Page 131 of Inked Athena

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

“The Litvinov Bratva needs new leadership,” he announces, raising his voice so all of the assembled mob families can hear him. “Stronger leadership.”

I sweep my gaze around the cathedral, marking positions, counting heads. My security detail shifts into defensive formations, but we’re badly outnumbered. Behind Ilya, amongst the rag-tag hired guns, stand soldiers from the Petrov, Volkov, and Kozlov families—Chicago’s most ruthless Bratva clans.

My little brother’s been busy.

“You want leadership?” I keep my voice steady, eking out precious seconds to figure out what the fuck to do. “Look around, brother. Look at the kingdom I’ve built while you played at being Father’s good little boy. The Litvinov Group has never been stronger.”

“‘Strong’?” Ilya barks out a laugh. “You’re the farthest thing from it, Samoshka. Love has made you weak.” He steps closer. It’s just him and me at either end of the aisle that runs between the pews, maybe fifteen yards apart. “But don’t worry. I’ll take good care of everything—your company, your woman, your child. After all, what kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t?”

My hands curl into fists. Every instinct screams at me to rip his throat out. But Nova needs me thinking clearly. Strategic.

I force myself to breathe. To focus.

Because my brother’s about to learn exactly what kind of strength love can give a man.

What Ilya doesn’t see—what hecan’tsee—is that there is no point in burning down an empire just to rule over the ashes. He thinks he can rip this from me and make it his own.

But it’s a heart, a beating, pulsing heart—and he doesn’t know the first fucking thing about how to nurture life.

The proof is in the pudding. We came here today under a sacred agreement: no blood is to be spilled on the day of a funeral. For generations, that rule has held firm.

And now, Ilya spits on it.

I look around at all the men whom he convinced to spit on it with him. Dmitri Petrov, Aleskandr Volkov, Ivan Kozlov, all battle-testedpakhansin their own right… they’ve all thrown their lot in with this rabid, flea-bitten dog? Why?

I meet Dmitri’s eyes. His mouth is a grim, unreadable slash, but there’s a glimmer of… something in his eyes. Understanding, maybe.

Or regret.

Because he knows what I’m just now realizing—Ilya didn’tconvincethese men to join him. He found a way to force their hands. The question is, how?

“What did you promise them, brother?” I swallow grimly. “What kind of leverage did you need to make the great families bow to a spoiled child throwing a tantrum?”

Ilya’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second. “I promised them freedom from the old ways. From dusty traditions that hold us back.”

And there it is. The truth, laid bare in my brother’s burning eyes. He doesn’t want to rule the Bratva—he wants to destroy it. To reduce centuries of culture and connection to rubble, just so he can plant his flag in the wreckage.

I nod, meet Ilya’s gaze, and smile. “Then let’s give them a show, little brother.”

My timing is impeccable.

Not that I intended it as such.

The last syllable of “little brother”has scarcely left my lips before the rear wall of the cathedral implodes.

Fountains of dust and debris erupt. Two dozen of Ilya’s mercenaries are promptly trampled beneath a herd of FBI agents in SWAT gear. Riot shields, batons held high, all of them dripped head to toe in the government’s finest battle armor.

Gunfire drowns out screams. Smoke grenades hiss and pop. The cathedral becomes a war zone of ricocheting bullets and shattering marble.

But I barely register any of it. My world has contracted to two singular points:

The bathroom.

And my brother’s face as he stalks toward me through the chaos, lips pulled back in a rictus of rage.

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