Page 41 of Savage Reign

Me: I do. That’s the point.

I know where to hit to make Roman bleed. The Syndicate wouldn’t flinch at business pressures—they’re too insulated, too powerful for that. But when it’s personal? When the stakes involve the people they love? That’s when they move. Roman’s weakness is Liza, and Liza loves her sister. Something their shitty parents never did.

That’s the edge I have over him. I have no vulnerable connections like he does. No one that can be used against me. I value my brotherhood—Vadim and Eva, especially—but even their lives wouldn’t compromise my decisions.

Going to jail for Sergey ended up costing me everything—that’s why I make decisions with my head, not my heart. Leading with your heart gets you killed.

Roman: No one has ever come against the Syndicate and won, and you are no exception. One day, I will gut you alive and enjoy every minute of it.

I lean back in my chair, resting my head in my hands with a faint smile curling my lips. Roman’s words are the taunt of a man grasping for power he no longer has. It’s true—the Syndicate hasn’t lost to an enemy, yet. Still, the strongest empires crumble when they underestimate their opponents.

Two years in prison taught me patience. It taught me that control wins wars, not brute force. I can smell Roman’s desperation from here, and it only proves I have him where I want him.

Me: Enough idle threats. I want action. Every day you drag your feet, Sofiya pays.

I turn off the phone, tucking it into my pocket, the last line hanging in the air like a fuse waiting to ignite. I imagine Roman’s fury—the way he’ll hurl the phone, maybe even stomp it to pieces. Satisfaction courses through me. I’ve planted a bomb in his mind, and it’s only a matter of time before it detonates.

Morning light spills into my office, illuminating the papers scattered across my desk. I stretch, rolling the tension from my neck, when someone knocks at the door.

“Come in,” I say, expecting Yelena with my morning tea. Instead, Emil steps through the door.

“Got a minute?” he asks.

I gesture to the chair across from me. “Of course. Have a seat.”

Emil sinks down, trying to seem confident, but I can see a flicker of hesitation. Back when he first joined my bratva, we butted heads—his temper and pride made it hard for him to take orders from me since I’m only a few years older than he is. I gave him more room to screw up because of our history, but that only went so far.

He clears his throat, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m sick of house duty, Niko. Hanging around the estate, playing babysitter—I’m ready for more.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “You think keeping my wife safe and my estate secure isn’t important?”

Emil’s jaw tightens, his fingers curling into loose fists on his thighs. “It’s not that. It’s—I’m ready for more responsibility. I’ve been loyal to you for years. I deserve a chance to enforce for the bratva, do something exciting.”

I sit back, my hand dragging down my jaw, the stubble rough against my palm. When I look at Emil, I still see the hotheaded kid who acts first and thinks later.

I remember the day he charged into an alley, fists flying, because some assholes made a comment about his girlfriend’s tits. He didn’t wait for backup or think two steps ahead. It was three against one, and he didn’t stand a chance. When I pulled him out, his face was a mess, his ribs bruised so badly he could hardly breathe. I get his need to stand up for his girlfriend, but blind anger like that is a fast way to get yourself killed.

“If you want more, show me you can handle it. Show me you can keep your head on straight when it matters. That you can think before you act.”

His mouth sets in a hard line, his nostrils flaring. “How can I prove anything when I’m stuck here all the time?”

I slam my palm on the desk, cutting him off. “Prove you can handle the responsibilities you already have. Do your job, and do it well.”

Emil’s shoulders stiffen, but he doesn’t break eye contact. “Fine,” he mutters, shoving his chair back with a scrape and striding toward the door.

My chest expands as I rake my fingers through my hair. “Emil, wait.”

I don’t want to discourage him, but he needs to understand that climbing the bratva ladder takes more than big balls and quick fists.

He stops in the doorway, turning slowly, and I soften my tone. He’s young and eager—I understand the need to do more. But right now, too much is at stake. “When this shit with the Syndicate is behind us, we can talk about another role for you. But until then, remember that a fuck-up puts my wife in danger. And that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Understood.” He nods and squares his shoulders before disappearing into the hallway.

I watch him leave, my gaze drifting to the papers on my desk. The casino contract with Igor’s signature stares back at me—a reminder that a war is still ahead of me.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

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