiky hair seem familiar, but I can't place who he is.

"Quite the vodka, Mr. Alekseiev," he says. "And quite the party. You should have these every week."

"On whose dime?" I say coolly. "Maybe you should be the one throwing parties."

He doesn't have the demeanor of a businessman. Where do I know him from?

"Absolutely," he says.

So, he's rich.

"But it wouldn't be good for my image to be throwing parties all the time. My publicist would kill me."

Rich, famous, and can't be seen partying consistently. That can mean only one man: Brett Russell.

I offer a wry smile. "Mr. Russell, everyone knows you're an unkillable man. I've been meaning to thank you for letting us sponsor you for the cycling championship." A tray of vodka shots stops by us. I take two of the shots and hand them to Brett, then pick up two more. "Here's to success without compromise."

Brett winces as he swallows the shots. I down them both before finding another caterer to pass the glasses off to.

"May I get you anything else?" the caterer asks, looking at me through a fan of eyelashes. Another one eager to bare all for me.

"More vodka."

There's a flicker of a frown on her face before she smiles again. "Of course."

Brett raises an eyebrow at me when she's gone and laughs. "Tell me, Lev: when you get to your particular tax bracket, does the IRS just start sending women directly to your bedroom?"

Before I can answer, Charles Schofield, the CEO of Everything Ice, comes barreling through the crowd to stop in front of me.

"Mr. Alekseiev!" He's sweaty, out of breath, and more than a little drunk. He offers me his hand but drops it when I don't react. "Ahem. Well. I've been waiting to meet you. I've thoroughly enjoyed watching how you've led your business to such a success in a short amount of time. As someone who's been in this business for quite a while, I can certainly say you have a one-of-a-kind mind. With that mind and my vision, we could develop something truly great. I want you to consider how Mariya's Revenge and Everything Ice could collaborate-luxury jewelry and luxury vodka. A sophisticated man puts a sophisticated necklace on his woman and they drink until they slip into bed together."

His rambling speech falls on deaf ears. I try not to wince, but I drink two more shots to get through his business proposal. Then I send him off with a curt handshake and a vague promise to connect in the coming weeks, though I have absolutely no intention of following through. I didn't get to my station in life by making ill-advised deals while drunk at a party.

Brett disappears sometime during Schofield's babbling. When I've sent Schofield off, I go do my obligatory lap of the festivities, glad-handing and smiling through gritted teeth. I take shots with anyone I talk to for more than a couple of minutes and keep hoping that more vodka will ease me into a sense of comfort, but there are sharp edges in all of my thoughts that no amount of alcohol seems able to dull.

A hand claps my shoulder. I turn, all those sharp edges ready to cut someone, and release a slow breath when I see Ilya Sevostyanov. He always appears a bit sickly-pale skin, pale hair, shadows under his eyes.

Some think that a right-hand man should be made of sterner stuff. But Ilya is loyalty personified. Nothing is more important in my business.

"Duilio Colosimo and Siro Vozzella are at headquarters," he says.

"Fuck," I mutter. Not the report I was wanting to hear. I finish my last shot and set it down. "Let's go then."

He nods, and we depart.

DUILIO COLOSIMO CLASPS his hands on the long conference table at Mariya's Revenge headquarters. Between his massive bulk and the city lights glaring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, it's easy to miss his consigliere at his side. Siro Vozzella is a skinny little nobody with a protruding Adam's apple that's begging to be torn out.

"There's no reason for us to trust you, Lev," Duilio drawls. "You have a lot of men with blood on their hands and I have a lot of grieving widows."

I shrug. "Let them cry. I don't see how that's my problem or yours."

His upper lip twitches. "The Calvino Mafia is ... creating complications. They're not as powerful as your Bratva or as influential as my own enterprise, but they're a problem nonetheless. I might be willing to forget what has happened between us in the past if Gio Calvino was dead. You know how certain deaths can offer a somewhat, shall we say, comforting amnesia."

