Chapter Text
Jeremy
Morning slid into the Volkov mansion with too much brightness for the night Jeremy had left behind. The place woke early — footsteps on marble, the clatter of pans in the kitchen, the low rumble of voices drifting through the halls.
Jeremy’s room was one of many suites in the house, though he used it more than his private apartment across the city. Everyone had another house or apartment in the city— for safety, for privacy, for when the mansion felt too full. The family rotated between them depending on what was happening. It was necessary. No one in their world could be predictable, not even at home.
Still, the mansion had its rhythm. Guards shifted out front, discreet but constant. Sunlight cut through tall windows, throwing light across floors that had seen enough secrets to fill a book. For all its sharp edges, it wasn’t a fortress to them. It was lived-in, softened by familiarity, by the weight of too many years stacked together.
Jeremy never lingered in bed, but then again, neither did Niko — though for different reasons. Jeremy kept his mornings disciplined, ordered, a way to hold the chaos at bay. Niko, on the other hand, didn’t really “do” beds. He slept wherever he dropped: on the sofa, the floor, once even half across an armchair. Jeremy had long stopped questioning it. Niko claimed a bed felt wrong unless Brandon was there too — something he said so plainly Jeremy almost admired him for it.
When Jeremy passed his door, it was wide open, a blanket thrown haphazardly over the couch instead of the king-sized bed. Typical.
Further down, Killian’s music thumped faintly through his door, something pounding and electronic for this early in the morning. Gareth’s door was shut, as usual.
Jeremy descended the grand staircase, sharp gaze sweeping automatically over the foyer. He’d woken in plenty of strange places in his life, but mornings here always felt the same: controlled, orchestrated, as if the house itself insisted on order.
Jeremy found Nikolai already in the kitchen, perched barefoot on the counter with a coffee mug balanced precariously in one hand and absolutely no shirt in sight. The sunlight hit him like a spotlight, all muscle and grin, as if he’d been waiting specifically to make an entrance.
“Morning, Jer,” Niko said, voice bright, almost too bright for the hour. He raised his mug in salute. “Want some? It tastes like motor oil. I love it.”
Jeremy poured his own coffee from the pot, ignoring him. “You could sit in a chair, you know. They were invented for a reason.”
Niko spread his arms, as if to demonstrate his current throne. “Why would I? Counters are better. You can see everything. Strategic vantage point.” He gestured grandly at the refrigerator as if it were an army. “Besides, Brandon says I look good up here. Like a sculpture.”
Jeremy didn’t answer, just stirred sugar into his coffee with mechanical precision.
Jeremy took a measured sip of his coffee. “I’ll add it to your list of revolutionary acts. Right under refusing to wear clothes.”
Niko’s eyes lit up. “Mark my words, one day humanity will look back at me and say—‘that was the man who liberated nipples.’”
Jeremy gave him a look over the rim of his mug, dry as sandpaper. “I think history will survive without that particular contribution.”
For a beat, Nikolai laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound ricocheting off the high ceilings. But as quickly as it came, it ebbed — his grin shifting, just slightly. His gaze flicked to Jeremy, sharper now, more awake. The way it always did when his energy threatened to tip sideways.
For a moment, it was almost ordinary.
Then Nikolai spoke, quieter. “You hear about the boys down at the docks?”
Jeremy didn’t look up. “Yes.”
“Sloppy work,” Nikolai said. The grin was gone now, replaced with a sharper calm that sat uneasily on him, like too-still water.
Nikolai paced the length of the kitchen barefoot, restless energy dripping off him like static. His grin was a little too sharp, his words too quick. Jeremy recognised the shift immediately, the manic hum beneath the skin.
“I’ll take care of it myself,” Nikolai said, cracking his knuckles as though the decision was already final. “Whoever let that shipment slip is going to learn how deep water really gets.”
Jeremy folded his arms, leaning against the counter, gaze steady. “No.”
Nikolai blinked, thrown off by the flat refusal. “No?”
“You’re winding up,” Jeremy said calmly. “I can hear it in your voice. You go out there now, it won’t be clean. It’ll be a message we don’t want to send.”
Nikolai laughed, a manic little spark, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “And since when do you tell me where I can bleed?”
Jeremy didn’t flinch. “Since Brandon’s not here to pull you back.”
