12: The Russian Gambit

CHAPTER TWELVE

POV: Julian Vane

The shower water was scalding, turning the skin of my back a raw, angry red, but I didn't turn it down. I needed the heat. I needed it to burn away the phantom sensation of the warehouse explosion, the scent of Enzo’s betrayal, and the lingering chill of the boardroom where I had just condemned a man to the "thief’s basement."

I stepped out of the steam and wiped the condensation from the mirror. The man looking back at me was a stranger. My eyes were harder, the blue iris rimmed with a cold, metallic gray. The scar on my temple was a jagged reminder that I was no longer the Golden Prince. I was a weapon in a tailored suit.

"The water is going to run cold if you stay in there any longer."

Dante was leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. He was dressed in a simple black t-shirt and slacks, looking more like a predator at rest than the head of a crime syndicate. His eyes traveled over my bare chest, lingering on the bruises that were finally beginning to yellow.

"I was thinking," I said, reaching for a towel.

"Dangerous habit," Dante replied, stepping into the room. The space was small, and his presence immediately made the air feel heavy. He took the towel from my hand and began to dry my hair, his movements slow and deliberate. It was a domestic gesture, one that felt jarringly out of place in a house built on blood.

"The Russians," I said, ignoring the way my heart skipped a beat at his touch. "They’ve gone quiet. Too quiet. My father always said that when Mikhail Volkov stops shouting, it’s because he’s already sharpened the knife."

Dante’s hands stilled. He dropped the towel around my neck and pulled me closer, his thumbs tracing the line of my collarbone. "You’re right. Volkov lost his primary distributor when we took the East End docks. He’s losing millions a day. He’s not going to sit in Brighton Beach and wait for us to starve him out."

"He’s opened the Czar’s Palace," I noted. "That underground casino on the edge of the neutral zone. It’s a front for a meeting, Dante. He’s trying to consolidate the smaller families the ones who are terrified of what we’ve become together."

Dante turned me around, his expression darkening. "I know. I’ve had eyes on the Palace for three days. But Mikhail won't let any Moretti through those doors. He knows my face. He knows Marco’s face. He’s looking for any excuse to start a war he thinks he can win."

"He doesn't know my face," I said, my voice steady. "Not in person. To him, I’m just a name on a marriage certificate. He thinks I’m the pampered Vane boy who was sold into a cage. He’ll expect a victim, not a Moretti auditor."

Dante’s grip on my shoulders tightened until it was almost painful. "No. Absolutely not. You were almost killed forty-eight hours ago, Julian. I’m not sending you into a den of Russians without a tactical team."

"A tactical team is exactly what will get me caught," I argued, stepping into his space, my chest brushing his. "Volkov is paranoid. If he sees a Moretti guard, he’ll bolt. But if he sees a disgraced Vane heir looking for a way out? He’ll open the door wide. He’ll think I’m there to betray you. He’ll want the secrets I have."

Dante looked at me for a long time, the conflict playing out in the hard lines of his face. He hated it. He hated the idea of me being out of his reach, out of his protection. But he also knew I was right. In the long game of 200,000 words, you don't win by playing it safe. You win by taking the biggest risks.

"If you do this," Dante whispered, his voice a low, dangerous warning, "you go in with a wire. And the moment I hear a whisper of trouble, I’m leveling that building with everyone inside it. Do you understand me?"

"I understand," I said.

The Czar’s Palace was a fever dream of gold leaf, red velvet, and the thick, cloying smell of expensive cigars and cheap desperation. It was buried three stories beneath an old textile factory, a hidden cathedral of vice where the city's elite came to ruin themselves.

I stepped out of the elevator, my heart a steady, rhythmic drum. I was dressed in a vintage cream suit—a throwback to my "Prince" days. I looked soft. I looked expensive. I looked like a man who was drowning and looking for a hand to pull him out.

I moved to the high-stakes baccarat table, the weight of the wire against my chest a constant, cold comfort. Dante was in a van two blocks away, listening to every breath I took.

"Twenty thousand on the banker," I said, tossing a handful of high-value chips onto the felt.

The dealer, a man with a scarred neck and eyes like flat stones, didn't blink. He dealt the cards. I lost.

"Another twenty," I said, my voice carrying just enough of a tremor to sound desperate.

Within thirty minutes, I had "lost" nearly a hundred thousand dollars of Dante’s money. It was the bait. I needed to look like a man who was stealing from his husband and failing.

"You have a very expensive habit, Mr. Vane. Or should I say, Mr. Moretti?"

The voice was like shattered glass. I turned to see Mikhail Volkov. He was shorter than Dante, but wider, with a beard that looked like it was made of wire and eyes that held the coldness of a Siberian winter. He was flanked by two giants who looked like they enjoyed breaking bones for sport.

"It’s just Vane," I said, my voice sharp. "The other name is a temporary arrangement."

Mikhail’s lips curled into a yellowed smile. He gestured to a private booth in the corner, shielded by heavy velvet curtains. "A temporary arrangement that seems to be costing you quite a bit. My dealers tell me you’ve dropped a small fortune in an hour. Is the Butcher not giving you a large enough allowance?"

