TWO MONTHS LATER
PAVEL'S POV
Neon lights shine down on people crammed together, bodies moving in sync to the music blasting from the overhead speakers. The smell of alcohol and competing fragrances permeates the air, thick and cloying, reaching even up here in my office.
I step toward the floor-to-ceiling glass wall and cross my arms over my chest, watching the crowd on the dance floor below. It's not even midnight yet, but the place is already packed, barely any breathing space left between them.
A commotion at the far corner of the dance floor pulls my attention. Vladimir, one of the club bouncers, has a man by the back of his shirt, dragging him toward the stairs that lead to the upper level. If it were just a brawl, security would've thrown him out already. This… this is something else. Something worth bringing to me.
The door behind me opens five minutes later.
"Mr. Morozov." Vladimir shoves the man into the office. "We caught this one dealing in front of the restrooms."
I walk toward the man sprawled on the floor, slow and deliberate, and place the sole of my right shoe over his hand. "Distributing drugs in my club?"
The man whimpers, trying to pull his hand free with his other one, but I press down harder. "Talk."
"It was just some pills a friend gave me," he chokes out, looking up at me with wide, panicked eyes. "He said it's some new stuff he swiped from his work."
I tilt my head slightly. "His job? What does he do?"
"I don't know. He never talks about it." He struggles again, but it's useless. "I'm so sorry. It won't happen again."
I motion for Vladimir to hand me the small plastic bag he's holding and look it over. A dozen white pills sit inside, harmless-looking at first glance. "Have you tried this?"
"No… I… I'm not into drugs," the man stammers, then whimpers when I increase the pressure on his hand.
"So you brought them here to sell." I let out a low breath. "Very wise." I toss the plastic bag back to Vladimir. "Take this to Doc. We need to check what's in that crap."
"What should we do with the dealer?" Vladimir asks, nodding toward the man.
I study him for a moment. The fear in his eyes, the tremor in his body—it wouldn't take much to break him. A few minutes in the storeroom, maybe less. But we have rules in the Chicago Bratva, and my role doesn't include information extraction.
"I think he would enjoy a little chat with Mikhail. Get him out of my sight," I say, already turning away, heading back toward the glass wall overlooking the dance floor.
Behind me, shouting erupts as Vladimir drags the man out. The noise, struggling, pleading, chaos, cuts off the moment the door slams shut.
Silence returns.
My eyes drift back to the crowd below, scanning faces, movement, energy, until they settle on the booth in the far-left corner. Yuri sits in the middle, relaxed, a blonde woman tucked against his side. On his other side are the brothers Kostya and Ivan, laughing about something, drinks in hand. The men who handle the Bratva's finances look like they don't have a care in the world tonight.
Seems like some of the guys got themselves a free night.
My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the screen—Yuri.
"Is something wrong?" I ask as I answer.
"No," he says, looking up at me from the booth, already knowing I'm watching. "Come down and have a drink with us."
"I'm working."
"You're always working, Pasha." He shakes his head.
He's not wrong. Unless I'm sleeping or working out, I'm here, at one of the Bratva's clubs. My empty apartment stopped feeling like home a long time ago, especially after I moved out of the Petrov mansion when the pakhan's wife had a child. It was hard back then.
It's worse now.
Running two nightclubs for the last seven years, constantly surrounded by people, noise, life, it should make me crave silence. Solitude. It doesn't.
It just reminds me that I have no one to go home to.
"Come on, just one drink," Yuri presses.
Kostya's deep laugh carries through the line. Sounds like he's up to something again. Always a trickster, that one.
"Some other time, Yuri," I say.
I end the call but don't step away from the glass. I keep watching them, my comrades, my brothers, laughing, drinking, enjoying themselves like the world isn't built on blood and deals.
Maybe I should join them.
It would be nice, wouldn't it? To sit, drink, talk about nonsense for once. To forget.
But I already know how that ends.
Every time I've tried, I walked away feeling worse. More alone than before.
The Bratva is the closest thing to a family I've ever had. I know, without a doubt, that every one of them would take a bullet for me.
As I would for them.
And still… even after ten years, I keep my distance.
With my past, maybe that's inevitable. When the people who were supposed to be your safe harbor are the ones who cast you out, you learn fast. You don't get close. You don't depend. Because sooner or later, they leave too.
Sooner or later, everyone leaves.
I stand there for a long time, watching them laugh, letting the noise of the club fade into the background.
Then I turn away and go back to work.