That landed. For a moment, the grin faltered. Nikolai’s gaze flicked away.
Jeremy went on, voice even but firm. “You’ve been steadier with him around. But he’s not here, Killian’s tied up with exams, and I’m not about to let you spiral over a dockhand who can barely spell his own name.”
Nikolai dragged a hand through his long hair, pacing faster, the energy sparking higher. Jeremy pushed his mug across the counter toward him.
“Sit down,” he said.
Nikolai’s jaw flexed, but he dropped into the chair with a huff, taking the coffee like it was a peace treaty. “You make it sound like I’m one step away from snapping.”
Jeremy finally sat opposite him, calm as stone. “Because you are. And if you do, I’ll be cleaning it up. Again.”
The silence stretched. Then Nikolai let out a low breath, the fight bleeding from his shoulders. He dropped into a chair, half sulking, half restless, and took the coffee Jeremy slid toward him.
“You always ruin my fun,” he muttered, but softer this time.
Jeremy didn’t rise to it. He never did. He was always the one in charge of Nikolai when he was spiralling. Always the one to take his energy and expel it in different ways. Since Brandon, Jeremy has had to do that a lot less. He’s relieved that Nikolai has someone like that. Sometimes he almost envies what they have. Almost.
Nikolai went tearing out of the driveway, shirtless as always, hollering something about going to “smash some uglies.” Jeremy didn’t ask what that meant. As long as it didn’t bleed into business, Niko could play however he wanted.
Jeremy, meanwhile, had no such luxury.
He had a meeting today. Not just with anyone, but with the Brigadir in charge of the money laundering operation. His father was the Obshchak—keeper of the purse, the one who oversaw the Bratva’s finances and kept every Brigadir in check. If Jeremy ever hoped to inherit even a fraction of that power, he needed to prove himself in every corner of the organisation. Arms, drugs, protection, racketeering—each Brigadir ran their own empire.
Money laundering was where Jeremy would start. Whether it was the easiest or the trickiest, he wasn’t sure yet. But it was a beginning.
The meeting was being held in one of the family’s casinos, polished and discreet, far from prying eyes. Jeremy needed his composure razor-sharp. Every move mattered.
And then there was Landon.
He’d invited him obviously. Maybe a mistake. Maybe not. Jeremy still wasn’t sure what he expected—support, curiosity, or simply the comfort of having Landon’s sharp eyes nearby. What he did know was that he’d regret it if Landon decided to turn the room into a circus.
Which, naturally, he did.
The casino smelled like polished wood and cigarettes, the faint tang of expensive liquor clinging to the air. Jeremy moved through it like a shadow, sharp in a tailored suit, every movement controlled. His eyes scanned the room—Brigadir’s men, the layout, the exits, the subtly armed staff. Every detail mattered.
And then he saw Landon, lounging against a velvet column like the place belonged to him. Of course.
Landon’s smirk found him immediately, like he’d known Jeremy’s exact path through the room. The glass in his hand caught the chandelier light just so, and Jeremy almost lost it. Almost.
“Good morning,” Landon said, voice slow, deliberately casual. “Or is it still technically night in your head?”
This was going to be a long hour.
The Brigadir’s table was set off in a private room, guarded by two hulking men who barely blinked at Landon’s presence. Jeremy had to keep his tone calm, his smile neutral.
“Stay here,” he muttered, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. “Eyes forward, mouth closed.”
“Eyes forward, mouth closed… sounds exhausting,” Landon replied, tilting his head. “Might need a nap first.”
Jeremy fought the urge to drag him by the collar into the room. Instead, he steered him with a careful hand on the small of Landon’s back, forcing him to move along but failing spectacularly at keeping Landon from sidestepping into every conversation like a rogue comet.
At the table, the Brigadir’s gaze cut sharp. “Volkov,” he said, voice velvet over steel. “This is your associate?”
Jeremy’s lips pressed into a straight line. Landon, naturally, gave a slow, mocking bow, the kind that said both I’m harmless and I’m chaos incarnate.
Jeremy ground his teeth. Landon’s smirk didn’t falter.
The Brigadir’s table gleamed under low-hanging lamps, papers neatly stacked, ledgers opened. Jeremy’s mind was focused, every detail of the laundering proposal ready. He didn’t flinch at numbers, didn’t hesitate at questions, didn’t allow anyone—least of all Landon—to throw him off.
