Chapter 13
IVAN
She sleeps beside me, one hand resting on my chest. Completely unguarded in a way that makes my chest tighten.
The first woman in my bed since before my parents died.
The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. I try to force it away, but it settles anyway, digging in its hooks. Three years since the car bomb. Three years since I watched them load what was left of my father into a body bag while my mother's remains were still being scraped off the pavement.
The bomb was intended for me. My car. My route. They took it that morning because theirs was in the shop. A simple twist of fate killed them and left me alive to inherit an empire I wasn't ready for.
No wonder Dmitri's growing bold. No wonder the other families question my leadership. Here I am, thirty-eight years old, kidnapping innocent waitresses, spitting on marriage traditions, and breaking every rule my father spent his life upholding.
Is this what falling looks like?
I study her face in the dim light filtering through the windows. Peaceful. Beautiful. Unaware of the chaos she's caused by existing.
The game continues, I tell myself. This is still control. Still strategy. Still me deciding what happens next.
But the lie tastes weird.
A sound tugs at my attention. Subtle. Off.
Pyotr should be at his post by the elevator, but the penthouse feels different. Empty in a way it shouldn't be.
My hand finds the Glock under the pillow. Muscle memory. Survival instinct honed by years of sleeping with one eye open.
Lila doesn't wake as I slide out of bed. She curls into the warm space I've left, sighing softly.
I pull on my pants and move.
The penthouse at night is all shadows and city light. I know every corner, every blind spot. Move through it as silently as smoke, gun raised, safety off.
Movement stirs by the kitchen.
Footsteps.
Someone’s near the fridge.
I round the corner, gun aimed at center mass, finger on the trigger.
“Freeze! Hands up!”
Pyotr stills, a bag of Doritos in one massive hand, orange dust on his fingers.
“Fuck!” I lower the gun and switch to Russian. “Almost shot you.”
"Sorry, Boss." His apology seems genuine, though he still grips the chips like stolen treasure. "These Doritos, they call to me. Very loud. Could not ignore."
"You left your post for Doritos?"
"Cool Ranch. Very good flavor."
I want to be angry. Fuck, I should be angry. But the absurdity of almost killing my best soldier over a snack makes the rage fizzle.
"We're at war," I say, holstering the gun. "Can't be too careful."
"Da. This is why I move quiet. Did not want to wake you."
"Back to your post."
He nods but doesn't leave. He hovers, chips in hand, looking at me like he wants to say more.
"What?"
"May I speak freely, Boss?"
He asks in Russian, so the question signals we’re about to have a serious conversation. The kind that can't happen in English, where walls might have ears. Where Lila might wake and overhear.
"Speak."
He places the Doritos down as if handling a newborn. "What is really happening with her?"
"Protection. You know this."
"I know what you tell me. But I have eyes. I see how you look at her. Now she sleeps in your bed." His expression is careful. "When has Viktor Petrov's son ever kept American girl like this?"
The question lands harder than it should. He’s right. My father would be ashamed. Furious. Hell, he’d probably disown me.
"Back to your fucking post."
"The men are talking—"
"I don't care what they are saying."
"You should." Pyotr's tone is quiet but firm. "They wonder why Pakhan reject Russian girls. Morozov offered his daughter. Beautiful girl, good bloodline. Volkov offered his niece before the war. And Ivanov sent his sister's photo. All refused."
"I decide who shares my bed. Not the other families."
"Da, Boss. But they wonder reason. Why you reject good matches for nobody waitress who serve coffee? No bloodline. No Russian."
Nobody, waitress. The words clamp my jaw shut. She’s not a nobody. Not to me.
But I can't say that. Nor can I explain that three months of watching her serve coffee changed me. That her laugh makes me feel human again. That her sketches make me believe there are things in this world worth more than power and revenge.
"Tell them to fuck off," I say instead. "My father is dead. I run Petrovs now. What I do is my business."
"Your father built alliances through marriage. Created peace through family bonds." Pyotr's voice is careful. "You spit on tradition for American girl. They see weakness. No discipline. They see opportunity."
"Let them see what they want. I'm Pakhan. They follow, or they die."
"Is not that simple anymore." He shifts his weight, struggle playing out in his face. Loyalty versus truth. "Boris says you dishonor your father's memory."
Boris. Of course. Old guard. My father's generation. The type who thinks tradition trumps everything, who believes a Pakhan should sacrifice personal wants for organizational strength.
