Page 129 of Bratva's Intern

“Just so we’re clear.” I rocked back in my chair. “This is your way of initiating war, yes?” My gaze dared him to confirm he wanted to go up against me.

For years, the two brothers had been pushing for Arkady to cut ties with me. Of course, they would use the incident at O’Hare to fulfill their agenda.

Boris placed a hand over his brother’s. “We’ll give you one week to cough up the crypto wallets that are ours.”

I stared them down. “This meeting is over. You two better get the hell out of here before I lose my cool and send your heads back to Arkady in a box. Who the fuck do you think you are to give me ultimatums? Don’t be fooled by this office and suit, boys. This”—I tugged on my jacket—“is just for the world. You, of all people, should know what I am capable of.”

I was the reason their pops had his name engraved in stone at the Hellshire cemetery.

“You can tell Arkady I’ll get in touchwhenI have news. Any attempt to contact me, and I’ll see that as a threat. Then I’ll have no choice but to act accordingly. Gentlemen, let me escort you out.”

A beat of silence. Then Boris laughed—a dry, brittle sound like something breaking. “You speak like a king, Morozov. But you are not untouchable. The moment you startmaking enemies out of allies, the ground shifts under your feet.”

“And the moment you threaten me in my own building”—I rose slowly—“your days are numbered. Since you don’t want to leave, I can make space for your ashes somewhere on my shelf.”

Their silence held a challenge, and I almost hoped one of them would take it. Let me remind them what my name meant when spoken without fear or reverence.

Maybe Archie was right. I’d let them grow too comfortable. And comfort bred rebellion in men who forgot the bitter taste of spilled blood.

We filed out of the conference room, a small battalion of expensive suits and dangerous men. I just wanted to go home. Back to my house. Back to Wren.

He was probably half-asleep by now, curled up on the couch with something ridiculous playing on TV. Hopefully naked like I’d asked. The thought made my chest ache in a way I didn’t like admitting.

I was falling for him.

“What the fuck is this?” Boris spat in Russian.

The two men had stopped in front of me. Behind me, Dezi came to a halt.

Wren.

A cold knot twisted in my gut.

What the hell was he still doing here?

He stood near his desk, curls freshly trimmed, cheeks flushed. He looked… soft. Too soft for this place. For this moment. His smile faltered the second he registered we weren’t alone.

Recognition sparked in his eyes, followed by confusion.

Then came fear.

He glanced at the other two Russian men, Boris’s ink crawling past his collar, Gennadi’s crooked nose. Both woretailored suits, but they couldn’t mask what they were. Violence made flesh. Old world brutality wrapped in expensive wool.

Boris, as always, wore his gun like an afterthought. He was never subtle.

His gaze locked onto the weapon, Wren stepped back quickly, knocking into the corner of his desk. He gripped the edge, his hand white-knuckled. His gaze darted to the floor, the exit, then the phone.

He twitched his fingers toward the phone.

Panic flared in his eyes.

He was thinking about calling the cops.

I moved fast, too fast, and passed the others so sharply it was almost a challenge.

Everything inside me bristled, every instinct screamed “protect him.” Not just from the men behind me, but from what this moment meant. What it exposed.

They’d seen him.

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