And then Landon leaned against the doorframe, chin resting on one hand, eyes scanning like a bored predator. He wore a dark gray hoodie and dark baggy jeans, sleeves rolled halfway up, smile crooked. Jeremy had never seen him dress that casual before. This was absolutely deliberate. He definitely bought those clothes today just to piss Jeremy off.
Landon leaned back, letting his gaze wander over the charts and spreadsheets. “Shells within shells within shells,” he said, feigning admiration. “Brilliant. And if one cracks, do you have insurance for the rest, or do we all just enjoy the fireworks?”
Jeremy’s jaw tightened. Why can’t he just sit still?
As Jeremy began outlining the plan, Landon interjected. “Forgive me, but if this goes sideways, who’s taking the fall first? Just curious.”
A lieutenant tensed. Jeremy didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He felt heat in his chest, low and pure and dangerous. I’m going to strangle him, he thought, and the image was so clean it made him dizzy. That’s it. He’s a dead man walking.
Landon continued, casual, almost playful. “Also, have we considered how many eyes might actually see the transfer? Or are these shells really just invisible cloaks?”
Jeremy’s control thinned. He kept speaking, answered the Brigadir’s question with the practiced calm of a man who built careers on steady hands, but his mind snapped like a taut wire every time Landon’s voice scraped across a line.
“Landon, this isn’t a game. You’re here to observe, not critique,” he said, low and clipped.
“Observe is boring,” Landon said lightly. “Critique keeps me awake. And trust me, awake is good.”
He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “Honestly, who approved the accounting here? The numbers look… friendly, like they’re trying to get you caught.”
Jeremy’s hands dug into his palms under the table. If he thinks he’s walking out here Scot free, he’s got another thing coming. The thought appeared and then vanished like a stone dropped into deep water.
The Brigadir shifted uneasily at that. Landon noticed, tipped his head as if evaluating a curious specimen. “Relax. I’m not the dangerous one here. Not yet, anyway.”
Jeremy felt the warning flare bright and hot behind his eyes. He kept his face still, said nothing more, watched the paper in front of him as if it might offer solace. He had rehearsed the pitch until muscle memory could do the talking. Numbers, angles, contingencies—he laid them out cleanly, crisply, the arithmetic of plausible deniability.
But Landon’s presence kept pulling at his attention like a hand at a sleeve. Each barbed question, each careless curl of the pen, was a small, deliberate wound. Jeremy’s mouth went dry. He answered the Brigadir’s follow-up as if he’d never been interrupted—precise, measured—but the hum under his skin remained, a new kind of static.
When the meeting finally ended the Brigadir nodded, satisfied. Men rose, murmured the polite goodbyes. Landon stretched as if the room had been built for him—rubbing his fingers through his hair with a slow motion, smiling at Jeremy like he’d just performed a private miracle.
Jeremy forced his jaw to unclench. He would escort Landon out. He would not let him walk away scot-free. He would not let this man make a mockery of anything important without consequences.
On the walk back through the casino’s hushed corridors Jeremy kept his voice even. The thought beneath the surface was neither poetic nor elegant. It was practical. He’s going to learn to be careful around me. Or he’s going to learn how fast I can make him careful.
They were finishing the goodbyes when Landon drifted toward the door—slow, insolent, smile tilted as if he owned whatever room he left behind. He caught Jeremy’s eye and lifted a hand in a mock salute. Small gesture. Enormous intention.
Jeremy moved before he’d had time to think. Two quick steps, a long reach. His fingers closed on Landon’s arm; the grip was firm. Landon’s smirk flickered—amused, curious, as if he’d been expecting this.
“Hold up—” Landon began, theatrically unaffected.
Jeremy shoved him. Not a steer, not a guide: a hard push that planted Landon against the heavy oak of a private-room door. The wood answered with a dull groan. Enough.
The corridor narrowed. The casino’s hum dropped to background noise. All the practiced calm he’d worn through the meeting snapped together into a single, clean thing: anger, controlled and purposeful.
“Do you have a death wish?” Jeremy said, voice low and flat. “I told you to behave.” The words sat like a stone in his throat—sharp, immediate.
Landon’s laugh landed too light in the enclosed space. “You’re dramatic,” he said, one eyebrow lifting as if Jeremy’s hands weren’t on him and the Brigadir’s men weren’t a wall away. “Relax. It’s only numbers.”
