Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Artyom
The silence in the elevator feels too loud.
By the time I reach the top floor, my jaw aches from staying locked.
I should’ve walked away sooner. Should’ve known better than to let Boris drag me into a pissing contest in the middle of a hotel lobby full of cameras and witnesses.
But the truth is, the second he looked at her like that—like she was dirt under his shoes—I stopped thinking.
That’s the part that bothers me most. I never lose control.
The hallway stretches long and gold-lit, expensive without warmth.
I push the door open to Mikhail’s suite and the quiet hits like a wall.
The air smells faintly of whiskey and hotel polish, sterile and heavy.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the city through the glass.
It looks beautiful from this high up, untouchable.
Except right now, all I can see is her face. Kira, looking up at me after it was over, her voice low but shaking with anger. You just made it worse.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I did. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t regret a damn thing. Because for one second, when I told him to watch his mouth, I saw her eyes change; just a flicker, but it was there, and in that moment, I knew she had never been defended like that before.
But I shouldn’t care about that. I shouldn’t care about her, period.
Mikhail sticks his head through the door, already dressed in a dark suit, hair slicked back, a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“Meeting’s in ten,” he says, voice rough from the smoke. “They want us downstairs.”
“Who’s there?”
“Everyone,” he says. “Camorra, the Irish, Boris. Half the room probably wants to see if you and Petrov will wait to kill each other till after dessert.”
I grab my jacket and slide it on, buttoning it one-handed. “No promises.”
We take the elevator down together, the morning already bright through the glass, sunlight cutting across the marble like a blade. Mikhail walks a step ahead, the picture of calm, but I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye.
He’s quiet for a minute, then says, “You’re different with her.”
“With who?”
He smirks. “Don’t start. You know who. I’ve never seen you that hot-headed before. Not even with Father.”
“In everyone’s eyes, she’s my fiancée,” I say flatly. “He disrespected her.”
He shakes his head, half-laughing. “It’s more than that, brother. You never blow up over respect. You blow up when something really matters.”
I don’t answer. The doors slide open to another hallway, and we walk in silence.
I tell myself he’s wrong and that this is business.
Because it is. She’s just collateral until all of this is over.
But the thought doesn’t feel like it should, it twists somewhere deeper, stubborn and uncomfortable, refusing to settle.
Mikhail pushes the next door open, still grinning to himself. “Let’s hope you don’t start any more fires today.”
The meeting room smells like cigars, scotch, and old grudges. The air’s thick enough to taste. A long table cuts through the center of the room, covered in black linen and half-empty glasses. Around it sit men who can smile over people they’ve murdered, as long as the numbers add up.
Luciano De Luca, head of the Camorra, leans back in his chair with his easy arrogance, used to being obeyed.
To his right sits his underboss, Marco Santoro—older, quieter, the one who watches everything and speaks only when it matters.
Beside him, Enzo Ricci flips through a file, gold watch catching the light every time he moves.
Across from them, their consigliere, Vittorio Moretti, keeps a hand wrapped around his glass, thumb tapping against the rim in a rhythm that makes the air feel heavier.
On the other side of the table, Patrick O’Callaghan from the Irish syndicate swirls his whiskey like he’s bored but still cataloging every word.
Next to him sits his brother, Declan, thick-necked and restless, cracking his knuckles under the table.
The third, Finn Donnelly, younger than the rest, looks too clean-cut to belong here—shirt pressed, tie straight, eyes sharp and calculating behind the calm.
And then there’s Boris, already seated across from me, legs wide, shoulders heavy, his expression unreadable except for the smugness hiding behind it.
Mikhail drops into the seat beside me. I take the one at the head of the table, across from De Luca. The conversation stops the second I sit down. Chairs creak. Someone clears their throat.
Luciano leans back, smiling. “Ah, Morozov. You finally made it. We were starting to think you’d left us waiting on purpose.” His tone’s light, but his eyes aren’t.
I meet his gaze. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He laughs once, short and dry, and taps his cigar against the ashtray. “Good. Then let’s get to it.”
He takes a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling. “The Morozovs and the Petrovs—two families, two joined empires. And now, one broken engagement.” He gestures with the cigar, the smoke curling around his words. “People are wondering what that means for the rest of us.”
The air shifts, small but noticeable. Moretti whispers something to Santoro, and Marco doesn’t answer, just keeps watching me like he’s waiting for a reaction.
“It means nothing,” I say finally. “There was no official proposal, nothing was ever finalized. There was no contract, no alliance, no papers signed.”
Luciano’s gaze stays steady, but I can see the flicker of amusement behind it. He enjoys this—the tension, the testing. He’s been playing this game longer than most of us have been alive.
Across from him, Boris lets out a low laugh. “A man’s word used to mean something.”
The sound makes a few heads turn. Mikhail exhales slowly beside me, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show. I keep my eyes on Boris.
“Depends on the man, and I never gave my word” I say.
Boris tilts his head, that smug half-smile tugging at his mouth again. “And what kind are you, Artyom?”
I don’t blink. “The kind who knows when to walk away from a bad deal.”
The room goes still again, a sort of quiet that feels like it’s waiting to break.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Careful how you talk to me, boy. You might’ve inherited power, but you can lose it just as fast as your old man gave it to you.”
“You’ve exploited people,” I say evenly. “In my eyes, that’s a mistake. And I see you’re making another one right now.”
A murmur passes through the room. Mikhail leans back, watching the exchange like it’s a show. His eyes flick between us, sharp with amusement.
Luciano clears his throat. “Gentlemen. Please. We’re here to talk business, not trade insults.
” He looks at me. “There’s concern. Chicago’s pushing east again.
The Irish are asking for a bigger cut. Your father’s health isn’t what it used to be.