"The Butcher is a pig," I spat, the words tasting like ash. "He thinks he can buy my name and my soul. He’s currently busy purging his own ranks because he’s too paranoid to see that the real threat is right in front of him."

Mikhail leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Is that so? And what threat would that be?"

"Me," I said, leaning over the table. "I have the codes to the Moretti offshore accounts. The ones Silvio was trying to skim from. Dante thinks I’m auditing them for him. In reality, I’m just waiting for the right partner to help me move the funds before I disappear."

The air in the booth became suffocating. I knew Dante was hearing this. I knew he was probably crushing the headset in his hand, his blood boiling at the words I was using, even if he knew they were a lie.

"You’re a brave boy, Julian," Mikhail whispered. "Or a very stupid one. Why come to me? Why not the Irish? Or the Cartel?"

"Because the Russians are the only ones with enough fire to keep Dante busy while I get out of the country," I replied. "You want the docks back. I want my freedom. It’s a fair trade."

Mikhail reached into his jacket and pulled out a silver case. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around us like a shroud. "I like you, Julian. You have your father’s eyes. He was a snake, too. But tell me... why should I believe you aren't wearing a wire right now?"

My stomach did a slow, agonizing roll. I didn't blink. "Because if I were wearing a wire, Dante would already be here. He doesn't have the patience for a long game. He would have crashed those doors the moment I sat down with you."

Mikhail leaned forward, his hand suddenly darting out to grab my throat. His fingers were like iron bands, cutting off my air. The giants behind him stepped forward, their hands moving to their waistbands.

"We check everyone, Little Prince," Mikhail hissed. "Strip."

"Mikhail, don't be tedious," I gasped, trying to maintain the persona. "We’re businessmen."

"Strip," he repeated, his grip tightening. "Or I’ll have my men cut the suit off you. And I don't think you’ll like the way they use the knife."

In the van, Dante was likely losing his mind. I had to think fast. If I stripped, the wire would be found. If I refused, I was dead.

"Fine," I said, my voice a raspy whisper. "But not here. Not in front of the help. I have some dignity left, even if I am married to a Moretti."

Mikhail laughed and released my throat. He gestured to a private door at the back of the booth. "The dressing room. Just you and me, Julian. If you’re clean, we talk. If you’re not... I’ve always wanted to see what color a Moretti husband bleeds."

We walked into the small, windowless room. The door clicked shut, locking automatically.

Mikhail turned to face me, his hand on his hip. "The jacket first."

I took off the cream blazer, my mind racing. I needed a distraction. I needed to disable the wire without it looking like I was doing it on purpose.

I leaned against a small vanity table, the mirror reflecting the terror I was trying to hide. I reached for the buttons of my shirt, my fingers "trembling."

"I... I can't do this, Mikhail," I said, sinking to my knees. "I’m terrified of him. If he finds out "

"He won't find out," Mikhail said, stepping closer, his ego clearly fed by my apparent breakdown. "You're with the Bratva now. We "

I didn't let him finish. I grabbed the heavy glass carafe of water from the vanity and smashed it against the edge of the table. In the same motion, I lunged forward, not for Mikhail, but for the light switch.

The room plunged into total darkness.

"Dante! Now!" I screamed, ripping the wire from my chest and throwing it into the corner of the room just as Mikhail lunged for me.

The sound of the explosion was deafening. It wasn't a bomb; it was a flash-bang, detonated right outside the dressing room door. The lock shattered as the door was kicked off its hinges.

The silhouette in the doorway was a nightmare in tactical gear.

Dante didn't use a gun. He moved like a shadow, his combat knife glinting in the strobe-light effect of the emergency sirens. He was on Mikhail before the Russian could even draw his weapon.

It wasn't a fight. It was an execution.

Dante slammed Mikhail against the wall, the knife pressed against the man's throat. I stood up, breathing hard, the shards of the carafe still clutched in my hand.

The Moretti men swarmed the room, disarming the giants and clearing the Palace with a brutal, terrifying efficiency.

Dante didn't look at them. He looked at me. His eyes were glowing with a dark, terrifying heat. He let Mikhail drop to the floor, the Russian gasping for air as Marco zip-tied his hands.

Dante walked over to me, his boots crunching on the broken glass. He grabbed my face with both hands, his grip almost bruising.

"You're an idiot," he growled, his forehead resting against mine. "I heard him tell you to strip. I almost took the building down thirty seconds early."

"But I got the location of the meeting," I whispered, showing him the small digital recorder I had hidden in my cufflink not the wire they were looking for. "The Russians, the Irish, and the Cartel. They’re meeting at the old cathedral on Saturday. The 'disgraced Vane heir' just bought us the entire city, Dante."

Dante looked at the recorder, then back at me. The anger was still there, but beneath it was a fierce, possessive pride. He leaned in and kissed me not a slow burn this time, but a hard, punishing claim that tasted of adrenaline and victory.

"You’re going to be the death of me, Julian," he whispered against my lips.

"No," I said, leaning into him. "I’m the one who’s going to make you immortal."