Dominic POV
The traitor's blood was still warm on my hands when Viktor told me we had a problem.
"The FBI is watching the restaurant," Viktor said, his voice low and steady. He'd been my second-in-command for ten years. Nothing rattled him. "Two agents, parked across the street for the last three hours."
I wiped my hands on the dead man's shirt. Alexei had stolen two hundred thousand from my shipments. He thought I wouldn't notice. Everyone always thought they were smarter than me.
They were always wrong.
"Let them watch," I said. "They can't prove anything."
"Boss, they're getting bolder. Maybe we should—"
"Should what? Hide?" I stood up, looking down at the body. "Fear keeps empires standing, Viktor. The moment we act afraid is the moment we lose everything."
Viktor nodded, but I saw the worry in his eyes. He was fifty-five years old, covered in scars from twenty years of serving my father before serving me. He'd seen what happened when the Bratva showed weakness.
People died. Families burned. Power shifted to whoever was willing to be more brutal.
I learned that lesson early. My father made sure of it.
"Clean this up," I told my men. "Make sure nobody finds him. Ever."
As they moved to handle the body, I walked toward the sink in the corner of the warehouse. This place was one of twelve I owned across Brooklyn. Nobody questioned what happened here. Nobody was stupid enough to ask.
I scrubbed my hands under scalding water, watching pink swirls circle the drain. My father used to say blood never really washes off. It soaks into your skin, into your soul, until you forget what it felt like to be clean.
He was right about that, at least.
My phone buzzed. A text from my lawyer about another legitimate business deal—a tech company I was buying to hide money. To the world, I was Dominic Volkov, billionaire philanthropist. I donated to children's hospitals. I attended charity galas. I smiled for cameras.
Behind that smile, I ran the largest criminal empire in New York.
Drugs, weapons, illegal gambling, protection rackets—if it made money and broke laws, I controlled it. The Bratva had been my father's before me, built on blood and terror.
I just made it bigger.
"The restaurant needs you," Viktor said, appearing beside me. "Romano wants to discuss the new payment schedule."
Romano's Restaurant was a front. The owner paid me sixty thousand a month for "protection." In return, I made sure no other gangs bothered him, and I used his place for certain kinds of meetings.
Like tonight's execution.
"Tell him payments stay the same," I said. "He knew the terms when he signed."
"He's complaining about the FBI attention. Says it's bad for business."
I dried my hands and looked at Viktor. "His business is staying alive. Remind him."
Viktor almost smiled. Almost. "Already did."
This was why I trusted him. He understood the rules. In my world, loyalty was rare and precious. Most people stayed loyal only until someone offered them more money or more power.
Viktor stayed because he believed in something simpler: survival. He'd watched my father kill men for breathing wrong. He knew I was dangerous, but I was also fair. I rewarded loyalty and punished betrayal.
Simple. Clear. Effective.
"The FBI can watch all they want," I said, heading toward the warehouse door. "They need evidence. They need witnesses. They need proof."
"And if they find it?"
I stopped, turning to face him. "Then we eliminate the problem. Just like Alexei."
Outside, the February air was bitter cold. My driver waited with the car—a black Mercedes that cost more than most people's houses. I slid into the back seat, already thinking about my next meeting.
The Russian families were getting aggressive again. They wanted more territory. They thought because the FBI was watching me, I was vulnerable.
Another mistake.
I'd been dealing with the Russians since I was sixteen, when my father first brought me to a negotiation and made me watch him torture a man for three hours. "This is power," he'd said, while the man screamed. "Make them fear you more than death."
I learned. I always learned.
My father was dead now—cancer took him when I was twenty-five. Sometimes I wondered if the cancer hurt him as much as he'd hurt everyone else. I hoped so.
"Where to, boss?" my driver asked.
"Romano's. I need to check something."
We drove through Brooklyn's dark streets. This city belonged to me. Every corner, every shadow, every whispered deal—mine. I'd bled for it. Killed for it.
I'd die before I let anyone take it from me.
When we pulled up to Romano's Restaurant, I saw Viktor was right. An unmarked car sat across the street. FBI. Watching.
I smiled and walked into the restaurant through the front door. Let them see me. Let them wonder. They had nothing.
The dining room was nearly empty at 2 AM. Just drunk customers eating pasta. Romano appeared immediately, nervous and sweating.
"Mr. Volkov, we need to talk about—"
"Later," I cut him off. "Where's your manager?"
"In back, dealing with the trash."
I nodded and headed toward the kitchen. I wanted to make sure my men had cleaned the alley properly. Evidence was something I didn't leave behind.
The back door stood open.
That was wrong. Nobody left doors open in February.
I walked faster, pushing through into the alley.
Trash bags lay scattered on the ground. My men stood frozen, staring down the alley at something I couldn't see yet.
"What happened?" I demanded.
One of my men turned, his face pale. "Boss, we caught her. But you need to see this."
They stepped aside.
A girl knelt on the concrete, held by two of my men. Small, shaking, terrified. Her waitress uniform was dirty. Her honey-colored hair had fallen out of its ponytail. Her eyes—huge and hazel—stared up at me with pure fear.
She'd seen everything.
My mind calculated instantly: witness, liability, problem to eliminate.
But then she whispered something in Russian. A prayer, quiet and desperate. The same prayer my mother used to say before my father killed her.
I froze.
She spoke Russian. A waitress in Brooklyn spoke my language.
"Let her go," I heard myself say.
My men looked confused, but they released her arms.
The girl didn't run. Maybe she was too scared. Maybe she knew running wouldn't help.
I crouched down to her level, studying her face. She was pretty under the fear—delicate features, soft mouth, eyes that held exhaustion I recognized.
"What's your name?" I asked in English.
"Isla," she breathed. "Please don't kill me."
I should. Every instinct screamed to eliminate the witness. But something stopped me. Maybe the Russian prayer. Maybe the exhaustion in her eyes that matched the exhaustion in my soul.
Maybe I was curious why a terrified waitress wasn't begging in English.
"Stand up," I ordered.
She struggled to her feet, swaying like she might faint.
"You saw what happened here," I said. It wasn't a question.
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
"Then you understand what I do to people who see too much."
Another nod. Her whole body shook.
I made a decision that would change everything. "I'm going to offer you a choice, Isla. Only once. Listen carefully."
She waited, barely breathing.
"You work for me. Six months. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. In return, I let you live."
"And if I say no?" Her voice was so quiet I almost didn't hear it.
I smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. "Then you don't leave this alley alive."