Dimitri Volkov did not raise his voice. That was what made him dangerous, what had always made him dangerous, even when they were children playing in the gardens of their father's estate. Alexei had known this since he was old enough to understand that his older brother was not like the other boys. Their father had been a screamer, a thrower, a man who broke things when he was angry. Chairs, bottles, bones. But Dimitri was different. Dimitri smiled. Dimitri waited. Dimitri made you feel safe right before he destroyed you.
Alexei stood in the center of Dimitri's office, a penthouse overlooking the city from the fiftieth floor of a building his father had bought thirty years ago. The rain had stopped, but the clouds hung low, blocking the moon and the stars, and the room was dark except for a single lamp on the desk. The lamp cast long shadows across the floor, and Alexei could see his own reflection in the windows, pale and hollow, like a ghost who did not know he was dead.
Dimitri sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled, his cold eyes fixed on Alexei. A glass of vodka sat untouched at his elbow, and there was a file open in front of him, photographs spread across the desk like a hand of cards. Alexei recognized the faces in the photographs. Kira. Her father. Yakov. Himself.
"Brother," Dimitri said, his voice smooth and soft, like silk over steel. "Sit down. You are making me nervous, standing there like you are ready to run."
Alexei did not sit. He had learned long ago that sitting across from Dimitri was a sign of weakness, a signal that you were willing to listen, willing to negotiate, willing to bend. He would not bend. He had spent fifteen years bending to his father's will, to the Bratva's will, to the expectations of men who saw him as nothing more than a weapon. He was done bending.
Dimitri's smile did not waver. "Still defiant. I admire that, Alexei. I have always admired that about you. Father admired it too, right up until the end. He used to say that you had fire in your blood, that you were the only one of his sons who was not afraid to look him in the eye."
"Father is dead," Alexei said. "You do not need to pretend anymore."
"Pretend?" Dimitri laughed, a soft, cold sound that did not reach his eyes. "I am not pretending anything, little brother. I am simply trying to understand. Why would you betray your family for a woman you barely know? A cop, no less. The daughter of the man who killed our mother."
"Our mother," Alexei repeated, and he heard the edge in his own voice, the anger he had been trying to suppress. "You never loved her. You celebrated when she died. You told me she got what she deserved."
Dimitri's smile faded, just for a moment, just long enough for Alexei to see the truth beneath. "She was not my mother. She was yours. I owed her nothing."
"You owe me nothing either. That is why you are trying to kill me."
"I am not trying to kill you, Alexei. If I wanted you dead, you would be dead. I am trying to save you from yourself." Dimitri stood up and walked around the desk, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He was shorter than Alexei, but broader, his body thick with muscle and the kind of strength that came from years of violence. "You have lost your way. You have forgotten who you are, what you are, what we are building here. The Bratva is not just a criminal organization. It is a family, our family, and you are throwing it away for a woman who will never love you."
"You do not know what she feels."
"Neither do you." Dimitri stopped inches from Alexei's face, close enough that Alexei could smell the vodka on his breath, the cigarettes on his clothes. "She is using you, Alexei. She is a cop, and you are a criminal. The moment you are no longer useful to her, she will turn you in. She will hand you over to her father, and he will lock you away for the rest of your life."
Alexei did not flinch. He had heard this argument before, had made it to himself a hundred times in the dark of night. But he did not believe it anymore. He had seen the way Kira looked at him, the way her eyes softened when she thought he was not watching. She was not using him. She was trusting him, and that was more than anyone had ever given him.
"You are wrong," he said quietly. "She is not like that."
Dimitri's eyes went cold. "Then you are a fool."
"Maybe. But I would rather be a fool than a monster."
The back of Dimitri's hand caught Alexei across the face, fast and hard, the crack echoing through the room like a gunshot. Alexei did not move, did not react, did not raise his hand to his cheek where the blood was already welling from a cut. He had been hit before, worse than this, by men who were stronger and crueler than Dimitri. He knew how to take a hit.
"Get out," Dimitri said, his voice low and dangerous. "Get out of my sight before I forget that you are my brother."
Alexei turned toward the door. He had said what he came to say, done what he came to do. There was nothing left here for him.
"This is not over," Dimitri called after him. "Tonight, the commissioner dies. And if you try to stop it, she dies too. I will make sure of it. I will find her, and I will hurt her, and I will make you watch."
Alexei stopped with his hand on the doorframe. He did not turn around.
"Touch her," he said quietly, "and I will burn everything you love to the ground. Your empire, your money, your life. I will leave you with nothing but ashes and regret."
He walked out without looking back.