“It’s not only numbers,” Jeremy said, slow and deliberate. He didn’t shout; he didn’t need to. He wanted to dismantle the smugness that clung to Landon like a scent. “Stop playing games. Not here. Not while there’s a ledger, not while men are pointing guns, not while we ask people to trust us with millions.”
Landon rolled his shoulders, unbothered. “Trust is theatre too, isn’t it? Everyone performs. I prefer watching the puppets trip over their strings.”
Jeremy didn’t let it slide. He closed the gap until they were chest to chest, the clean scent of scotch between them. “Cut it out. No more games in my meetings. Sit. Listen. Keep your mouth shut unless I say otherwise.”
Landon tipped his head, insolent. “You make me sound like a lapdog.” He smiled, predatory. “Cute— but trust me, I don’t fetch.”
Jeremy’s face went harder. No softness. “This isn’t about what entertains me. This is control. When I say control, Landon—what I mean is you don’t have any. Not here. Not with me.”
For a beat, Landon’s smirk thinned, then doubled down. He stayed slippery, indulgent. “You really think you can tame me? That’s rich. Men have tried—don’t usually end up standing.”
Jeremy’s jaw worked. He knew who’d tried, and why they’d failed; he knew the price of underestimating consequence. “That’s because they weren’t me. Try that again and I’ll bury you.”
Jeremy shoved him again, harder. Landon stumbled into the private room and hit the plush chair; the door clicked shut behind them like a book closing on a dangerous page.
They breathed for a second in each other’s space. Landon, rumpled and theatrical, wore defiance like armor. He did not bow.
“You don’t get to make jokes about this,” Jeremy said, quieter now, the warning sharpened into a blade. “Not with ledgers, not with men who’ll shoot because they are frightened.”
Landon’s voice came smooth, amused—safe in provocation. “I was behaving. What you saw—polite. Tell me what performance you want and I’ll oblige. I’ll smile, I’ll clap, I’ll be the good anecdote. But don’t be surprised when the crowd tires.”
Jeremy’s fingers tightened on his side as if holding himself together. “Listen to me,” he said, low and final. “You walk into rooms like that because you like watching people wobble. You think it’s theatre. If you keep playing the fool tonight, you’ll be the one bleeding—not because I’ll do it, but because the men who work for me won’t be as patient.”
For a fraction of a second something like calculation—maybe respect—flew across Landon’s face. Then, slow and almost languid, he rested two fingertips on Jeremy’s wrist. The touch was casual, intimate, meaningless and everything at once.
“You frighten me,” Landon said, voice low, the line half-confession, half-taunt. “You frighten me in a very good way.”
Jeremy swallowed a harder something he would not say out loud. He let go of the jacket and stepped back. “You’ll behave,” he said. The sentence was a verdict, not a request. “Or you’ll answer to me.”
Landon’s grin returned—small and insolent. “Big promises for a man who’s never been sentimental.”
Jeremy left without fanfare. The corridor swallowed his steps; the casino’s hum rose to fill the silence. He folded the encounter away like a file—labelled, dated, and marked: Landon King — monitor closely.
Landon slumped in the chair and watched the door with the insolent air of someone who’d stolen a scene and expected no penalty. For Jeremy the aftertaste wasn’t pleasure. It was an invoice: a ledger entry waiting to be cashed.
He didn’t yet know whether the cost would be laughter, bruises, loyalty—or something worse. But the ledger would be balanced. That, at least, he could guarantee.
The night air outside bit colder than he expected. The black Mercedes idled at the curb, headlights throwing long white arms across the pavement. Killian leaned one arm out the window, cigarette tip glowing orange.
“How was the meeting?” he asked when Jeremy slid into the passenger seat. He didn’t miss the set of Jeremy’s jaw, the tight coil in his shoulders.
Jeremy stared through the windshield for a long beat. “The Brigadir’s fine. The business is fine.” His voice carried no weight of triumph. Only restraint.
Killian smirked, tapping ash out into the night. “And Landon?”
Jeremy’s mouth pulled taut, a slow drag of fury barely leashed. “He’ll learn, or I’ll make sure he does”
Killian barked a laugh, sharp and unbothered. He ground the cigarette out and flicked it. “Good luck taming that wild dog.”