Chapter 8 Benedikt
Benedikt
The knock on my office door comes sharp and controlled—one, then two. Artem’s code.
“Come in,” I call out, already knowing who’s behind it.
The door opens, and Artem steps through first, holding it open for two men who look like they’ve never heard the word humble.
“Volkov,” says the taller one with a deep Italian accent, sweeping off his coat as he crosses the room. “You’re a difficult man to get on a plane for.”
I give a small nod. “I appreciate you coming, Giovanni.”
Giovanni Santoro.
One of the old families from Naples.
His family’s been running the southern ports with his father since before mine got his first gun. Behind him comes Matteo Ricci, his right-hand man. Quieter and sharper, the kind who listens twice before speaking once.
Artem shuts the door and takes his usual spot by the bookshelf, near enough to watch, and far enough to disappear if needed.
I motion to the leather chairs across from my desk. “Please.”
Giovanni lowers himself into the chair like a king taking a throne. Matteo follows, his back straight, and his hands clasped loosely over his knee.
“Long flight,” Giovanni says. “And short notice.”
“I appreciate the impromptu meeting just the same.”
“You should. We don’t come when most men call.”
“I’m not most men.”
Matteo tilts his head, his eyes boring into mine from beneath heavy lashes. “So we’ve heard.”
They’re testing me. I can feel it in the way Giovanni leans back, waiting for me to start first and show my hand.
Instead, I pour three glasses of whiskey, set them on the desk, and slide two forward.
“Let’s make this simple,” I say. “You know why you’re here.”
Matteo finally speaks. “Your brother.”
“Yes.”
“He’s been busy,” Giovanni says, smirking. “Word from Naples is he’s trying to rebuild trade through Taranto. You’d know better than anyone, he doesn’t have your father’s discipline, but he’s got his temper.”
“That temper almost got me killed,” I say flatly. “Three men outside my club last week. All dead.”
Giovanni whistles softly. “I see the Volkov family still handles disputes personally.”
Artem gives a faint smile from behind them. “He’s nothing if not hands-on.”
Giovanni nods. “So, what do you want from us? I thought Russians were able to handle their own business.”
“I want stability,” I say. “If my brother is trying to rebuild from Italy, I need to know who’s giving him resources. Who’s protecting his routes? You’ve both got men watching every port worth knowing about. I want names, locations, and leverage.”
“What makes you think he’s doing anything in Italy?”
I stare at him because my intel tells me.
He’s taken my contacts and is trying to use them with no rapport.
“If your brother is running deals out of Naples,” Giovanni finally says. “It’s not with me.”
“Is that why you have a meeting with him next week?”
His expression hardens at my callout. “You’re spying on me now, Volkov?”
“I am when you’ve so easily accepted the fact that I’m out of the Miami mob. I was your only contact here, and now you’re planning to work with the man who threw me out.”
“It’s business.”
“It’s loyalty,” I rebuke a bit sharply. “I thought you Italians had that. Family and all.”
“You’re not family.”
“No, but I’m the ‘all’. I’ve built a relationship with your father. It was to work with me.”
He lifts his shoulders dismissively. “It was with the head of the Volkov mob.”
I don’t move or blink, letting Giovanni start shifting in his seat.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say evenly. “The head of the Volkov mob is a placeholder. The influence and respect don’t disappear because my brother decided to sit in my chair.”
Giovanni leans back, testing me. “You sure about that? From where I’m standing, your brother’s the one making calls.”
“From where you’re standing,” I correct, “you’re one bad shipment away from losing your Miami port access.”
That gets his attention.
His smirk falters, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
“You think aligning with Nikolai gives you security? He’s unstable. He’ll promise you profit and burn the whole thing down if you look at him wrong.”
Giovanni’s partner, Marco, exchanges an uneasy look with him.
“Don’t mistake my position for weakness,” I continue. “I might not be the one signing the checks right now, but I still have men, and I still have reach. And unlike my brother, I don’t need a throne to remind people who I am.”
The room goes still, and Giovanni clears his throat before glaring at me. “You’re threatening us, Volkov?”
“I’m reminding you of history. You’ve worked with me for years. You know how I handle disloyalty.”
His fingers twitch on the table, but he says nothing.
Good.
I sit back, calm again, almost bored. “Now, about that meeting in Naples,” I say, the edge returning to my tone. “You’re going to cancel it. Or, better yet, reschedule it with me on the call. You’ll tell Nikolai you don’t negotiate with the shadow of a man.”
Giovanni’s jaw works. “And if I don’t?”
I give him a faint smile. “Then you’ll find out how much business you can do without your father’s favorite port manager. Don’t forget, you owe your clean routes to me. And loyalty, Giovanni, doesn’t expire just because I stopped pretending to care about the title.”
Matteo studies me quietly. “And in return?”
“In return, you get what you’ve always wanted from the Volkov family—protection over your product, silence, and guaranteed routes through Miami. You help me end Nikolai’s expansion before it starts, and every shipment through my territory moves untouched.”
Giovanni swirls his drink. “That’s a tempting offer, Volkov. But tell me… why should we believe that your brother won’t win this war? He’s already got sympathy in Italy. Your father’s old men are loyal to blood, not strategy.”
I let a smile curl just enough to be dangerous. “Because my brother’s desperate. And desperate men make mistakes. I make plans.”
“Still your father’s son, I see.”
“I’m nothing like my father,” I say.
Matteo lifts his glass in acknowledgment. “No. You’re colder.”
I bow my head, accepting the compliment, and allow the two of them to figure shit out for themselves.
“We can help,” Giovanni says. “But not for free.”
“I didn’t expect charity. However, I’m not paying you for something that should already be mine.”
“Then you won’t be surprised when I ask for something personal.”
