Chapter 19
IVAN
Boris is screaming, coffee soaking through his suit, face that shade of purple that means a man's about to say something he'll regret. The other men are shouting too, voices overlapping in Russian and English, the room erupting.
But I don't flinch.
Before I can process what I'm feeling, I realize I'm smiling. Just slightly. But enough that I catch it. I bite it back, jaw locking. Doesn’t matter how fast I corrected it. The smile existed. And anyone who saw would know what it meant.
Is this how I think of Boris now? As entertainment? As some carnival act putting on a show for my amusement?
The thought should disturb me more than it does.
Lila is apologizing, frantic and mortified, pressing napkins against the stain like that'll somehow undo it. Her hands shake. Her voice breaks. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to—"
I study her face. The flush spreads down her neck as she avoids everyone’s eyes. Either she's the best actress I've ever seen, or she's actually devastated by what happened.
Boris looks at me, coffee dripping from his lap, humiliation written across every line of his weathered face. "See?" He gestures at her, at the mess, at everything. "She’s unfit for our world!"
The other men join in, a chorus of agreement. Voices rise. All of them are saying variations of the same thing—she doesn't belong, she's out of her depth, she's a liability.
They're right to be angry, technically. She interrupted our meeting and made a mess of things. All reasonable complaints. The kind of complaints my father would have agreed with.
But my father isn't here anymore.
Boris takes it further.
"Made a demonstration of how much of a stupid bitch she is."
The words hit a raw spot in my chest, tightening and burning until the feeling spreads like poison.
"Useless American whore who can't even—"
My hand forms a fist at my side. I try to breathe through it, to think logically. To quell the rage threatening to break free.
Boris is a friend of my father. Was a friend of my father.
I've known him since I was a child, since I was ten years old.
He is the traditional patriarch any Pakhan should aspire to be—strong, disciplined, respected by everyone.
He taught me how to shoot. Showed me how to interrogate without leaving marks.
Was there at my father's funeral, stone-faced and solid while I tried not to fall apart.
So why are his words making me this angry? Why does hearing him call her a bitch make me want to rip his throat out?
"—probably spreads her legs for anyone with a suit and a fat wallet, probably had half of Chicago between those thighs before you found her serving coffee like the worthless—"
The fury builds. I can feel it in my jaw, my shoulders, the way my vision narrows to just Boris and his running mouth. My pulse pounds in my ears. My breathing gets shallow.
Control it. You're the Pakhan. You don't lose control.
But he keeps going.
"—piece of trash she is. What, you think she's special? Think she's different? She's a diner whore, Ivan. Probably fucked her way through every customer who left a decent tip—"
Each insult is worse than the last. Crude. Degrading. Meant to cut.
"—and now she's got the Pakhan wrapped around her finger like a lovesick fool. Your father would've thrown her back into whatever gutter she crawled out of—"
Meant to humiliate not only her but me for choosing her.
"—but you? You're too pussy-whipped to see what everyone else does. That she's nothing. A nobody. A cheap American slut playing dress-up in your penthouse, pretending she belongs in our world when she can barely—"
The other men have stopped shouting now. I see it on their faces—they know Boris has crossed a line. This isn't complaining anymore. This isn't even about Lila being unfit for our world.
This is insulting the Pakhan's woman. Directly. Publicly. In front of witnesses.
This is my cue. Making an example. Even from someone as respected as Boris. Especially from someone as respected as Boris.
Rank doesn't protect you from consequences. The old rules. The old ways. My father's ways. For once, I don't mind following them.
Lila scurries out of harm’s way as I round the table in two strides.
My fist connects with his nose—one precise punch, all my weight behind it. The bone crunches under my knuckles. The sound is satisfying and final. Blood spurts, immediate and red, staining his shirt, his hands, the floor. Boris staggers back, shock registering on his face before pain catches up.
I don't let him fall. I drive him to the floor myself, following him down, my foot on his chest, pinning him. He tries to push up, and I press harder, his ribs compressing under my weight.
"Ivan—" he gasps.
I don't respond. The time for words is over.
I grab his right hand. His gun hand. The hand that's killed for my family, for my father, for decades before I was born. The hand that taught me how to hold a weapon properly. How to aim. How to pull the trigger without flinching.
