Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94640 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Voices sound behind us. His aunt and uncle. “I can’t believe after all he’s been through, they’re playing chess,” he mutters, loud enough for us to hear him. I roll my eyes.
Semyon goes completely still. He holds my gaze. Finally, he moves his queen forward, blocking my king.
A silent declaration. No one is taking you.
I blink, a hot tear rolling down my cheek, and reach for his hand. I give his a squeeze.
“There’s too much at risk,” I whisper. “You can’t play recklessly.”
Semyon shifts in his chair, his eyes locked on mine. “And you can’t play to lose.”
I finally move the knight, a bold move, one that puts me in danger but sets up an opening. My heart hammers.
“If I fall, the rest of the board crumbles,” I whisper.
He doesn’t blink but moves his rook, cutting off my knight’s escape.
“Then I won’t let you fall.”
I believe him. Oh god, I believe him.
He leans forward with a chilling smile. “That’s why we win. No more defense.” He moves his queen again, a final shift.
A setup. A trap.
"One more move.” He’s watching me. “And they’re in checkmate."
My chest tightens, something hot and unbearable flooding through me. He understands. He’s already planning. Already calculating.
Already preparing for war.
Chapter 31
SEMYON
The scent of cinnamon and freshly baked bread gives the bakery an almost nostalgic, homey feel, hiding the tension under the surface.
It’s quiet in here, emptied for this meeting. I lean against the display case, my arm crossed and my expression neutral. Anya stands behind the counter, wiping her fingers for the hundredth time on a dishtowel.
I casually clear my throat to get her attention.
The Irish have no idea what they’re walking into. I know why she’s nervous, but she doesn’t have to be. I’ve got this. I’ve got her.
The Irish only think they have control. They don’t realize I already have them in checkmate.
“They’re in the neighborhood,” Anya murmurs, her voice low.
I nod. “It’s time.”
She pulls out her phone and sends a message. I’ve got a discreet screen mirroring app on mine, so no one knows I’m watching.
Anya to Ophelia
The big guns are coming in for a huge treaty. It’s today. Be ready.
A full hour passes before the door swings open, and Cillian O’Rourke strides in with six of his men. He’s cocky, bold, like he already knows how this will play out.
I feign surprise. “O’Rourke. Nice to see you.”
He cocks his head and gives me a grin, baring a gold tooth. Cocky prick. “Speak o’ the devil. You were always shite at lyin’, Kopolov.”
I shrug. He’s not wrong. I never saw the purpose.
I move in front of Anya to protect her. She’s wearing a bulletproof vest, but it makes me feel better knowing how easily I could strike and slit his throat.
Cillian smirks at me and places an order. To Anya’s credit, her hands are steady while she fills his teacup, and I place a cinnamon roll on a plate. “On the house,” I tell him with a nod. O’Rourke hesitates.
“Are you turning down my wife’s sweets, O’Rourke?” I shake my head. “I remember. Your mother used to bake those Irish apple tarts, didn’t she? Shame if you never got to taste them again.”
He takes the plate with a scowl as the bell over the entryway jingles, and they walk in. Not foreign arms dealers or the force of power-hungry Bratva factions from across the world.
My family.
Dressed sharp. Silent. In disguise. They take their seats, the atmosphere shifting. I walk to the entryway, slide the lock into place, and, just for dramatic effect, turn the Open sign around to say Closed.
The Irish realize they’re surrounded a second too late.
Cillian twitches, reaching for his weapon. Fucking amateur.
I move first.
My gun is pointed at him before he takes another breath. The shot cracks through the air, hitting his knee. Bullseye. He drops to the floor, screaming.
The fight is fast. Efficient. I promised Anya it would be, that we wouldn’t mar the pretty new floor in the bakery or spill blood on the new tile.
Rafail sheds his coat, rolling his shoulders like he’s warming up for a workout, then grabs a chair and smashes it across an Irish bastard’s face. The sound of splintering wood barely registers before Matvei moves, muscle and steel, as he takes two down swiftly before they have a chance to react.
Yana and Zoya turn what could’ve been an ambush into immediate submission. A wrist is snapped, a jaw shattered, and Zoya’s blade pressed into the vulnerable flesh beneath an eye. The Irish kneel before us, disarmed and bleeding. Cillian O’Rourke’s cocky smirk has vanished.
No more blood. No one dies. We planned it this way: a show of power that leads to negotiation, not flat-out war.
When it’s over, the Irish are on their knees. Cillian stares at Anya. “You set us up, you little—”