Vaughn stood at the windows of his penthouse, the city stretching out before him — restless, endless, his for the taking. New York didn’t hand out its loyalty easily. It had to be earned, seized, or broken into submission. Vaughn had long since learned the difference.

Tonight, it would all move one step closer to being his.

He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, movements precise, deliberate. In public, he wore the mask of a gentleman — refined, untouchable. In private, he was something else entirely: methodical, ruthless, a man who carved obstacles out of his way without hesitation. Vaughn Morozov wasn’t built for mercy. He was built to endure.

And tonight, tradition demanded his attention.

The Bratva’s oldest law left no room for negotiation: before a man could ascend to pakhan, he had to marry. A formality, a legacy — but one his father had enforced without compromise. Vaughn understood what was required. Duty before preference. Power before sentiment.

He cast a glance at his assistant, his tone even, cool. “When is the candidate arriving?”

Before the man could answer, Vaughn’s phone vibrated softly. He checked the message, the corner of his mouth lifting in a humorless smirk. The preparations were complete. His partner would arrive shortly.

“Efficient,” he murmured, sliding the phone into his pocket. “Time to meet my spouse,” he added under his breath.

"Let’s hope they are worth the trouble.”