"If you want him dead, kill him," I say. "I don't understand what the complication is."

He smiles. His teeth are small and yellowed. "Allow me to explain. The Calvinos won't mess with the Alekseiev Bratva. But they will aggravate my family, if provoked. It's perfect for you to do it-to show our trust with each other."

"I don't see how this scenario proves that you're trustworthy," I point out.

"We're the ones with the dock-loading business-"

"-which you stole from the Irish."

"Regardless, you need us," he insists.

"I don't need you. I don't need anyone, Duilio."

He smiles again and I try not to retch. I can feel his frustration with me growing, but I don't give a fuck. The Italian bastard is clearly trying to back me into a corner. I'm not about to let that happen easily.

"My business will make it easier for you to traffic guns," he says, spreading his hands wide. "Without it, you can't expand your business at all. If you want this partnership to work, I need you to prove that you aren't just going to kill us all the moment we show up with your guns."

His excuses are thin, to say the least. But the death of one minor don might be a small price to pay to keep Duilio fat and happy.

I sigh and raise my hands in mock surrender. "Okay, Duilio. As a token of my goodwill, I can send a professional to do what you need."

His reply is quick. Too quick. "I don't want your 'professional.' I want you to kill him."

And therein lies the rub.

On the inside, I'm fuming. This greasy fuck thinks I'll be lured into a trap this obvious? It'd be insulting if it weren't so transparent. Blood on my hands and him with the ability to connect the dots for whoever is interested ... It would take a true idiot to fall for this little gambit.

And I am far from stupid.

But I don't betray any of that. All I do is shake my head. "No, I'm not going to do that," I say.

Duilio doesn't seem to notice the rage brewing in my chest. He tilts his head to the side, chins wobbling, and fixes me with his watery gaze. "I was under the impression that you were quite skilled at eliminating threats. I'd heard that you were willing to get your hands dirty for the sake of the Bratva."

"You should stop listening to rumors. They can cloud an old man's judgment."

He sneers. "I don't mean to sound critical. It's just that you're more like your father than everyone thinks."

There it is. The line has been crossed.

No one insults me like that and lives to tell about it.

In one smooth motion, I spring forward, grab a pen from the cup on the table, and jab it deep into the pulse in Duilio's fat neck.

At the corner of my vision, I see Siro lurch forward, hand in his jacket.

I yank the pen out of his boss' throat. Blood spurts out onto my pants as I turn and lunge at the scrawny advisor. He blocks my first thrust, but I swing my fist into his ribs and his body sags to the side. The knife he was reaching for clatters to the ground.

I stab the pen into his neck too, then drop it, putting my hands on his neck and gripping as tightly as I can. His hands grab my wrists, trying to pull me off, but blood is gushing out of his neck and his face is turning ashen.

It doesn't take long before his hands fall to his sides. His body goes limp.

I keep squeezing until I'm certain he's gone.

When I relax my hands, his body drops to the floor. I flex each of my fingers and shake off the stiffness. Adrenaline is coursing through my system. I want to fight, to drink, to fuck, to go to war right this second.

But I force myself to take one deep breath and regain control.

"I'll call the clean-up crew," Ilya says quietly. I turn around to look at him. His facial features are smooth, but there's a tension to his stance that's hard to ignore.

"You don't approve?" I ask. His expression doesn't change. "Speak openly, Ilya. This is not a time for discretion."

"I don't believe it was the smartest decision," he says, the words coming out slowly-a careful man with careful words. "When you killed off Duilio's soldiers in the beginning, it was dangerous. We all knew that, but as you foresaw, it was necessary. But this is the don. This could lead to a war with his family. He has a son and if his son rises to replace his father, he will want to prove his ability to lead by avenging the men you just slaughtered."

"They were already planning to kill me." I wipe blood off my hands. "That's why they were so adamant that I personally murder Gio Calvino. They wanted to kill me or entrap me. Either way, they had no interest in being allies. We'll just have to wait to see how Duilio's son reacts to the murder-if he cares about power and staying alive, he won't test the Bratva. But if he is a fool, then he will end up like them." I point to the bodies on the ground. "Bleeding like stuck pigs."

