Nikolai
We arrived at The Iron Wolf just after midnight.
The streets outside were mostly empty. Inside, the bar was dark except for the back room, the hum of quiet voices behind frosted glass telling me my brothers were already there.
Sloane walked in beside me, her pace controlled, shoulders pulled back, the tension in her spine wound tight. I could feel the energy coming off her in waves, anger laced with anticipation along with a sense of curiosity, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t ask questions.
She just held her head high like she belonged here.
My cock throbbed at the sight.
When I opened the door to the back room, every man in it looked up.
Maxim sat at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, a tumbler of vodka in front of him and his fingers drumming lightly on the wood. Ivan stood near the screen in the corner, tablet in one hand, scanning a map lit with red markers. Aleksei was sprawled in one of the chairs with that usual smirk like he already knew something the rest of us didn’t. Sergei stood near the wall, arms crossed, silent but thoughtful as always.
And at the far end of the table, Charlie Kingsley.
He looked up when we walked in, his eyes going straight to Sloane first, searching her face for something I didn’t try to read. Then to me.
He nodded once.
I closed the door behind us.
“Let’s get to it,” I said.
Maxim gestured to the empty seats. “Sit.”
Sloane took the one nearest her father. I took the one beside her, close enough to remind every man in the room who she belonged to.
Ivan didn’t waste time.
“My fighter Mikhail gave us some critical information on this trafficking ring,” he said. “Code names, burner accounts, drop locations. It’s a loose network, half digital, half face-to-face. They use rotating safehouses and third-party drivers to move product—mostly girls. Ages vary, but a disturbing number are flagged underage.”
Charlie rubbed a hand over his face, jaw clenching hard.
“And you’re tying this directly to Stillwell?” Maxim asked.
“Not yet,” Ivan said. “But we’ve got patterns, and we’ve got witness memory. Mikhail recognized Stillwell’s name from a drop run five years ago. That alone wouldn’t hold up, but paired with the new logistics I’ve found? The movement and the timing?”
He looked at Charlie.
“We’ve got a window of time to work with.”
Charlie’s voice was low. “How big?”
Ivan didn’t blink. “Three weeks. Maybe less. He’s trying to bury something though. Fast. A few of the routes have gone dark. Accounts are being scrubbed. Someone told him we’re sniffing.”
“Fuck,” Maxim muttered.
Sloane leaned forward, palms flat on the table. “So we bait him.”
Her father turned sharply. “You are not getting anywhere near—”
“She’s right,” I interrupted, voice firm. “We can use her name, her position. Not as bait, but as leverage. She gets us in the room. The rest, we do in the dark.”
Charlie looked between us. “You’re serious.”
I nodded. “You said it yourself, he’s protected. If we wait, this dies in the shadows. We move now. We hit fast. Hard. Quiet.”
Maxim glanced at Aleksei. “Can you run press intercepts? If this leaks too early—”
“I already have headlines written,” Aleksei said, smoothing out the sleeve of his jacket. “If this breaks, he won’t be able to show his face at a urinal without the press dissecting it.”
“Sergei?” I asked.
He shifted his weight. “I’ve already pinged two of the drivers through old channels. Quietly. If they bite, we follow the chain, lock them into position. Trap closes when we say it does.”
“We’ll get him,” Sloane nodded, her confidence written all over her face, and damn if that wasn’t one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen.
Then I decided something.
“Everyone out,” I said.
The command cut clean through the room.
Maxim raised an eyebrow. Ivan paused. Aleksei froze mid-sip of vodka. No one argued, though. They stood, gathered their files, and filed out without a word. Charlie gave me a look—tense, nervous—but nodded once and followed.
The door shut.
Sloane looked up at me.
“What is it?”
I didn’t answer.
I stood, reached for her, took her hand, and pulled her up from the chair. She stood, uncertain now, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to figure out what I had up my sleeve.
I looked at her for a long moment, at the way her lips parted, the worry on her brow, and the steel buried beneath the softness of her face. Then I told her how it was going to go.
“We’re getting married tomorrow.”
Her breath caught.
“What?” she asked. Voice small. Her gaze seemed hopeful, yet still anxious.
“Tomorrow,” I said again firmly. “Before the sting. Before the press. Before anyone has a chance to touch you again or twist your name into something it isn’t.”
She stared at me, not blinking, breath bated.
“You’re serious.”
I stepped closer, pressed my hand flat against her lower back.
“I’m not waiting. Not one more day. I want you wearing my name. My ring. I want every reporter, every cop, every backroom bastard in this city to know that you’re mine.”
Her lips parted.
“But—”
“No hiding either,” I said. “No secrecy. I want it lavish. Loud. I don’t care how much it costs. The kind of wedding that makes people talk. Let them whisper about the mayor’s daughter marrying the Bratva king.”
She didn’t speak for a long second. Then she exhaled—shaky, stunned—and let her hand slide up to rest over my chest, right where my heartbeat was pounding behind my ribs.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Tomorrow, she was going to become my wife.
But later tonight, she’d be over my knee learning what happened when you disobeyed a king… even if you earned your place at his side.
