Page 52 of Dark Promise

It was a calculated move by Mikhail—just important enough to keep Novikov from openly rebelling, but humiliating enough to remind him of his diminished standing. But logistics is a double-edged sword. The position gave Novikov access to the arteries of the syndicate—the flow of goods, money, and information—and a perfect vantage point to exploit weaknesses.

When I approached him, he was already disillusioned with Mikhail’s leadership. When I showed him the proof that my uncle had not died of a heart attack but rather had been poisoned he had been incensed. He had loved my uncle like a brother, been loyal to him. And now, his loyalty was to me.

“You’re sure?” Mikhail asks, his voice deadly quiet.

Maxim nods, swiping through files. “I traced the communication logs and payment records. Novikov’s been feeding intel to the Orekhov syndicate’s rivals for months. And…” He hesitates.

Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “And what?”

“He’s been using the money to prepare for something big. Moving assets. Consolidating power.”

Maxim’s words hang in the air like a noose.

Mikhail slams his fist onto the desk, the sound reverberating through the room like a gunshot.

“Find him,” he snarls. “Bring him to me. I’ll tear the truth from his throat myself.”

Maxim nods, but his eyes flicker to me once more before he turns and leaves.

I can’t tell if it’s suspicion, or something else. A silent warning, maybe. A calculated nudge. Maxim’s always been harder to read than most, and his sudden nerves are either a sign of incompetence, or something far more deliberate.

I’ve never known Maxim to be incompetent.

My father’s gaze shifts back to me, suspicion burning in his eyes. “Did you know about this?”

“No,” I lie smoothly, my voice steady. But inwardly, I’m already dissecting Maxim’s behavior. The glance he gave me, the way he hesitated before speaking—he either suspects my involvement or is trying to align himself with me without making it obvious. Either way, I can use this.

“Find out why he betrayed you,” I suggest, keeping my tone measured. “Before you kill him. If he’s consolidating power, he’s not working alone.”

Mikhail stares at me a moment longer, then says, “Get out.”

I leave the office, my steps measured, my expression calm. Inside, my thoughts churn. Maxim has handed me a gift, intentionally or not. The timing is perfect. With Novikov’s betrayal exposed, Mikhail will waste his energy hunting him down while I continue to unravel his empire from within.

And Sabina—

I try to push the thought of her to the back of my mind as I head to my car, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with my bare hands. Mikhail’s attention is razor-sharp, his instincts too honed to miss even the slightest shift in my behavior. I can’t afford for him to sense the possessive obsession I feel for her, notnow, not ever. If he knew, she’d become his favorite weapon—or his most satisfying target.

She’s safe at the Russo compound, surrounded by layers of guards and her fiercely protective brothers. I know this. I trust this. But even that knowledge isn’t enough to silence the gnawing anxiety that eats at me.

So I stay away. I don’t call. I don’t reach out. I don’t even allow myself to drive past the Russo estate. All it would take is one misstep, one thread leading back to her, and she’d be dragged into the abyss I’m fighting to escape.

That evening,the penthouse is silent except for the faint hum of the city below. I pour myself a glass of vodka, the clear liquid swirling like the storm in my chest.

Sabina.

Her name echoes in my mind, pulling me into memories I can’t afford to revisit. The curve of her lips when she challenged me. The defiant fire in her eyes that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of danger. The way her body fit against mine, soft yet unyielding, every touch sparking a hunger that still burns beneath my skin.

I take a long sip, the burn doing nothing to dull the ache. She’s back with her family now, at the Russo compound, surrounded by a fortress of guards and brothers who’d burn the world to protect her. It’s where she’s safest, for the moment.

But I can’t let her think I’ve forgotten her. That I’ve walked away without a second thought.

At my desk, I open a sleek, black leather notebook. Its pages are filled with fragments of her. Notes on the things she said, the way she moved, the things that mattered to her. I flip to a freshpage and begin to write, the plan crystallizing as ink flows over paper.

One gift a day, leading up to Christmas. Nothing traceable. Nothing that could lead anyone, especially Mikhail, back to me. Cash payments only. Third-party couriers with no names, just instructions. No cards. No signatures. Just the gifts, deliberate and personal, each one a message she’ll understand.

The first is obvious. A replacement for the gun she lost in the crash. A Ruger LCP II with a polished blue finish on the slide. Blue like her eyes. Sabina carries her weapons like an extension of herself—precision and purpose. This will remind her that I see her for who she truly is: not just someone to protect, but someone capable of fighting her own battles.

The second gift will be a pair of Louboutins, identical to the ones ruined in the explosion.

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