Ilya nods once. "Understood."

"Good. Call the crew. I have to change."

I take off my tie and head toward my office gym.

"MR. ALEKSEIEV, welcome back. And Mr. Sevostyanov, always a pleasure."

The doorman bows his head as Ilya and I step back into the hotel. The floor still vibrates from the music coming from the ballroom, but by this time of the night, there are more than a few empty parking spots out front. When I step back into the ballroom, there are only a few stragglers left, each in the later stages of intoxication.

Ilya's wife, Sophie, bounces over toward us. She is an ethereal beauty. Her blonde hair is so pale, it borders on silver. Every one of her features is delicate. I spotted her at one of our nightclubs-a shy little thing, dragged along by her friends-and was intrigued.

But when Ilya saw her, it was like he'd been struck by lightning.

He still looks at her the same way he did five years ago. A softer man might think it's cute, but all I can think is that my lieutenant is going to be shot one day because he's too busy staring at his wife.

"Honey, look what you missed out on." She raises a plate of puff pastries stuffed with beef. Pirozhki. "I can't believe Lev would take you away from your favorite snack."

"My second favorite snack," he corrects before kissing her temple. It turns into a playful nibble. She laughs. They start kissing, Sophie's hand barely holding onto the heavy plate.

"Mmm. We should get home," Ilya says. She nods into his chest. He takes the plate from her and looks at me. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Good night, Ilya," I reply. "Good night, Sophie."

After they leave, I walk over to one of the displays of Mariya's Revenge. I pour myself a couple of shots before downing them.

The last of the stragglers trickle out, one by one. Seated at a table, I watch the cleaning staff come in. They give me quick smiles before starting to clean up. I continue to drink and observe.

One of the crew, an older man, stops by the table to start picking up the numerous discarded shot glasses. He doesn't look at me. I can see his hands nearly shaking as he is forced to get closer to where I'm sitting.

"Is it hard to work this late?" I ask quietly. He nearly jumps, but doesn't dare to make eye contact.

"Um, no, sir. Not exactly." He scratches at his neck. "A little bit, maybe. I have a daughter and son at home. They're at school during the day and I get home after they're asleep."

I sip on a few fingers of vodka poured over ice as I examine the man. He's thin, wrinkled, with the slightest paunch hanging over his belt. His eyes are drawn tight with exhaustion.

"What is your name?"

"Roberto, sir."

"Are you married, Roberto?"

He nods emphatically. "Yes, sir. We celebrated our twenty-sixth anniversary a month ago."

I take another sip. "Do you love your wife?"

A blush rises into his cheeks. "Yes, of course. She's a good person, she's good to me, she's good to our kids."

I look straight into his face. He is trembling. I wonder what he thinks I will do to him. I toy with the clasp of my watch before I ask him, "Aren't you sick and tired of her pussy, Roberto?"

The color drains from his face immediately. He clears his throat like he's fumbling for words, but when he draws himself up and speaks again, there's a haughty pride in his voice. An undercurrent of strength beneath the fear. "I don't need to go around sleeping with other women to boost my ego."

"Is that what you think I do?" I ask. It was meant to be a joke, but there's too much alcohol in my system to stop the sharp, icy edges from stabbing through.

The bravery that Roberto showed a moment before disappears in an instant. His hands start to quiver enough that the shot glasses clatter against each other.

Pity. I almost respected him for a moment there.

"I'm so, so sorry, sir. I didn't mean it like that. I just meant that ... when I was younger, I might have done that and if I-"

"Do you think I am beneath you, Roberto?"

"Of course not. Oh God. No. Sir, I'm sorry. Sometimes, it's just so late when I work, my mouth tends to get ahead of itself and I say things that I don't-"

"You should go," I cut him off. "Take your coworkers with you. You can come back in an hour."

