Chapter 19
DANTE
The recoil of the Glock kicks against my palm, and the target downrange explodes with a satisfying cluster of holes right where the heart would be. Five shots, tight grouping, exactly the way my father taught me when I was barely tall enough to hold the weapon steady.
"Again," I tell Hannah, who stands beside me with her own weapon, her stance improving but still not quite right.
The private range in the estate's basement is one of my few indulgences. It’s a place where I can think clearly.
Muscle memory takes over and gives my mind space to work through problems. These past few days, with the graze on my shoulder still healing from the ambush, I've had plenty to think about.
I woke up this morning and had a sudden realization. I had to show Hannah how to protect herself in case I couldn’t be there. The incident the other day was a reality check. No matter what I do, she’s vulnerable. If there is another breach, she might have to fight.
And selfishly, I’m thinking about Mila. I need her to be able to protect my daughter. She’s proven that she will. I need to make sure she has the tools and the training to do it.
Yes, I know my men think I’ve lost my shit. I’m training my captive how to kill. Kill me if she chooses. But they don’t know her like I do. I have to believe she is loyal to me. We’ve got some shit to work out with her father, but the fact I haven’t killed him yet should win me some points.
Hannah adjusts her grip, her brow furrowed in concentration. She squeezes the trigger, and the shot goes wide, hitting the target's shoulder instead of center mass.
"You're anticipating the recoil," I say, moving behind her to adjust her stance. "Relax your shoulders. Let the gun do its work."
"Easy for you to say," she mutters, but she follows my instructions.
This time, the shot is closer. Not perfect, but better.
"Why are you teaching me to shoot?" she asks, lowering the weapon and engaging the safety like I showed her.
"Because you need to know how to protect yourself."
"From who? You? My dad? Your enemies?"
"From anyone," I say instead.
She studies my face. I can see her weighing my words, trying to decide if this is about her safety or my control. Maybe it's both. Maybe I can't separate the two anymore.
"Your shoulder," she says, changing the subject. "How is it?"
"Fine." The graze is healing cleanly, just a pink line now where the bullet kissed skin. "I've had worse."
"That's not reassuring.
I almost smile. "It wasn't meant to be."
We practice for another thirty minutes, until Hannah's groupings are consistently hitting the target even if they're not perfect. She's a quick study, absorbing information and adjusting her technique with the same analytical mind she uses to tear apart financial documents.
That mind has been invaluable these past few days. She's found more inconsistencies in Bogdan's evidence. There are more timeline discrepancies that suggest Richard Quinn is exactly what he claims to be—an innocent man being framed.
But proving his innocence doesn't solve the larger problem. Someone stole five million dollars from us, and that someone is still out there, pulling strings and manipulating evidence.
And as much as I really, really want to believe her father is innocent, I have to be careful. Betrayal is a part of our lives. It happens all the time.
"You're thinking too hard," Hannah says. "I can see smoke coming out of your ears."
"Business concerns."
"My father?"
I hesitate, but she deserves honesty. "Among other things."
"Is he safe?"
"For now."
The answer doesn't satisfy her—I can see it in the way her jaw tightens—but she doesn't push. We're learning each other's boundaries, finding the edges of what can be discussed and what needs to remain in shadow.
As we're putting away the weapons, my phone buzzes with a text from Radimir: We need to talk. Now.
The message sends a chill down my spine. Radimir doesn't demand immediate meetings unless something has gone wrong or something is about to go wrong.
"I have to go," I tell Hannah.
"Everything okay?"
"That remains to be seen. Remember, stay close.”
I have the urge to kiss her but stop myself. She’s not my girlfriend. I don’t kiss her when I leave the room.
I find Radimir in my office, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back like a general surveying a battlefield. He doesn't turn when I enter, just continues staring out at the estate grounds.
"Uncle," I say, closing the door behind me. "What's wrong?"
"You're getting soft."
The accusation hangs in the air like a challenge. I move to pour myself a drink, taking my time, using the ritual to control my temper.
"Explain."
"Richard Quinn." Radimir finally turns to face me. "His deadline came and went. He hasn't repaid a single dollar of what he stole. And yet he and his daughter are both still breathing."
I take a sip of vodka, letting the burn ground me. "Quinn has offered to sell his house, liquidate his assets. He's making arrangements."
"Arrangements." Radimir's voice drips with contempt. "He's buying time, and you're letting him because you're fucking his daughter."
