Page 38 of Porcelain Vows

I reach for my coffee, find the cup empty, and set it down with enough force to crack the bottom. The numbers blur before my eyes, not from emotion but from sheer disbelief.

Maranzano’s death was supposed to solve this. The Italian’s betrayal had cost me millions, but eliminating him should have stabilized my position. Instead, the bleeding has accelerated.

This isn’t random market fluctuation. This is coordinated. Surgical.

I pull up the security feeds on one monitor, scanning the grounds of Blackwood Manor out of habit. The property remains secure— high walls, armed guards, surveillance covering every approach. My fortress stands untouched while my empire crumbles.

I reach for my phone and dial Vasya’s number.

He answers on the first ring. “I was about to call you.”

“Tell me you found something.”

A pause. The sound of typing. “It’s not Maranzano’s people. I checked every angle.”

“Then who?”

More typing. “The contracts with Germany and Turkey— they went to Novikov.”

My jaw locks tight enough to crack teeth. The name burns like acid in my veins. Novikov has been circling my territory for years, but this level of infiltration is unprecedented.

“James Whitmore’s daughter suddenly received a full scholarship to Oxford,” Vasya continues. “Coincidentally, the day after he canceled your Pentagon contract.”

“Novikov bought him.Pizda!” I slam my fist against the desk, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. My most valuable American connection— turning against me for what? His cocaine-addicted daughter’s education? The pathetic simplicity of his betrayal makes it all the more infuriating.

“Da.” The typing stops. “Aleksei, this is systematic. Novikov’s been planning this for months. The banking records show a pattern of—”

“Show me later,” I cut him off, already calculating. “What else?”

“Your Swiss accounts were frozen after an anonymous tip about money laundering. The signature matches previous Novikov operations.”

I stand, unable to remain still. Pacing to the window, I look out over the grounds, seeing nothing but Sofia’s face on our wedding day. The shock when I walked away. The hatred in her eyes. The enraged screams of her family.

“He’s still angry about Sofia,” I say.

Vasya makes a sound— not quite a laugh. “You left his daughter at the altar. In our world, that’s worse than killing her. As far as he’s concerned, you humiliated his entire bloodline.”

“It was a business arrangement. Nothing more.”

“To you, maybe. To Novikov, it was the merging of two families. The creation of a dynasty. You made him look like a fool in front of every major family in Russia.”

My fingers tighten around the windowsill. Months since I walked away from that farce of a wedding, and still, Novikov can’t accept that I refused to be a pawn in his stupid game. The man’s pride is more fragile than eggshells.

“He should have known better,” I mutter, more to myself than to Vasya. “You don’t build empires on marriages. You build them on blood and loyalty.”

Vasya is silent for a moment. I can picture those sharp eyes of his narrowing, calculating, always calculating. My brother may look like a bear, but he thinks like a chess master.

“Still,” he says, “the wedding was a shitfest. A man like Novikov won’t let that go easily.”

I rub the back of my neck, remembering. The church packed with Moscow’s elite. Sofia in white lace, diamonds at her throat. The weight of tradition and expectation. The sudden, suffocating certainty that I couldn’t do it— couldn’t tie myself to a woman I didn’t want, to a family I didn’t trust. Especially not while another woman was carrying my child.

So I walked away. Broke the arrangement. Destroyed years of careful negotiation with six strides back down the aisle.

“He’s making his move now because he thinks I’m weak,” I say, turning back to my desk. “Maranzano’s betrayal, the issues with the Mexican cartel, the DEA investigation— he sees vulnerability.”

“And he’s right,” Vasya says bluntly. “You’ve lost thirty percent of your liquid assets in three weeks. Another two months like this, and the Tarasov Bratva becomes a footnote in history.”

I sink into my chair, mind racing through options. Each path leads to the same conclusion.

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