"Yes, sir, absolutely. Again, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

He hurries away, stopping briefly to talk to his two coworkers before they all leave.

Not a single one of them looks back.

And when they're gone, I am alone.

2

ALLISON

A

s Jeffrey Douglas walks to the witness stand, he's crying. It must be difficult for him to cry with the fake eyeglasses he scrounged up to look more relatable to the jury.

His lawyer, Ron Ramsey, strides up to the witness stand. Side by side, they nearly look like father and son. The same shade of brown hair, the same broad chest, and the same clean-shaven faces. The biggest difference is that Ramsey sports a deep tan, thanks to his clients' dirty money paying for tropical vacations.

Jeffrey, on the other hand, isn't going to see the sun for twenty years once this verdict comes down. And that's as it should be, I muse. Even though I know better than to make a legal case personal, there's nothing I hate more than a drunk driver. I can't avoid squaring my own past with the terrible crime Jeffrey committed. There was no justice done in my case. At least there will be in his.

"Mr. Douglas," Ramsey says, his voice carrying a faint, ambiguous accent. It's as fake as the rest of him. "We've heard people speculate what happened on the night of June 7. What actually happened that night?"

Jeffrey rubs his neck and swallows back a sob. "Well. It's all ... it's all hard to talk about now, but at the time, I didn't realize it would lead to all this. I didn't realize anything had happened at all. I wouldn't have left a teenager on the side of the road, someone so young and full of life-"

He breaks off, his hands covering his face as his whimpers fill the courtroom. I glance over at the jury. The sympathy on their faces triggers a bullet of anxiety in my chest. There's no way this sob story could sway them. Right?

Nearly three minutes pass before he wipes his face and sits up again.

"I-I'm sorry. It's just ... it's awful. I feel so badly for her parents, for her friends ... for the whole community. Um, I'm not a perfect person. I'm far from it. But I was just ... at the wrong place, at the wrong time. I was ... yes, it's true I was at a nightclub. Maybe I wasn't sober, but I wasn't drunk. At all. I knew I had to get up early for my job. It-it's my fault. Because I wasn't completely paying attention."

I focus on his tear-stained face. I know a confession isn't coming, but there's still that stray hope that wants to come home.

Do the right thing, you bastard, I say to myself silently. Tell them you killed her.

"I wasn't paying attention," he repeats, shaking his head. He wipes his face with his hands again. "I saw the car in front of me brake. Those red lights. I thought I saw something rebound off the front of the car. I thought ... at most, I thought maybe it was a dog. I stopped near where I thought the car was when I saw the brake lights. I must have driven past or not far enough ... I looked around the area. I never found anything. I swear, I pray and wish every day that I had looked harder. But at the time, I assumed the darkness was playing tricks on my eyes. So, I left. I drove away and I went to sleep, not thinking anything more about it."

His gaze shifts over to our side of the courtroom. For a second, our eyes meet, but he quickly shifts to looking at the district attorney, Elizabeth Hardick, who is sitting in front of me, furiously writing notes on her legal pad.

"Mr. Douglas, would you have called 911 if you had hit this young woman?" Ramsey interjects.

"There's no doubt in my mind," Jeffrey says with a sudden stroke of conviction. "I wouldn't have hesitated. The ... the police brought up that I've crashed my car before and that I was drunk. That's true. But it was three years ago. I'd just broken up with my fiancée, I'd gone to AA, and ... it was a Good Samaritan that saved my life that day. His name was Greg Lowe and I've been waiting a long time to pay it forward. I know how much it means to me that Greg called an ambulance for me. I would have done it for anyone else without hesitating. I owe Greg that and I owe God that."

I notice a woman in the jury box nod, like a church parishioner getting into the preacher's sermon. She's wearing a crucifix. If this case ends up with a hung jury, I'll know she had something to do with it.

I can feel the bile rising in my throat. There's a bad, bad feeling in the air.

"Thank you, Mr. Douglas. Your honesty is admirable."

Ramsey sits down.