And with Petrov’s daughter—” He gestures again, not finishing the sentence.
“With Petrov’s daughter,” Boris interrupts, “the alliance could’ve held all that together. But now it’s gone, because Artyom here prefers to make emotional decisions.”
I feel my hand tighten around the edge of the table. “There was nothing emotional about it.”
Luciano gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe it. “Then why the performance downstairs?”
I don’t answer right away. The room is too watchful. I can feel Boris’s satisfaction bleeding into the air. He knows he’s got an audience, and he’s going to use it.
I glance at Mikhail. He’s smirking, tapping his cigarette against an ashtray.
Boris leans forward. “Tell me, Artyom—was humiliating my daughter worth it? You think that little nurse can replace what you’ve thrown away?”
The laugh that almost escapes me tastes bitter. “You seem awfully concerned, Boris. Worried your daughter won’t find anyone else to marry her?”
He stiffens. “Watch yourself.”
“I am.”
The tension stretches. No one speaks. Even the Camorra soldiers stop pretending to check their phones.
Finally, O’Callaghan sets his glass down.
“If I might offer a thought,” he says in his thick accent.
“We all like our theatrics, but business comes first. If the Morozovs and Petrovs start feuding, it impacts every one of us. The ports, the docks, the product. So maybe you two keep your pissing contest out of our ledgers, yeah?”
Luciano nods. “Agreed.”
I lean back in my chair, forcing my tone calm. “No feud. I’m not interested in destroying profits over pride.” I glance at Boris. “But I won’t tolerate disrespect in public, either.”
He laughs quietly. “You still think you can control how people talk about you? You’re not your father, Artyom. You don’t scare people.”
The words land like a punch to my chest. I shouldn’t care, but I do, because I know he’s testing me in front of men who’ll take silence as weakness. I feel the burn crawl up my spine again, the same one from earlier.
Mikhail sees it. He leans closer, his voice low enough only I hear. “He wants you to lose it again. Don’t give him that.”
He’s right. I unclench my hand from the table and reach for my glass instead. The whiskey is warm, grounding.
When I speak again, my voice is steady. “I’m not my father. That’s the whole point.”
Luciano smiles faintly, meaning he approves but won’t admit it. “Good. The old man’s way of doing things was… loud.”
Boris scoffs. “Loud gets results.”
“Loud gets you caught,” Mikhail says, flicking ash into his drink. “Quiet gets you paid.”
That earns a laugh from Patrick and a nod from Luciano. Boris doesn’t laugh, just sits there, jaw tightening, eyes on me.
The rest of the meeting bleeds into logistics of territory distribution, shipments, new laundering fronts.
I answer when I have to, but my focus drifts.
Every now and then, a flash of Kira’s face cuts through—her voice in the elevator, her breath in the lobby, that look when she told me I made it worse.
She’s in another wing of the hotel now, probably with my sisters, but she’s still in my head. Under my skin.
The worst part is, she’s not wrong. I made it worse. And the men at this table can smell it on me. They sense distraction like sharks sense blood.
Luciano raises his glass toward me near the end of the meeting. “To peace,” he says. “And to keeping the streets quiet.”
We all drink to that.
When it’s done, chairs scrape the floor, men stand, and the air loosens just enough to breathe again.
Mikhail leans back against the wall, watching as Boris lights another cigar.
The Camorra lieutenants start filing out first, followed by the Irish.
Boris stays seated, waiting. Of course he wants the last word.
Luciano turns to me. “Stay a moment, Artyom. There’s something we should discuss privately.”
It’s not a request.
Boris catches that. His jaw works, like he wants to object but can’t. I can see the humiliation simmering behind his eyes, he’s just been dismissed before he could play his final move.
“Go ahead,” I say to him, standing. “We’ll finish this later.”
His mouth twists. “Count on it.” He pushes back his chair and leaves, his men following in silence.
The door closes behind him.
Luciano waits a moment, then speaks. “You shouldn’t have lost your temper today. Not with him.”
“I know.”
He nods, lighting another cigar. “But it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve done either. The man’s been too much for too long. People were starting to forget who actually runs New York.”
“I didn’t do it to remind them.”
He smiles. “Doesn’t matter why you did it. They remember now.”
Luciano stands, smoothing his jacket. Before leaving, he steps closer and gives my shoulder a firm pat—friendly enough to look respectful, heavy enough to remind me who still holds the room. “Get some rest, Morozov. You’ll need it.”
I nod once, watching him disappear through the side door with his men. The silence he leaves behind feels heavier than the meeting itself.
It’s almost noon. Mikhail and I step out into the hallway, the hotel buzzing with guards and the low hum of music from the bar below.
He nudges me with his shoulder. “So. How’s it feel?”
“How’s what feel?”
“Losing your temper in front of half the underworld and somehow making them like you more.”
I huff out a laugh. “Don’t start.”
My brother grins, unbothered. “You should thank me for not jumping in. I was tempted.”
“I noticed.”
“You’re welcome.”
We walk in silence for a while. My head’s still buzzing.
I can feel the weight of everything pressing in—Boris’s smirk, Luciano’s approval, Kira’s eyes.
The image of her trembling hands in the elevator keeps coming back, and I hate it.
I hate that she’s in my head when she shouldn’t be anywhere near it.
Mikhail glances over. “You thinking about her?”
I don’t answer.
He laughs quietly. “That’s a yes.”
I stop walking. “You should go find a drink.”
He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But you might want to figure out what that’s about before it ruins you.”
When he’s gone, I stand there for a while, alone in the hallway, the sound of distant traffic floating through the open windows. My reflection stares back from a nearby mirror, calm and collected, but I know it’s a lie.
I’ve spent my whole life keeping control, and in one day, I’ve let a woman I barely know shake it twice. That’s not who I am.