"Never liked that pompous fuck," I mutter. "Acts like he knew my father better than me."
"He was your father's captain for twenty years—"
"And now he's my captain. My organization. My rules." I lean against the counter. "Tell him if he has concerns, he can say them to my face. See how that conversation ends."
Pyotr is quiet for a moment. "You would kill Boris? For questioning you about the girl?"
Would I?
A week ago, the answer would have been no. Boris is old guard, yes, but he's loyal. Capable. Connected.
Still, thinking about him questioning my choices about Lila, imagining him calling her a weakness or a distraction, the answer changes. "If he disrespects her, yes."
"She is just girl—"
"She's under my protection. That makes her off-limits. That makes her mine." The words bite harder than intended. "Anyone who forgets that learns the hard way."
Pyotr studies me with his pale, weathered eyes. "You are falling for her."
It's not a question.
I should deny it or laugh it off. I should maintain the fiction that this is a strategy in a broader game of keeping a useful piece off the board until Dmitri is handled.
Instead, I'm silent.
"Boss." Pyotr's voice softens. Rare for him. "This is dangerous. For you. For her. For all of us."
"You think I don't know that?"
"You know, but don't care." He picks up his chips again, like he needs something to do with his hands. "You are tired of being what your father wanted. Tired of arranged marriages and alliances and living for Bratva instead of yourself."
He’s right. Damn it, he’s completely fucking right.
"I've spent three years doing what my father would want.
Being the Pakhan he raised me to be. Following traditions.
Building alliances. Putting the Bratva first." I look toward the bedroom where Lila sleeps.
"And for what? So I can die alone in a car bomb?
So I can sacrifice everything and get nothing? "
"Boss—"
"I'm thirty-eight years old, Pyotr. My father was sixty-five when he died, and he spent his whole life serving the organization.
Never took a day off. Never chose something for himself.
Just duty and tradition and sacrifice and bullshit.
" My hands clench. "And it didn't save him.
Didn't protect him. He died following all the rules, and I'm supposed to do the same? "
"Your father was good man. We remember him. Good leader."
"He was. But he's dead. And I'm alive. And maybe—" I stop, because finishing that sentence means admitting things I'm not ready to admit.
"Maybe you want something for yourself," Pyotr finishes quietly. "Before you end up like him."
"Yeah."
We stand in the silence of that admission. The weight of it settles between us.
"The girl," Pyotr says eventually. "She make you feel alive?"
"She makes me feel human." The truth comes easier in Russian, in the dim light, with the one person whose loyalty I've never doubted. "Like there's more to existence than blood and business."
"This is dangerous feeling for Pakhan."
"I know."
"Men who feel too much make mistakes. Get soft. Let emotion cloud judgment."
"I fucking know."
"But also—" He pauses, searching for words. "There is... word I am looking for. English word." He frowns, thinking. "You seem... content. Yes. Content. With her."
"Content?"
“Da. Content. First time I see you like this. I know this feeling.” He taps his chest. “I am content serving Petrov. Serving you. Not happiness, not excitement. Just… right. Pieces fit.”
A tightness in my chest loosens slightly.
"You think I'm making a mistake?" I ask.
"I think you are making choice." Pyotr shrugs. "Good or bad, I don't know. But is your choice. Not your father's. Not the families'. Yours."
"And if it gets me killed?"
"Then at least you die for a choice you made. Not for tradition." His mouth curves slightly. "Besides, I owe you my life. If you want to spend yours on American waitress, that is your right."
"You'd follow me even if you think I'm wrong?"
"I follow you because you are my Pakhan. Because you saved me when no one else would. Because your word is law." He meets my eyes. "But also because my boss deserve to be happy. Even if it mean blonde American who cause political shitstorm."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"Tell Misha we move at dawn. Dmitri's drug warehouse on the east side. I want it burned to the ground."
He nods once, then heads back to his post by the elevator. The bag of Doritos goes with him.
I stand in my kitchen, surrounded by luxury that feels empty, thinking about choices and consequences. Weighing tradition versus desire. Debating my father's memory and my own future. Contemplating whether I'm strong enough to choose for myself for once.
The bedroom door is still slightly ajar. Lila's form is visible under the covers, peaceful.
Looking at her now, I can’t help but think that maybe it's time I built a new future.
Maybe it's time I chose what truly belongs to me.
Her.