Chapter 17
IVAN
The warehouse smells like rust and old blood. Appropriate, considering what might happen here.
I stand with my back to a steel support beam, Misha on my left, Pyotr on my right. The concrete under my feet is stained in places—decades of deals gone wrong, bodies dragged away, problems solved.
Neutral ground means no one owns the space, which means everyone's on edge.
Good.
Edge keeps you sharp.
Dmitri arrives on time. That's his thing—punctuality, order, the pretense of civility over the rot underneath.
He has six men. I have five. But numbers don't matter when everyone knows what happens if blood gets spilled on neutral ground.
The other families would tear apart whoever broke the treaty.
Even Dmitri's not stupid enough to risk that.
Still, he's stupid enough to keep pushing.
He walks in like he owns the place, his men fanning out behind him.
Designer suit, expensive leather shoes that click against concrete.
Everything about him screams ‘new money,’ desperate to look like old power.
His father built their empire on prostitution and protection rackets.
Now, Dmitri tries to pass luxury for legitimacy.
"Petrov." He stops ten feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough to draw if needed. That punchable smirk is already tugging at his lips. "Thank you for coming."
"You said it was urgent."
His smile widens. "It is. We need to end this."
"This?"
"The war between our families." He says it casually, testing the word and watching my reaction.
War. A word that gets men killed and territories redrawn.
"Didn't realize we were at war, Dmitri. Thought it was a series of unfortunate misunderstandings."
"Oh, come now." He tilts his head, that clever glint in his eyes.
"Several of my men dead. Several of yours.
The Morozov family picking sides. The Ivanovs watching to see who comes out stronger.
" He spreads his hands, reasonable, like he's explaining this to a child.
"This needs to stop before it gets worse. Unless, of course, you're enjoying it?"
He's not wrong. What started as border disputes and territory arguments has escalated. Blood draws more blood. That's how these things work—one shooting leads to retaliation, which leads to another shooting, until nobody remembers what started it and everyone's too proud to stop.
Leadership means knowing when to fight and when to find another way.
"I'm listening," I say.
Dmitri relaxes slightly, smirk deepening. "Our families have history, Petrov. Your grandfather and mine worked together. Built this city together. The Volkov and Petrov alliance was legendary." He pauses, letting the history sink in. "Back when we remembered what mattered."
"That was before your father tried to take our territory on the docks."
"Old business. Settled business." He waves it away like brushing off dust. "My father made mistakes.
I'm not him. I want what's good for both families.
What's good for the Bratva." He offers another calculated pause, always one for the drama.
"What's good for you, if you're smart enough to take it. "
"Get to your point."
"The tensions between us—they're not about territory or respect. They're about a girl." He says it plainly, no accusations, just facts. "An American who doesn't understand our world. Who can't possibly understand what her presence costs."
I force my jaw to relax, refusing to show weakness. I can't show how deep that particular knife cuts.
"We can end this tonight," Dmitri continues. "I'm offering you a deal. A real deal, one that benefits everyone." He steps closer. "Even you, Ivan. Especially you."
"I'm still listening."
"Give up the girl. Choose a woman that the families have offered.
Morozov's daughter—brilliant, educated, born into this life.
Ivanov's sister—Bratva royalty, connections that would strengthen your position.
" He counts them off on his fingers, like he's listing menu items before pausing, that smirk turning knowing.
"My niece would still have you, though I admit my pride took a hit when you rejected her the first time. She's gotten over it. Mostly."
The offer lingers—precise, stripped of fluff.
Rational. Efficient.
And out of the question.
"I wouldn't be hurt if it's not my niece you choose," Dmitri adds. "Even in the Bratva, we allow true love." The way he says it makes it sound almost mocking. "Find a woman who belongs in this world. Someone who makes you stronger instead of vulnerable. Someone who won't get you killed."
True love. As if that's what this is about. As if I could swap out Lila for someone more acceptable to men like Dmitri.
As if I haven't tried to convince myself to do exactly that.
I've run the numbers a dozen times since she tried to escape.
Calculated the costs, weighed the options, and looked at this from every strategic angle, as my father taught me.
A Pakhan doesn't make decisions based on feelings.
He makes them based on power, territory, and legacy.
Things that last. Things that matter when you're dead, and your son is trying to hold together what you built.
Morozov's daughter would bring alliances.
Her family controls the ports. Shipping routes I need, distribution channels that would expand my reach into markets currently closed to me.
She's educated, raised in this life, knows how to smile at the right people and keep her mouth shut about the wrong things. Perfect Pakhan's wife material.
Ivanov's sister would be a better strategic choice.
Her brother is old guard, respected, connected to families in New York and Boston.
That kind of alliance would make me untouchable.
It would give me reach beyond Chicago, expanding my regional power to the national stage. Something my father never achieved.
And Dmitri's niece—she'd end this war before it really starts.
Unite the Volkov and Petrov territories back into the powerhouse our grandfathers built.
No more border disputes, no more watching my back, wondering when he'll make his move.
Just peace. Stability. The kind of unified front that makes other families think twice about testing us.
Any one of them would be the smart choice.
The safe choice.
The choice that keeps me alive, in power, and respected.
"The girl walks away unharmed," Dmitri says, like he's doing me a favor.
That generous, reasonable tone that makes me want to put a bullet in his skull.
"We send her somewhere safe. Give her money, a new start.
She goes back to serving coffee or whatever normal life she wants.
