Page 4 of Brutal Reign
CHAPTER
TWO
PAVEL
“Budem zdorovy.”Maxim raises his glass, and Roman and I follow suit. The clink echoes through the office before we knock back the ice-cold shots of vodka. It’s the proper way to handle both victories and disasters in our world.
Based on Maxim’s expression, I’m guessing this falls into the disaster category.
He called this meeting without explanation, which happens often enough when you’re running an empire like the Belov Syndicate. What started as a small Moscow street gang has grown into one of Russia’s most feared bratvas, with reach across Europe and beyond.
Maxim has led the Syndicate for over a decade, though he’s recently stepped back from the day-to-day to spend more time with his wife, Kira, and their young son.
Roman Vasiliev and I have taken up the slack—Roman handles logistics and shipping while I run counterfeits and operations. We’re the trinity that keeps this machine running.
They’re also the closest thing to family I have.
“So what exactly are we drinking to?” I ask, setting down my empty glass.
“A mistake,” Maxim says flatly, pulling a folder from his desk. “One that needs to be rectified soon.”
Roman raises an eyebrow. “Your mistake or ours?”
“Pavel’s.” Maxim slides the folder across to me. “Take a look.”
Interest piqued, I flick the folder open and—fuck. It takes my brain a second to connect the image in front of me with the memory of her.
My beautiful attacker.
A young woman stares back from the photograph. Glossy dark hair frames a face both soft and striking, with sharp cheekbones, warm brown eyes, and a sweet smile. She’s wearing a summer dress that skims over graceful curves.
I’d recognize her anywhere, but I don’t know her name.
I set the photo on the desk. “Who is she?”
“Hope King,” Maxim says, lighting a fresh cigar. “Daughter of Lai King. The woman you let escape.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I stare at the photograph, pieces falling into place. Three months ago, during an attack on her father’s villa, I thought I was sparing some terrified maid or assistant. Instead, I’d let the daughter of our most dangerous enemy walk free.
Roman leans over to study the photograph, and I fight the urge to pull it away from him.
He shakes his head in amusement. “Shit, this is her. This little thing put six stitches in your side.”
I shoot Roman a dark look, but he’s right. This young beauty is the same woman who appeared from the shadows the night we stormed her father’s Swiss hideout and buried a knife in my ribs.
And now I’m realizing she cost me a lot more than stitches.
For months, we’d been at war with her father’s triad. The Hong Kong–based Black Company controlled the international wine forgery market. It was a market worth hundreds of millions that we wanted in on.
What started as a healthy business rivalry became war when King planted a mole in our operation and began intercepting shipments. But when he orchestrated a public attack on us, nearly killing Maxim’s wife, Kira, we went after him with everything we had.
When someone leaked their location to a remote villa in the Swiss Alps, we struck fast and hard.
Lai King chose suicide over surrender, but his top lieutenants, and anyone who could rebuild the organization, were killed by us that night.
Everyone, except her.
Because I let her go.
