Nikolai
The Iron Wolf was closed for the night.
No lights on outside. No staff lingering behind the bar. Just the smell of old smoke and wood polish, and the sound of a half-full bottle of vodka being passed between me and my brothers.
We sat in the back room. No music played. No one talked louder than they had to.
It was five days after the wedding.
Five days since I’d put a ring on Sloane’s finger. The wedding headlines were still rolling in. Some tried to spin it as some sort of criminal conspiracy. Others were smart enough not to.
Stillwell had been processed within hours of his arrest. The judge—one of ours—ruled within the day that there would be no bail, no leniency, no room for negotiation. The charges were airtight, the media pressure relentless, and the evidence too damning to spin. He was sent to federal holding that same night.
We already had a man inside, a Bratva loyalist doing life in a federal facility for a body count too high to print. Stillwell was placed in the same block. I didn’t have to say much. Just one detail: he touched my girl.
That was all it took.
Two days later, Stillwell was found in his cell with broken ribs, snapped fingers, a shattered trachea, and a broken nose. The report called it an altercation. There weren’t any cameras. There weren’t any witnesses either. They had no case. Just a dead man with the wrong enemies. As far as I was concerned, justice had been done. He put his hands on what was mine.
The underground fighting circuit was back on, as planned. No delays, no noise, no interruptions, just the way I liked it. The next fight was already locked in. Additionally, I had a fight coming up in less than two weeks, and I welcomed it.
But here, in this room, none of that mattered.
This was a time for my brothers and me to get together, drink, and shoot the shit.
Business first though, as always.
Maxim sat across from me, sleeves rolled up, drink in his hand. His wedding band glinted faintly when he scratched his jaw, something thoughtful pulling at the edge of his mouth.
“We’ve absorbed most of Stillwell’s channels,” he said, setting his glass down. “Discreetly. No blowback yet. The political vacuum’s starting to pull in a few names, but no one with real teeth.”
Ivan didn’t look up. “There’s one potential challenger. Carrington. Backed by private finance, but shallow. If he makes a move, I can push a file that’ll bury him in three hours.”
“Do it anyway,” I said.
Maxim nodded once, satisfied.
I ran a hand over my jaw, then took a sip of my drink. Then Maxim met my eye, and I swore I saw the twinkle of something playful in his.
I raised a brow in his direction before he smirked.
“What?” I asked.
He grinned even wider and said, “Riley’s already planning three more weddings. Said helping Sloane pick that dress scratched an itch she didn’t know she had.”
“She wants to go into planning full-time?” I asked.
Maxim gave a half-shrug. “She wants to give it a name and a business card. Probably an empire by next month.”
“She planning yours and hers again?” Ivan muttered without looking up from his phone.
Maxim took another drink, but I saw the corner of his mouth and his hand twitch at the same time. “She just might.”
Aleksei chuckled, leaning back in his chair with his usual lazy charm. “Amy’s going the other direction. She just leased a new gallery space, old textile building downtown. High ceilings. Terrible heating. She says she wants to open with something meaningful.”
I glanced over. “She finally hanging that photo of you in your birthday suit?”
Aleksei shook his head and chuckled. Maxim reached for the bottle, refilled our glasses, and lifted his with quiet certainty.
“To wives,” he said. “The women who stand beside us.”
Aleksei raised his own. “To Amy. Who keeps me on my toes each and every day.”
I lifted mine. “To my Sloane.”
Ivan, surprisingly, raised his glass a beat behind us. “To finding something that quiets the noise. Even if it’s just for a while.”
We all drank.
Even Sergei gave the faintest grunt and knocked his back in one motion.
“Guess that means we’re next, brother,” Ivan said, glancing Sergei’s way with a crooked grin.
Sergei didn’t even blink. “Not a fucking chance.”
