Chapter 2
Roman
"So what you're saying is, you want me to back off?"
I leaned back in the head chair of the conference room, my fingers idly spinning the old ring on my pinky. The silver band's edge had worn smooth, catching the dull glow of the overhead lights.
Three men in suits sat across from me. John McNally, Deputy Director of the FBI's Chicago field office. David Reynolds, senior prosecutor from the state attorney's office. And Thomas Weber, a "consultant" from city hall—really just the mayor's mouthpiece.
McNally cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Mr. Sokolov, we're just hoping to reach a more balanced arrangement. The Bratva's expansion in Chicago has been too aggressive. The docks, the casinos, and those 'import-export operations'—"
"Legitimate import-export operations." I cut him off, my voice as calm as if we were discussing the weather. "My company pays over eight million in federal taxes annually. Every account is transparent. Every transaction traceable."
"But we both know that's not the whole story." Reynolds took over, his eyes gleaming with misplaced cleverness. "Those 'construction materials' at the South Port docks. The 'antique furniture' shipped from Ukraine last month. Mr. Sokolov, do you really think we're all idiots?"
I looked at him. My face gave nothing away.
Silence spread through the room like an invisible noose, tightening inch by inch. Sweat began beading on Reynolds' forehead. Weber shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Only McNally kept his composure. He was an old fox—twenty-five years with the Bureau, seen more action than all these men combined.
"We're not targeting you, Roman." McNally switched to a more casual address, trying to ease the tension.
"In fact, we admire your business acumen.
But the issue is, when your father ran things, the Bratva wasn't this visible.
Since you took over..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You've been more aggressive."
"When my father ran things, the Bratva paid three million in taxes annually." I interrupted him.
"That's exactly the problem." McNally sighed. "You've gotten too big. Big enough to make certain people nervous. You know who I mean. The people who think they should be running Chicago."
I knew what he meant. The city council politicians who took Bratva money but wanted to climb higher by stepping on us. The other families eyeing our territory—the Italians, the Irish, the Mexicans.
"So you're here today to ask me to give up territory? Or scale back revenue?" My voice stayed level, but the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
"We're hoping you'll show some restraint," Weber said carefully. "For instance, those recent 'accidents' in the South Side—could they perhaps—"
"No." I corrected him. "Those were responses to provocation. If I stay silent, my Bratva falls into chaos. That's how it works."
"But those rules are tearing this city apart." Reynolds' voice rose. "There were seven murders last month tied to you people!"
"Eleven." I corrected him, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like your people need better training."
Reynolds' face flushed crimson, like he might explode. McNally rubbed his temples, looking exhausted.
"Listen, Roman." McNally took a deep breath. "We're not here to threaten you. In fact, we're here to help you."
"Help me?"
"Your problem isn't lack of power—it's bad optics," McNally said. "To the public, you're just a gangster. Cold-blooded, ruthless, lawless. That makes it very difficult for people who want to protect you to speak up."
I raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"So you need to change your image." Weber jumped in. "Let the public see you're not just a businessman, but a... responsible community member. Charity work, PR, media exposure—"
"Marriage," McNally said suddenly.
My fingers stopped spinning the ring.
"What?"
"Marriage," McNally repeated. "Find a respectable woman, have a big wedding, let the media photograph it, show the public you're not just a cold-blooded gangster—you're someone who loves, who cares about family. A regular person."
I stared at him. Several seconds of silence.
Then I laughed.
"You're serious?"
"Completely serious," McNally said. "It's the fastest, most effective method. Look at the mob families who successfully went legitimate—the Kennedys, the Bushes—they all had perfect family images."
I leaned back in my chair, fingers resuming their idle spinning of the ring.
Marriage.
What an absurd suggestion.
"I'll think about it." I finally said, my voice betraying nothing.
"We hope you'll think quickly." McNally stood, the other two following suit. "Because if you don't change voluntarily, the people who want you dead will help you 'change.'"
After they left and the conference room door closed, I was alone.
I stared at the oil painting on the opposite wall—a nineteenth-century Russian nobleman hunting bear in the snow. My grandfather had left it behind. Worth two hundred thousand, supposedly.
But I didn't care about the price.
I kept it in front of me for one reason only—to savor the feeling of control over life through that painting.
The conference room door pushed open. Danny walked in, holding a glass of whiskey. He handed it to me.
"Sounds like that was fun." He sat across from me, crossing his legs. "They actually told you to get married."
"You were listening?"
"I was standing right outside the door." He shrugged. "Besides, you wouldn't care anyway."
I took the whiskey and drank. The liquid slid down my throat with a familiar burn.
"They're not wrong," Danny said suddenly.
I looked at him.
"I mean, about the image thing." He said. "Your real problem isn't lack of power—it's that too many people hate you. If you could find a way to shut those politicians up, get the Feds off our backs, it'd actually be worth it."
"So you think I should get married too?"