The crude assessment makes my blood boil, but I keep my expression neutral. "Hannah has nothing to do with my decisions regarding her father."
"Doesn't she?" He moves closer, his pale eyes—so like mine—studying my face with predatory interest. "The elders are restless, Dante. They see a pakhan who won't enforce his own rules. They see weakness."
"They see strategy."
"They see a man distracted by a woman who should already be dead."
The casual way he mentions Hannah's death makes me want to put my fist through his face. Instead, I set down my glass before I throw it at him.
"Hannah Quinn is under my protection."
"Why? She's nothing. A real estate agent who stumbled into our world. Her father is a thief who stole from us. Both of them should have been dealt with according to our laws."
"Our laws also say the pakhan's word is final," I remind him.
"The pakhan serves at the pleasure of the council of elders," Radimir counters. "And that council is questioning whether you're fit to continue serving."
There it is. The real reason for this conversation. Radimir isn't concerned about Richard Quinn or enforcing organizational rules. He's concerned about positioning himself to take my place when the elders decide I've become a liability.
"Let them question," I say quietly. "I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" Radimir moves to the bar, pouring his own drink. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're repeating the same mistake that got Katya killed. You're letting personal feelings compromise your judgment."
The mention of Katya is a low blow, and he knows it. "This is nothing like that situation."
"Isn't it? A woman you care about has been put in danger because of your position. You’ve shown weakness. Your enemies will use her to get to you." He takes a long drink.
Every day Hannah stays here, she's in danger. Every day I delay making a decision about her father, I'm giving my enemies more time to exploit my weakness.
But I can't let her go. Can't send her back to a world where I can't protect her, where my enemies might reach her anyway and I wouldn't know until it was too late.
"I will do whatever I have to," I say slowly, "to take care of my family."
"Your family?" Radimir's eyebrow rises. "The girl has been here a few weeks and now she's family?"
"She's under my protection. That makes her family."
"The elders won't see it that way."
"Then the elders can come tell me that themselves."
We stare at each other, uncle and nephew, locked in a power struggle that's been brewing since my father's death. Radimir wanted the pakhan position then, thought his age and experience entitled him to lead. He's never forgiven me for taking what he believes is his birthright.
"Actually, that's why I'm here. The elders have called a meeting. In New York. Tomorrow."
My stomach drops. "What kind of meeting?"
"The kind where they discuss leadership transitions." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "They want to hear your explanation for why Richard Quinn and his daughter are still alive when our laws clearly dictate otherwise."
This is worse than I thought. If the elders are calling me to New York to justify my decisions, they're already considering whether to remove me from power. It’s not like I get fired and given a severance package.
I’ll be killed. Men that are loyal to me will be killed.
"I'll go," I say. "But I'm bringing Alexei."
"The elders specified you come alone."
"I don't take orders from the elders. I am the pakhan."
"For now," Radimir says quietly.
The threat is clear. Cooperate, or face the consequences. And those consequences likely include not just the loss of my position, but quite possibly my life.
"We leave tomorrow morning," Radimir continues. "Early. I've already made arrangements."
After he leaves, I stand at the window he occupied earlier.
I'm ready to lose everything to keep them safe. My position, my power, even my life if it comes to that. But I'm not naive enough to think the elders will let me walk away quietly. If they remove me as pakhan, they'll likely remove me permanently.
Which means Hannah and Mila will be left unprotected, vulnerable to whoever takes my place.
Unless I can convince the elders that my way is the right way. That patience and strategy serve our interests better than immediate, brutal enforcement of rules that might be based on false evidence.
It's a thin argument, and I know it. But it's all I have.
I call Alexei, explaining the situation in careful terms.
"Be careful in New York," he warns. "If the elders are turning against you, Radimir might try to eliminate you while you're away from your power base."
"I know."
"Want me to come with you anyway?"
The offer is tempting, but I need him here more than I need him watching my back in New York. "Stay with them. If something happens to me, get them out. Both of them. Don't let Radimir or Bogdan or anyone else touch them."
"Dante—"
"Promise me."
A long pause. "I promise."
That night, I stand outside Hannah's door again gathering courage for a goodbye I can't actually give her.
If I tell her where I'm going, why I'm going, she'll worry. Worse, she'll realize just how precarious her situation really is.
Better she thinks this is just routine business. Better she doesn't know that I might not come back.
I press my palm against the door, wishing I could go inside, hold her one more time, tell her everything I've been too afraid to say.
But I can’t.
Not yet.