I wait.
“There’s talk,” Giovanni says, “about the girl. Beautiful, I hear. Brave, too. They say she stood up to you. That she made you bleed.” He grins wider. “That’s rare, Volkov. No one’s seen you rattled like that.”
“Rattled? That’s foreplay, Santoro.”
“She’s a distraction,” Matteo adds. “And distractions get men killed.”
“Careful,” Artem mutters. “We didn’t ask for relationship advice.”
“We’re only saying what others won’t,” Giovanni states. “You ask for loyalty and war support, but you’ve got a woman upstairs who allegedly makes you weak. If I’m going to risk my ships and my men, I need to know you’re not going to throw all that away for a girl.”
The air goes still, and Artem even stops moving to see how I’m going to react.
“Don’t mistake possession for weakness,” I say quietly. “What’s mine stays mine. She’s not leverage, and she’s not a liability. She’s an incentive.”
Matteo looks intrigued. “Incentive?”
“An heir.”
Giovanni studies me again, then nods. “Fair enough. You’ve got your backup, Volkov. Our men will watch our ports. Any new buyers your brother recruits, we’ll intercept and report back.”
“Good,” I say. “And keep the money trail clean. I don’t want him sniffing you out before I move.”
He nods. “When’s your move?”
“Soon,” I say, “but not here. I’ll handle Miami quietly. Once Italy is stable, we expand. And when I do…” I meet their eyes, one after the other. “You’ll both get more than silence and protection. You’ll get a partnership.”
That word lands.
“Partnership,” Matteo echoes. “That’s not something you offer lightly.”
“I’m not offering lightly,” I say. “You back me now, and when I take back what’s mine, I won’t forget who stood beside me.”
Giovanni extends a hand across the desk. “Then we stand beside you.”
I clasp his hand, firm and final. “Good.”
He rises, buttoning his coat. “You’ll have updates within the week. And Benedikt?” I look up. “Don’t let her make you soft.”
Artem scoffs. “He’s never soft. Trust me.”
Giovanni nods as he and Matteo leave the room.
Artem moves first, walking up to the desk. “You handled that well.” I nod once. “They’re with us now.”
“They’re with whoever they think will win,” I correct.
Artem shrugs. “Then you better keep winning.”
I lean back in the chair, rubbing the back of my neck. “We start tomorrow. Quietly. I want Nikolai isolated before he knows what hit him.”
“And Sienna?”
I meet his gaze. “She stays close. I’m not giving my brother a single opening.”
Artem’s jaw tightens. “You know that puts her on the map.” He doesn’t say it in accusation—he’s not soft enough for that—but the weight of it hangs between us anyway.
“I know.” It’s all a flat fact; no pleading or begging.
I can feel the room narrowing, and a plan forming in my mind like a blade being sharpened.
“Eyes on every exit from her bakery. Two men I trust a block over, rotating shifts. Cameras where they can’t be seen.
A car ready to move at a minute’s notice. If Nikolai moves, she moves first.”
Artem grunts. “You think you can protect her by dragging her into this?”
“She’s already in it,” I snap. “Whether she admits it or not. My job is to make sure she doesn’t pay for it.”
He watches me for a second, then nods. “Fine. I’ll have Mirko and Paolo set the teams. Quiet.
No fireworks, no headlines. You want surgical, you get surgical.
” He taps the desk as if drawing a final line.
“And we need to bait Nikolai. Make him show his hand. He’s sloppy when he thinks you’re out of the game. ”
I trace a pattern on the wood with my thumb. “Invite a rumor. Leak a shipment. Make him think he’s getting a win.”
Artem’s lips twist. “Risky.”
“Necessary.” I stand, pacing the small space between my desk and the windowless wall.
It feels smaller tonight. Closer. Maybe it’s the ache in my shoulder, or the way every thought curves back to her.
“I want names, Artem. Buyers, couriers, accounts. If he’s rebuilding in Naples, he’s using someone’s bank. ”
“On it.” He straightens, moving to the shelf to scribble notes into a small leather pad he always carries. “You sure you want to head this? You’re not the head right now.”
I stop as the words catch like a burr. The title is gone, yes. The chair is empty. But the hunger that sits under my skin—what I’d built, what he stole—that’s not tied to a name on a payroll.
“I’m the one who built this,” I say quietly. “A title doesn’t take what I earned.”
Artem’s eyes soften. “Then don’t get sentimental. Be brutal and be smart.”
I let out a breath that tastes like iron. “I will be.”
He moves toward the door. “You want me to ride with you tomorrow?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You manage here. Keep the men in line. I don’t need a shadow on my heels for the first strike. I need quiet.”
He nods. “I’ll run point on the perimeter. You call when you want to move.”
When he leaves, I’m alone with the faint scrape of the chair under my weight. I pour a whiskey I don't need tonight because the motion steadies something inside me. The amber liquid trembles in the glass.
I think about what Giovanni said about family and loyalty. About how easy it is for men to swap sides when the wind changes.
I think about the men I trusted who turned when the scent of power shifted.
I think about my father handing chairs down, and about the way he taught me that mercy is a currency to be spent carefully.
I look down at my hands. They’re calloused and scarred, mapping a life written in bruises and debt. I flex my fingers. The small muscle in my jaw ticks. Losing the title doesn't change the hunger. It only sharpens it.
I set the glass down, stand, and walk to the door that leads to the stairs. For a moment, I pause, hearing nothing but the house settling and the distant sounds of the city breathing. I picture her—small, stubborn, and furious—and something like a promise slides into place inside my chest.
She stays close. I won’t let my brother find an opening.
I lock the office and let the dark fold around me.
Tomorrow, we move.
Tonight, I watch.