Page 65 of I'm sorry, Princess
The room feels more like the setting for deciding the fate of the world than a simple business meeting. Maybe that’s exactly what we’re doing.
The table is massive, round and built for ten, though only five of us are here tonight. Or at least, that’s how many were meant to be here. Turns out, we’ve got an intruder.
A girl.
She’s sitting next to Kirill at the head of the table. Russian, undoubtedly. By little girl, I mean she looks barely nineteen, fresh-faced and completely out of place. What the hell is she doing here? Since when did Volkov start training his daughter for Bratva?
Volkov, the Pakhan, sits at the head of the table. His expression is cold, unreadable. The girl, his daughter, I assume, is perched to his right, her posture straight and composed. Next to her is a man whose very presence makes my skin crawl. Creepy bastard.
The quiet one.
No name, no real details, only the code they call him by: Ice. Part of the infamous Three who run Bratva. He’s not much of a talker, but his silence is louder than most men’s words.
Next to Ice sits Lev Roman Morozov, the owner of this club and my longtime associate. We’ve been in business together since I was 24, and I trust him as much as you can trust anyone in this world. He’s sharp, ruthless, and never lets his guard down.
Andreas, our fifth, sits across the table, looking as relaxed as ever. He’s our best contact for the flour we sell, though calling it flour is just for the sake of politeness. He also runs the largest “security” company in New York. Security, of course, meaning men who’ll kill without asking questions.
The little Russian girl glared at me, her icy blue eyes sharp enough to cut. I suppose someone was bothered by my tardiness.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I say, my voice amused as my gaze lingers on her.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she glares harder, and with a flick of her middle finger, she scratches her nose, just subtle enough to seem innocent but deliberate enough for me to notice.
She’s definitely a Volkov.
Gorgeous, though. Blonde hair, big blue eyes. A face that could fool anyone into thinking she’s harmless. Too bad my mind is elsewhere.
Because there’s another pair of eyes I can’t forget.
Drunk, brown eyes, likely somewhere downstairs right now, dancing and laughing. I bet some fucker’s watching her, MY brown eyes, trying to make his move.
I push the thought away, locking it up where it belongs.
“Apologies for being late,” I say finally, my tone flat, offering only the bare minimum of politeness. That’s all they’ll get from me. One apology. Nothing more.
Kirill stands from his seat, his imposing figure commanding the room. He steps toward me, his expression softening as he pulls me into a brief hug.
“Happy birthday, son,” he says, patting my shoulder before returning to his place at the head of the table.
The gesture hits harder than I expect.
Kirill Volkov is the closest thing to a father I’ve had since my own father passed away. My father was an honest man, a man who lived by the rules, who worked hard and stayed on the right side of the law. Everything he did was by the book.
When he died, I didn’t follow in his footsteps. I didn’t want to.
I became something else entirely. A fighter. A man who craved chaos and blood.
My descent began in Volkov’s illegal fight club, where I met Andreas. We became his best fighters, his most reliable assets in the ring. It didn’t take long before he started pulling us into his other businesses, trusting us to handle the dirtier side of his empire.
And now? Now, we make business together.
How does it work? Easy.
I have my own men, people who do nothing but spy on every single person worth watching. They dig up dirt, uncover secrets, and compile files so detailed that even I would blush. Those secrets? They’re currency. We use them to make people our bitches, bending them to our will when the time is right.
On top of that, I run a gun business. Not the kind you read about in the news, the kind where my men and my business partners are the only ones driving around with a Heckler & Koch G36 in their back seat and a SIG Sauer P320/M17 tucked into their pocket.
Then there’s Andres. The man’s a wild card, but he’s essential. He’s got an army of killers under the guise of his so-called Security Company. Let’s be clear: they aren’t bodyguards or bouncers. They’re the kind of men who will kill you, your neighbor, and your dog without asking a single question. And yeah, he’s Colombian.
