I look out at the beehive of activity taking place below my feet. I’m on the upper catwalk of one of our warehouses along the river. On the ground floor, dozens of my men zip back and forth like ants, hauling pallets of weapons out of storage and into the bellies of the waiting trucks, to be dispersed to our other secret properties around the city. Every time one of the soldiers catches my eye, they nod respectfully. They know who wears the crown.
Milana sighs melodramatically and leans against the railing. “So you’re staking all your hopes on the child in June’s belly.”
“That child is Adrian’s,” I remind her. “Bratva blood. Uvarov blood.”
“And what if the child is a girl?” she presses. “You think the men down there will accept a queen for a don? Come on, Kolya. You know better.”
“We w
