Page 8 of Savage Reign

The conversation veers into darker territory as Sergey lays out his plan to marry a girl named Sofiya Ivanova, while Anatoly will marry her sister, Liza. I’ve never heard of either, but I understand what Sergey’s after—an alliance cemented by family ties with Anatoly Petrovich, and he’ll destroy anyone in his way.

“Your marriage isn't happening,” Roman snarls. “Liza and Sofiya are in hiding, and Anatoly is as good as dead.”

“I think you’ll find that’s not the case at all. Have you spoken to your beloved Liza recently?” Sergey’s voice drips with venom, and a cruel laugh escapes him as Roman’s face goes stone-cold. “That’s right—you haven’t,” Sergey taunts. “And you won’t be speaking to her ever again. Because you’re not walking out of here alive.”

Roman roars and charges forward. Time seems to slow, each second stretching out as Sergey’s arm rises, the barrel aimed squarely at Roman’s heart.

My thoughts collide, but I know there’s only one way forward. I raise my pistol and fire.

The shot is deafening—Sergey stumbles back, eyes wide as he hits the ground. His blood pools like ink across the floor.

And though I know he would’ve turned that gun on me, something heavy and painful settles in my gut, and a part of me dies with my brother.

My concentration snaps back to the present as Roman’s focus locks onto me.

“Don’t fucking kid yourself, Nikolai. You had your reasons for saving my life—you did it because it served you.”

Not untrue, but it’s beside the point. My steely voice drops. “I helped pull the woman you love out of hell. I put my own life on the line for her and Sofiya. Now, I expect some consideration in return. Not a big ask, given what I’m offering.”

“You called in your favor when you needed my help to negotiate a truce with the Volkov Bratva. I’m not in the business of gratitude, and as much as I’ve appreciated our alliance through the years, you are not connected to us by blood or marriage, which means you aren’t running a business in our territory. End of the fucking story.” He slams his hands down on the table with a force that rattles the glasses.

“Actually, I don’t believe it is,” I say through clenched teeth. Behind me, Vadim shifts. We left our weapons at the door, and he’s on edge. But I’m not looking for a fight. At least not yet.

Pavel raises his glass, giving it a slow spin. “What exactly are you saying?”

I crack my knuckles, shrugging. “I guess you’ll see.”

As Vadim and I head for the exit, Roman’s voice follows me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Zhukov. Consider that a warning.”

“Appreciate it, but I’d save my breath if I were you.”

I walk out without looking back. Their position is clear, and soon mine will be, too, because I have an ace up my sleeve. One I’ve been sitting on for a very long time.

Our driver waits for us in front of the club. Vadim and I slip into the back seat, and we pull away into the warm night. I loosen my tie and take in the sight of Moscow, whipping by beyond the window. Even in the early days of summer, this city can be so gray and uninspiring.

A city, it seems, where I’ll never be welcome to do business.

Unless, of course, I’m connected byblood or marriage.

An interesting choice.

Over the years, I’ve done plenty of business with the Syndicate, but always from our own territories. They sit firmly at the top of the underworld food chain, with no intention of sharing.

But I’m not here to ask. I’m here totake.

That’s what I did five years ago. With Sergey dead, and too many of my men turned against me, I rebuilt from scratch. I took back my city.

Vadim was one of the first people I recruited as my right hand. We met in prison a few years back, when he saved my life. Word had spread fast that a bratva boss had landed in high security, and it didn’t take long for a few punks to decide they’d make a name for themselves by coming after me. They didn’t have the brains to be subtle—they went for me in the shower.

A blade sank into my shoulder before I realized what was happening. I fought with everything I had, but fighting in a shower is a losing game, especially when blood’s involved. Three against one, and I was barely standing upright when Vadim stepped in. I didn’t even get a good look at him before he ripped through them—cold, precise, and brutal.

The fuckers got exactly what they deserved. I was battered, but I’d lived through worse. His parting advice to me had been, “Shower with a blade next time.”

A few weeks later, I got my chance to return the favor. The guards had a hard-on for Vadim because he was former special forces, and somehow, a baseless rumor had started that he’d deserted his unit in Crimea.

One night, they dragged him out of his cell and started kicking the shit out of him in some dark corner of the block. I couldn’t see it, but the sounds were enough to know it wasn’t a fair fight, and I sure as hell had no loyalty to the guards.

I found the main power switch to our block and cut it, plunging all the cells into pitch black. In the chaos, with prisoners shouting and guards scrambling, Vadim was left lying in a heap on the cement floor. I couldn’t offer much, but I helped him back to his cell and called for the nurse.

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