Page 58 of Dark Promise

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’re a decent actor, Nikolai, but I didn’t want to bet my life on your skills. You couldn’t slip up if you didn’t know.”

“If you’re lying…” I begin, my tone sharp.

“I’m not,” he interrupts. “And if you’re half the man Vlasta believed you could be, you’ll know how to use this.”

I slip the drive into my pocket, my mind already racing with possibilities. The evidence Maxim has handed me isn’t just a weapon; it’s the key to everything I’ve been working toward.

Mikhail’s downfall is no longer a distant dream—it’s within reach.

Maxim leans back, his expression softening. “This isn’t just about revenge for me,” he says quietly. “It’s about survival. Mikhail’s chaos will destroy us all if we let it. You’re the only one who can stop him.”

“I will,” I say, my voice cold and certain. “And when I do, there will be no place for men like Mikhail in the world I build.”

Later, as I drive through the rain-slicked streets of Las Vegas, my thoughts drift to Sabina. The latest delivery would have reached her by now—the soft blue cashmere shawl I chose because it reminded me of her eyes. I wonder if she’s unwrapped it yet, if she’s draped it over her shoulders or curled up with it against her skin.

The image that comes to mind is more potent than I expect. Sabina, her dark hair tumbling over bare shoulders, wearing nothing but the shawl. The thought twists something deep inside me—a dangerous mix of longing and possessiveness.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, forcing myself back to reality. The gifts are my only way of reaching her now, silent tokens of what I can’t say out loud. She’s safer this way, hidden within the Russo compound, surrounded by her family and their security. But even their fortress isn’t impenetrable, and the thought of Mikhail discovering her significance to me is a risk I can’t take.

Everything I’m doing—every step I take—is for her. When Mikhail is gone, when I’m the one sitting at the head of this empire, I’ll make sure Sabina is untouchable.

And then there’s the alliance with the Russos, the vision of a future that my Uncle Vlasta would have been proud of. A world where power doesn’t mean chaos, where strength isn’t synonymous with cruelty. It’s a future I can almost taste, and the thought of it sharpens my resolve.

The callwith Leo is brief but impactful. I stand on the balcony of my penthouse, the city’s neon glow reflecting in the glass of my whiskey tumbler as I outline my next moves.

“The evidence Maxim gave me is solid,” I tell him. “When the time comes, Mikhail won’t see it coming.”

“And the alliance you proposed at my sister’s engagement party?” Leo asks, his voice laced with dark amusement. “Impeccable timing and unparalleled arrogance, offering marriage to a woman who was already promised to another.”

“She is no longer promised to another,” I point out. “And my offer of an alliance stands.”

“An alliance or marriage?” Leo asks.

“Both,” I say.

“Only if she wants it,” Leo says. “I will not have her coerced or pressured.”

“She’ll have me of her own free will or not at all,” I snap.

“Good,” Leo says. “But remember, Nikolai—this isn’t just about us. The men who follow you, the men who follow me—they’ll need to believe in this.”

“They will,” I say, my voice firm. “When they see what we can accomplish, they’ll believe.”

21

Sabina

The New Year’sEve gala is an explosion of elegance, the kind of event that epitomizes the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas. The ballroom itself is a masterpiece, its vaulted ceiling adorned with intricate gold filigree, illuminated by enormous chandeliers dripping with prisms of light. The polished marble floors gleam underfoot, reflecting the glittering decadence above, while guests in couture gowns and bespoke tuxedos move like a constellation of stars come to life. Tables draped in ivory linens are scattered around the perimeter, each centerpiece a sculpted arrangement of fresh white roses, deep red calla lilies, and glittering gold accents. The air smells of champagne, expensive cologne, and the faint sweetness of the holiday season.

Along one side of the room, a massive ice sculpture of a cat, its eyes gleaming with inset crystals, stands surrounded by candlelight, a nod to the evening’s cause. Nearby, a string quartet plays beneath a gilded arch, their music floating through the room like an enchanted spell. Waiters glide between the clusters of guests, offering trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres: miniature tartlets, caviar-topped blinis, and golden spoons ofchilled gazpacho. There’s a palpable energy in the room—a heady mix of money, power, and carefully curated decadence.

I stand near the edge of the room with Nadia, who sips her champagne with the practiced air of someone unimpressed by the extravagance around her. She looks beautiful, her long platinum hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders, her deep brown eyes accented by smoky, dark eyeshadow and smudgy black eyeliner. Tonight, instead of her usual nude lip, she’s opted for a sexy, glossy red. She’s petite but carries herself with a confidence that makes her seem taller. Her dress is a shimmering slate gray, cinched at the waist and paired with black platform shoes. Somehow, the unexpected combination works…grunge meets elegance with a confidence only Nadia can pull off.

“You hate this, don’t you?” I tease, watching her scan the crowd.

“I don’t hate it,” she replies, her lips quirking into a smirk. “I’m just not built for…whatever this is. All the shiny, perfect people with their shiny, perfect lives.”

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