Page 161 of Royal Bargain
“Mikhailov.” I slide into the seat across from him. No handshake. No nod. Just silence and the hum of piano in the background.
I get straight to it. “What are you going to do?”
He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You mean when the war starts?”
I nod.
He takes a long sip, then sets his glass down carefully. “I’m loyal to Anatoly,” he says. “That hasn’t changed.”
I lean forward. “Even now? Even with the bratva splintering, with Dariy grabbing power, with Miranda moving pieces you don’t even see?”
A flicker of something crosses his face—tension, maybe. Or guilt. “Anatoly raised me. He gave me a home. A name. I owe him everything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He exhales sharply, then meets my gaze. “I’m not a fool, Brannagan. I know what’s coming. I know that Dariy is dangerous. That Miranda is worse. And I know that if we all keep clinging to the old ways, none of us are going to make it out alive.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then he says, quietly, “Ana told you I was in denial. About a lot of things.”
I nod, wary.
“She was right.” He straightens his posture a little, like the words themselves are armor. “I’ve spent most of my life pretending I didn’t want what I wanted. That I wasn’t who I am.”
I wait.
“I’m not hiding anymore,” Aleksey says, voice low but steady. “I’ve come out. I told Anatoly. I told my people. If they choose to see me as weak, that’s their mistake. But I won’t live in fear anymore.”
My brows lift despite myself. “That’s… brave.”
He snorts. “It’s survival.”
“No,” I say slowly. “It’s both.”
We look at each other for a long moment. There’s still a gulf between us—years of blood, of loyalty, of inherited war—but something shifts. A small, tentative bridge built not out of trust, but respect.
I raise my glass. “To truth, then.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “To whatever comes next.”
And somehow, it feels like the end of something—and the beginning of something else entirely.
I raise my glass. “To truth, then.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “To whatever comes next.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds. The air between us isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s no longer hostile either. For the first time, I think we might actually understand each other—two men shaped by legacy, torn between duty and change.
But then Aleksey sets his glass down and leans forward, his voice dropping low.
“One more thing, Liam.”
I glance up, alert.
His eyes are cold now. Focused. “Dariy won’t stop. He’s not interested in peace, or power-sharing, or saving face. He wants a purge. A reckoning. You and your brothers need to be ready.”
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