I bend back the first finger. Slowly. Methodically. Past where it should bend. Past where the joint wants to go. Just as he taught me.
The snap is audible.
Boris grits his teeth, trying not to scream. His whole body goes rigid. He's fighting to maintain dignity, maintain that old-guard toughness. But his eyes water. His breath comes in short gasps.
Second finger. The same slow pressure. The same inevitable break.
This time, he does scream. Just once. Cut off fast, but it happened.
Third finger.
Fourth.
Each one breaking the way respect breaks—suddenly, with a sound that can't be unheard. With a violence that changes everything.
I'm methodical. Clinical. This isn't rage. This is teaching a lesson that needs to be learned.
When I'm done, his right hand is useless. It'll heal eventually, with surgery and time. But it'll never be the same. He'll always remember. Every time he tries to hold a gun, he'll remember what happens when you insult what's mine.
"Consider that a warning. Next time, it'll be worse."
I look at his face, searching for even a flicker of… I don’t know—pride? That old-guard toughness. The "I'm proud of you for holding your ground" expression my father used to get whenever I stood up to challenges.
There's none of that.
Only shame. Embarrassment. Pain. Like a child slapped after throwing a tantrum. Like someone who thought they were untouchable, discovering they're not. Complete fucking humiliation.
And I have no regrets.
I release him and straighten, wiping the blood off my knuckles with his ruined suit jacket and taking my time. The room is silent.
I scan their faces—shock, fear, calculation. Some of my own men look uncomfortable. They know Boris. Respect him. Seeing him broken on the floor changes how they see me. Some of them look like they're reassessing everything they thought they knew about me. About how far I'll go.
Good.
Lila stands frozen with wide eyes, napkins still clutched in her hands.
I turn to face the table, letting them all see my face, broadcasting that I'm not apologizing. Not explaining. Not justifying.
"Anyone else want to discuss my personal life?"
The ensuing silence is absolute. They're all waiting to see who's stupid enough to speak next.
No one dares.
"You make good points," I say, continuing on with the meeting like I didn't just break a respected man's hand. "Great points, actually. Points that I would appreciate." I pause, letting them wait for the other shoe to drop. "If I were my father."
Their expressions shift. Understanding dawns. Hope dies.
"But I'm not.”
I let my gaze move across each face, making eye contact and ensuring they understand my word is law.
"If you want to keep allied with the Petrovs, get used to who's running the family now. I chose her because she's MINE. End of story."
Men glance at each other, taking a collective temperature.
"We'll continue this meeting another time." I gesture toward the door. "Out. All of you."
They file out like they're walking through a minefield. All avoid eye contact with me, with Lila, with the blood across my floor and table.
Boris lingers, holding his broken nose, blood streaming between his fingers. His right hand hangs at an odd angle, fingers pointing directions they shouldn't. He needs a hospital. Soon.
"This won't end well, Ivan."
I step closer.
"Well, if it doesn't. You know the consequences well, Boris."
He doesn't respond. He knows the weight of what he implied. Execution. The Bratva’s oldest law. Rules are iron.
I hope it won't come to that. Boris was my father's friend. My teacher. But with each passing day, it seems more likely. The tension’s building.
Boris leaves without another word.
The room empties until it’s only Lila. Pyotr lingers by the door, watching everything with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.
I nod to him. "Out."
"On it, Boss." He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the silence.
Now it's just us.
I cross to her. She hasn't moved, still holding those stupid napkins with wide eyes.
I reach out, tracing my hand along her chin. Her skin is warm and soft. The opposite of the violence that erupted moments ago. I tilt her face up to mine.
"You're shaking."
"I—I never expected—" Her voice catches. She can't finish the sentence.
"Boris disrespected you. That means he disrespected me. Simple Bratva politics."
"I don't want that." The words tumble out fast. "I don't want you to hurt anyone because of me—"
I almost laugh. “Really? Is that why you ‘accidentally’ dumped coffee on him?”
“That was an accident!”
"Cut the shit, Lila." I step closer, backing her against the table. She has nowhere to run. "You know I hurt people, and you like it. That's why you didn't escape last night."
"The door was closed. I couldn't have."
"Was it now?"
Her eyes widen, realization dawning across her face.