"Worth considering." Danny shrugged. "Find some trophy wife, sign a contract, put on a show. It's not like you'd actually be building a life together."
I said nothing, just kept spinning the ring.
"But seriously—" Danny suddenly laughed. "You getting married? I can't even picture it."
He was right. My gaze fell on the pinky ring on my left hand, the cold touch crawling up through my nerve endings.
I leaned back in my chair, loosening my tie.
Danny was still talking, which was starting to irritate me. I was about to tell him to shut up when someone knocked on the conference room door.
Victor, one of my right-hand men, responsible for handling the "less clean" business. He looked nervous, sweat on his forehead.
"Pakhan, there's something that needs your decision." He said.
"Talk."
"It's about that debt," Victor said. "The South Side casino deadbeat who owes us two hundred fifty thousand—Leon Cross—he ran."
I raised an eyebrow. "Found him yet?"
"Not yet. But we found his family." Victor paused. "His parents showed up today. Said they want to negotiate."
"Negotiate?" I laughed coldly. "What leverage do they have?"
"They—" Victor hesitated. "They said they could pay the debt with their daughter."
The air in the room froze instantly.
Danny's eyes widened, staring at Victor in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"I'm not." Victor gave a bitter smile. "Richard Cross said it himself. Said his daughter is young and beautiful, well-educated, could marry you as payment."
Disgust rose in my stomach.
"That old bastard's lost his mind," Danny swore. "What century is this? People still selling their daughters?"
"He called it an 'alliance.'" Victor made air quotes. "Said the Cross family may have fallen on hard times, but they still have some reputation. An alliance would be good for your image."
Image.
That word again.
"Tell him to fuck off," I said coldly. "The Bratva doesn't traffic humans. Tell him to find another way to pay, or we'll find Leon Cross ourselves."
Though he probably wouldn't be in one piece when we did.
"Yes, pakhan." Victor nodded.
"Wait," Danny said suddenly. "Did you bring the file?"
Victor stopped, looking at Danny. "What?"
"The woman's file," Danny said, giving me a conspiratorial wink. "Since they went this far, I want to see what kind of merchandise they're trying to pawn off on our boss."
I frowned but said nothing.
Victor hesitated, then pulled a folder from his briefcase. "I brought the preliminary background check."
"Let me see." Danny reached for the folder, flipping it open with his legs still crossed. "Let's take a look at this 'Cross family heiress'—"
His voice stopped abruptly.
I looked up to see Danny staring at the folder, his eyebrow slightly raised.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," Danny said, but a mischievous smile played at his lips. "Just... she's actually a rare beauty."
He turned the folder around so I could see the photo.
"Look at those eyes, blue, like—"
His voice became background noise the instant my gaze landed on the photo.
The woman in the photo had long dark hair, no makeup. Those deep blue eyes stared straight at the camera with bone-deep defiance and wariness.
"—like Lake Michigan when it freezes, don't you think?" Danny was still talking. "She looks pretty rough, but the face—hey, Roman?"
Something exploded in my brain, some long-dormant madness instantly tearing through my rational mind.
It was her.
Two years ago. The woman in the blackout elevator who'd clutched my collar like a dying animal.
The memory I'd deliberately buried for two years came flooding back like a broken dam. Her body trembling with terror in the darkness. Her desperate, vicious bites. And when I'd thrust through that tight barrier, the maddening wet heat that had clenched around me...
I'd thought I'd forgotten that woman whose name I didn't even know. But the instant I saw those eyes, every sensory memory of that night came crashing back.
"Roman?" Danny noticed my abnormal silence, frowning as he called my name tentatively. "What's wrong? If you think this family is too disgusting, I'll send people right now to—"
"Shut up."
I slowly reached out, my fingertips pressing hard against the photo, rubbing across the woman's defiant eyes through the paper.
Nadia Cross.
Richard Cross had personally delivered her right to me. What was this? Some fucked-up gift from fate?
I didn't care if this was a political marriage meant as a shield. Didn't care if she was collateral for some debt. I only knew that from the second I recognized her, my blood was boiling in my veins.
That sex in the stalled elevator had haunted me. And now, she'd voluntarily appeared on my debt ledger.
"Go tell Cross," I slowly raised my head, blood boiling in my veins though my face showed nothing, "I'm accepting this three-million-dollar debt. Every last cent."
Danny's eyes went wide as saucers, like he'd seen a ghost. "You're insane? You just said you'd never marry some—"
"Danny, this is a surprise." I cut him off, my gaze falling on that photo, the scene from that day flooding my mind again, uncontrolled.
When she'd clung to me, a long-lost, almost devotional satisfaction had burned fiercely in my chest.
Yes. This.
This pitiful little kitten, abandoned by the whole world, thrown away like garbage by her own goddamn parents. And me... I'd be the one who never lets go.
Come to me, kitten.
Let me protect you, just like I did in that stalled elevator two years ago.