Page 2 of Desperate Crimes
I’ve sat at his table, toasted his victories, listened to him curse and praise the market in equal breath.
I know the man well enough to read the shift in his jaw when he’s suspicious, and the gleam in his eye when he’s playing a long game.
His wife, Sofia Volkov—Leanna’s mother—sends my family holiday cards. Elegant things, always signed in her perfect, looping script.
She’s warm, shrewd, and far more dangerous than she lets on.
She’s also seen me grow up.
Hell, Sofia might’ve wiped my nose once or twice when I was a toddler stumbling around the Volkov estate during one of those endless summer luncheons.
My parents and hers, my uncles and aunts—we all orbit the same sun.
Our families rose in parallel.
From blood and broken bones.
From loyalty and brutality.
We came up from nothing. From slums and syndicates. And we did what needed to be done to carve out power.
Now, we sit at the top of the world.
Two dynasties—Volkov and Fury—legitimate enough to stand beside prime ministers, terrifying enough to keep our enemies awake at night.
But Leanna?
Leanna is a different story.
She’s younger than I am.
Eight years.
But it’s not the number that matters—it’s the light.
She’s pure light in a world that’s only ever shown me shadows.
She walks into a room, and the whole fucking place bends toward her like sunflowers to the dawn.
And me?
I’m just a shadow in the corner of her eye.
A flicker on the edge of the frame.
The son of her parents’ friends.
The brooding one.
The dangerous one they probably warned her about without ever saying my name.
“Junior, how have you been?” Connor Callahan approaches, and I shake his hand.
“Connor. Balor,” I greet them both.
“This is some setup, huh?”
“You should know. It’s your father-in-law’s place, isn’t it?” I reply casually.
