Chapter 60
Roxy
The main room at Red Poppy feels smaller with twelve men crowded around the center table. Cigar smoke hangs in the air, mixing with expensive cologne and the faint metallic scent of tension.
My engagement ring spins around my finger. Once, twice, three times. The weight of it grounds me, reminds me I have a right to be here. Today's vote is supposed to be a formality, but my pulse hammers anyway, a frantic rhythm against my throat.
Vasili's hand settles on my elbow from behind, warm and steady. A silent reminder that I'm not alone in this room full of predators.
"Breathe," he murmurs, voice so low only I can hear.
I force air into my lungs and lock eyes with Damien at the head of the table.
He's dressed down today, deliberately casual in a black T-shirt stretched across his chest, leather jacket hanging open, dark jeans that hug his thighs.
That silver hoop in his ear catches the light when he shifts.
He doesn't ask for authority in this room, doesn't demand it.
It just fucking bleeds from him, radiates outward until everyone feels the weight of it.
"Gentlemen, time to vote." His voice cuts through the murmur of conversation. "All in favor of confirming my position as head of the Polish Council, hands up."
The hands don't shoot up in unison like I expected. They rise slowly, deliberately, each man making a choice visible to everyone else in the room.
I count them as they appear. Ten. My chest tightens.
Two men keep their arms down. Both pushing fifty, suits pressed and expensive, gray hair slicked back with too much product. The shorter one's built like a bulldog, thick neck and barrel chest. The other one is as big as a tank. He looks like he could bench-press a car without breaking a sweat.
Tank Guy speaks first, his voice carrying across the table. "Word is Marzena's still breathing."
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. I'd asked Damien about her days ago. He'd promised she'd stay locked up until he decided otherwise, then warned me not to ask for details. Something about needing tissue to regenerate before he could continue. So, like a good wife, I hadn't pushed.
"She is," Damien confirms, no apology in his tone. "The threat was against me and my family. My justice, my methods, my timeline."
Bulldog leans forward, elbows on the table. "What about the file? The one with dirt on all of us? Marzena spent decades collecting leverage. Where is it now?"
A slow smile spreads across Damien's face. "Glad you brought that up."
Behind me, I hear footsteps. Casimir strides past me toward the Council table, and the USB drive hits the wood with a sharp crack that makes half the men flinch.
Six foot five of solid muscle, and that's a conservative estimate. Roman, Damien, Maksim, Vasili, even Marco tower over most men, but Cas makes them all look average. He's built like violence personified, and the way he stands behind Damien now, arms crossed, makes it clear whose side he's on.
"Safe with me," Cas says, his voice rumbling from his chest.
"Gentlemen," Damien continues, leaning back in his chair like he doesn't have a care in the world, "meet the newest Council member."
Low murmurs ripple through the room like a wave.
Someone curses under their breath. Another man's hand clenches into a fist on the table.
No one wants to speak up directly, though.
Not with thirty years of secrets, affairs, murders, and financial crimes trapped in that tiny device currently under Cas's protection.
One of Damien's supporters, an older man with kind eyes, clears his throat. "Council's always had twelve seats. That's tradition."
"Here's how this works." Damien's voice drops, going casual in that way that makes my spine straighten. Because I know that tone. It's the one that comes right before violence. "We vote him in willingly, or I pull my gun out and someone gets a funeral. My wife throws a hell of a wake, by the way."
A fist slams down on the table hard enough to make glasses jump.
"You can't threaten Council members, Kaminski." It's Tank Guy, face red with indignation. "There are rules. Procedures. You don't just—"
Damien's grin spreads wide across his face, all teeth and no warmth.
"Actually, I can. Let me explain something to you, Darov.
Your accounts are fat because of deals I brokered.
Your secrets are buried because of networks I maintain.
You're expanding into new territory—my fucking doing, my connections, my strategy.
I'm respecting the vote because I choose to, because Sarin built something worth preserving.
Don't mistake that courtesy for weakness. "
The silence that follows is absolute. You could hear a pin drop. Council members exchange glances, having entire conversations with raised eyebrows and slight head movements.
An older man with white hair finally breaks it, the same one who mentioned tradition. "Sarin trusted you. He was my brother in everything but blood, and I watched him train you for this role. He'd want you leading, and if your order as head is a thirteenth seat, you've got my support."
His hand rises slowly. One by one, the others follow. Even Bulldog and Tank Guy, after a long moment, raise their hands.
The message is clear: they don't have a choice, but they're smart enough to know it.
My heart kicks against my ribs, relief and pride mixing into something that makes me want to laugh.
When I find Damien's eyes across the room, they're lit with that dangerous gleam I know too well.
Triumph mixed with barely restrained violence.
His dimples crater deeply with his smile, the one that's just for me.
I wink. Blow him a kiss.
He catches it, presses his fist to his chest. The gesture is so out of place in this room full of hardened criminals that several men look away uncomfortably.
"Welcome to the Polish mafia, Cas." Damien stands and pulls our nephew into a rough embrace, slapping his back hard enough to echo.
Cas returns it, and for just a moment, I see the family resemblance. The same dangerous edge, the same lethal grace.
Tonight we have reasons to celebrate.