Chapter 27
DMITRI
Brakes squeal from a delivery truck as traffic inches along between lights.
Multiple languages whirl around me. There’s laughter from a guy talking too loudly on his phone.
A tourist stops in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture, busy New Yorkers moving around him, but not without dirty looks and annoyed mutters.
A jackhammer and a siren clash in the distance. A horn honks, and the skeletal branches of the trees rattle in the stiff breeze. Lights flash from a fancy hot dog cart, people huddled in coats, scarves, and hats, as they wait in line, their breath coming out in puffs of white smoke.
The night air is thin and electric. My thoughts are static, scattering like the neon shards reflected in the puddles at my feet that will turn to treacherous ice by morning.
The proof feels cold and heavy in my chest. As Pavel waits by the open door of the SUV, Clara is beside me, her gaze sharp and unreadable, her arms folded, jaw set. I know that look; she’s been thinking, calculating. About what, though, I don’t know.
I help her into the SUV. Pavel closes the door and remains on guard outside, leaving Clara and me alone.
“You saw it,” I say. “Mark’s the mole. It’s done.”
Clara nods, but she doesn’t look at me. Her fingers tighten around the edge of her coat. “It’s not done,” she says.
I hesitate, searching for a response that might loosen the tension between us, but find none. This is where we diverge, and we both know it. “Is that so?”
I know what she is going to suggest, and I know I won’t like it. But I ask anyway, because I need to hear it.
“We use him to trace his pipeline, to figure out how deeply this goes.” There’s a tremor in her voice, but she’s obviously thought about her argument.
“So you’re the expert now in bratva matters?”
She turns a sharp glare on me. “No. You are the pakhan, and I can guess what that means for Mark.”
I don’t answer, but Clara doesn’t need me to. Her eyes narrow, her chin lifting slightly, as she readies herself to take me on.
“I agreed to stay with you, Dmitri. I want to stay with you, for the baby’s sake, and mine. But even though I want this figured out as much as you do, I refuse to have blood on my hands. That I can choose, and I will choose every time. I won’t betray myself and this child for love.”
I watch her for a long moment. I am pakhan of the Smirnov Bratva, and I deal with traitors the way I see fit, in order to let others know such behavior won’t be tolerated. But I also love Clara, and I’m surprised to find that the love outweighs the other.
Then again, I’m not. My feelings for Clara run deep.
“I can’t let this slide, Clara.”
“So don’t. Fire him for corporate espionage.”
“This isn’t exactly corporate espionage.”
“Do you think he even knows what he’s doing? Whom he’s connecting with?”
“He’s working with the cops. He knows that much, which means he knows enough of what he’s doing.”
“Then fire him publicly and scare the hell out of him privately. That will ensure he can’t get another job in this field, and it will also scare him away from us. He’s not a hardened criminal—that should be enough.”
“You don’t know him.”
“Neither do you.”
“I know enough to do what I must. I didn’t get here by allowing things to slide, Clara.”
“I’m not asking you to let anything slide. I’m asking you to spare someone’s life. I’m asking you to spare me the guilt of feeling responsible for his death.”
It’s the last sentence that catches me up. Clara has found my weak point, as, of course, she would. It’s her. She isn’t on my legal team as my brilliant young lawyer for nothing.
We sit there, tension humming between us.
Clara, ever perceptive, reads the guilt on my face, the way I’m wrestling with the edges of my conscience.
For a moment, words hover unsaid, suspended between principle and pragmatism.
Finally, I let out a slow breath, the weight of leadership heavy on my shoulders.
"I don’t know anything about bratva life. But maybe, just maybe, this time you can solve a problem with fear versus death." Clara’s words come out quiet, yet hopeful.
I don’t want to give in, but I also know it’s inevitable. Clara knows she’s won when I let out an obnoxious sigh of defeat.
“This time, Clara, I will try your way. But only this time, and only for you. I can’t make any promises where this is concerned going forward.”
Clara’s lips curve into a smile, her eyes softer now. She understands my burden and admires the control I’m willing to exercise.
I feel an odd warmth in the way we’re beginning to navigate this moral chessboard as a team, two minds coming together with mutual respect.
The air between us becomes charged with possibility, as if we’re discovering the true foundation beneath the spark—a partnership born not only of attraction but also of trust and conviction.