You marry someone suitable. The tensions end.
Our families go back to the alliance our grandfathers built.
" He spreads his hands. "Everyone wins, Ivan. Even her."
He's thought this through. Covered all the angles. Lila gets to live. Gets her freedom.
And I get to keep my empire, my reputation, my position.
All it costs is her.
"I need your answer, Petrov. Take the deal. End this." He pauses, allowing the silence to build. "Or watch what happens when you choose pussy over power."
The silence goes on forever.
Dmitri waits. His dogs wait. Mine too.
The whole room holds its breath.
Dmitri's enjoying this. I can see it in the way he stands there, relaxed, confident. He thinks he's got me backed into a corner. Thinks I'll either accept his generous offer or refuse and look like a fool in front of everyone.
Win-win for him.
This is the moment. Accept and keep my empire. Refuse and risk everything.
But there's a third option. The one I'm going to take, even though it might destroy me.
I step forward. Not toward Dmitri—past him, heading for the exit.
"You're a roach, Dmitri."
The smirk dies. "What—"
"Scurrying around, pretending you matter. Making deals nobody asked for. Thinking you have leverage when all you have is empty threats and the desperation of a man who knows he's outmatched."
"Petrov—"
"We're done here." I keep walking and don't look back.
"You'll come back crawling eventually!" Dmitri's voice rises, that smooth confidence cracking. "The deal stands, Petrov! When your empire crumbles, when your men turn on you, when that girl gets you killed—remember I offered you a way out!"
I continue walking.
“I’ll arrange another meeting!” he calls, voice regaining that oily confidence. "And you'll come, Petrov. Because you know what our families need from each other. Consider it courtesy between old allies."
Old allies. He really believes that bullshit.
The warehouse door slams behind me. Cold air hits my face. The city sprawls ahead, indifferent to what happened, to the choice I made.
Or didn't make.
Because that's the truth, isn't it? I didn't refuse the deal. I didn't accept it either. Just walked out, left it hanging there like a noose waiting to tighten.
Misha and Pyotr are already waiting at the car. They don't speak until we're inside, moving through empty streets. Industrial district this time of night—warehouses and shipping containers and the smell of Lake Michigan.
"That was smart," Misha says finally. "Leaving the deal hanging like that."
I let the silence work for me. Let him think it’s part of the plan.
But deep down? I know.
I didn’t walk away because walking away would’ve been stupid. Would’ve made me look soft. Like I’d trade power for a pair of pretty eyes and a heartbeat.
My father would’ve turned in his grave.
Well… whatever was left of him, anyway.
But saying yes? That would’ve been worse.
Would have meant losing the only person who's ever looked at me and seen real worth. The girl who tried to escape and then chose to stay. Who said "I want you" like it cost her everything.
So I walked out. Bought myself time I might not have. Delayed a choice I'll eventually have to make.
The weight sits in my chest. Leadership. Legacy. All of it crushing down on a decision that shouldn't be this hard.
The city slides past the windows—my city, my territory, my responsibility. Every building represents soldiers and families. Money and power. Every street corner is a deal, a dispute, or a decision I've made or need to make. The weight of it never stops. Never eases.
Being Pakhan means carrying it all. Means every choice affects hundreds of lives. Means sometimes you sacrifice for the greater good.
Should I let her go?
Would it be better? Safer? Would it end the tensions with Dmitri, smooth things over with the other families, and show everyone I'm serious about leadership?
Would it prove I'm not weak?
The thought of her being gone makes my chest tight. Sent away somewhere. Safe, protected, but not mine. Never mine again.
My father used to say: A Pakhan who lets emotion rule him is already dead.
This isn’t about ego. Not anymore. This is about a feeling I never thought I’d experience—one I didn’t even know I wanted. Until she looked at me like I was more than the blood on my hands.
"Boss," Pyotr says from the front seat. "Sergei's shift is almost done. I should be back to guard Lila soon."
Right. Sergei. Reliable when it matters. Lethal when it doesn't. A good killer despite the attitude. Maybe because of it.
And he's still here. They’re all still here. Still following my orders. Still trusting me to lead even when I'm making decisions that could get us all killed.
Despite everything, some men still trust my leadership.
Even if deep down, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing half the time.
"Good," I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. "Make sure she doesn't leave that room. Not for anything."
"Da, Boss. She'll be safe."
Misha crushes his cigarette under his boot and flicks it into the street. "What now?"
What now? The question that never goes away. More choices. More moves. More weight.
I think of Dmitri’s eyes on me. The other families circling like sharks. My own men testing the waters. Everything is hanging by a thread because I refuse to play the game they expect.
"Set a meeting," I tell Misha. "My mansion. Everyone we trust. Everyone who's loyal."
"When?"
"Tomorrow night. We need to consolidate. Figure out who's with us and who's waiting to see if I'll fold."
"And if Dmitri moves before then?"
"Then we move faster."
Misha nods, then pauses. "What about that meeting Dmitri was talking about? The one he says you'll attend. We going through with that?"
"We'll see."
"Boss—"
"I said we'll see." My tone makes it clear the conversation's over.
Misha nods, already pulling out his phone to make the other calls happen. Pyotr drives, steady and sure. I sit in the back seat, watching my city, carrying its weight, making choices that might save us or destroy us.
All because of a girl who draws and bites her lip when she concentrates.
All because I'm not ready to let go.
Maybe I never will be.