Chapter 32 Dimitri
DIMITRI
Ipull on jeans and a black shirt, my movements automatic. The dragon tattoo on my neck catches in the mirror as I button the collar, a reminder of what I am. What I've always been. Hostile to authority. Dangerous. A predator in a world of predators.
But now I have something to lose.
The thought follows me down the grand staircase, through the quiet house where most of the staff have retreated for the night. My boots are silent on the marble floors. I've walked these halls for years, built this fortress, filled it with expensive things that never made it feel like home.
Until her.
The study door is already open, warm light spilling into the darkened hallway. I hear voices inside, speaking urgently. My men. My brothers in blood and violence. The family I chose when my own father proved to be nothing but a drunk with heavy fists.
I step inside and the conversation stops immediately.
Six faces turn toward me, and I read the tension in every line of their bodies.
Alexei sits in the leather chair closest to my desk, his shoulder still bandaged from the bullet wound he took at the Popov house.
His face is pale but his blue eyes are sharp, alert.
The small skull and bones tattoo on his left temple seems darker in the lamplight.
Borge stands by the window, his massive frame blocking out the view of the gardens. The rest of the men are scattered around, but they all hold the same grim expression.
"Pakhan." Alexei stands, wincing slightly at the movement. "We need to talk."
I move to the bar cart and pour myself vodka. The Beluga Noble burns going down, but it doesn't touch the cold knot forming in my gut. "Then talk."
Alexei pulls out his tablet, swiping through what looks like intelligence reports. "Three families have formed an alliance against you. They're calling your marriage to Alina a violation of traditional codes. They're saying you killed Viktor Popov to steal his territory and his daughter."
I pour another drink. "Viktor Popov orchestrated a massacre at my nephew's wedding. He sold his own daughter to the Kozlovs. He got exactly what he deserved."
"We know that." Borge's voice is a low rumble. "But they're spinning it differently. They're saying you manipulated the situation, that you wanted Sergei dead so you could take Alina for yourself."
The accusation is so absurd I almost laugh. Almost. But I've been in this world long enough to know that truth doesn't matter. Only perception matters. Only power matters.
"What are they demanding?" I ask, though I already know.
"That you step down as head of the Morozov family." Alexei's voice is carefully neutral. "That you submit to a tribunal to answer for Viktor's death. That you annul your marriage to Alina and return her to the Popov family holdings."
My hand tightens on the glass until I hear it crack. I set it down carefully before I shatter it. "And if I refuse?"
"War." Borge speaks up from his position by the window. "They're already moving soldiers into position, taking over neutral territory. They want you to react, to give them an excuse to come at you with everything they have."
I move to my desk and pull up the city map on my computer, studying the territories.
One family controls the docks and most of the shipping.
Another has the construction unions and several legitimate businesses.
And the third runs protection rackets and underground gambling. Together, they're formidable.
But not invincible.
"We hit them first," Borge says, his voice eager. "Hard and fast. Take out their leadership before they can mobilize fully. Show them what happens when they challenge the Morozov family."
"That's exactly what they want." Alexei shakes his head. "They're baiting you, Dimitri. If you go on the offensive, the neutral families will see you as the aggressor. They'll side against you out of self-preservation."
"So we do nothing?" Borge's face flushes with anger. "We let them insult our Pakhan, threaten our family, and we just sit here?"
"I didn't say that." Alexei's voice is calm, measured. The voice of a man who's been my sovietnik for years, who's talked me down from the edge more times than I can count. "But we need to be smart about this. A prolonged war weakens everyone. It makes us all vulnerable to outside threats."
I think about Alina sleeping upstairs, about Katya in the bedroom down the hall. About the life I'm trying to build from the ashes of everything that's been destroyed.
"How many soldiers do they have combined?" I ask.
Pavel consults his notes. "Best estimate? Two hundred, maybe two-fifty. We have about one-twenty, but ours are better trained, better equipped."
"Numbers don't matter if we're fighting on multiple fronts.
" I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking.
The eight-pointed star tattoo on my chest feels heavy beneath my shirt, a reminder of the rank I've earned, the respect I've commanded.
"What about the neutral families? Who hasn't chosen sides? "
Alexei pulls up another file. "They're watching, waiting to see which way the wind blows. If we can get them on our side, the numbers shift in our favor."
I study the information, my mind working through angles and possibilities.
Some are old guard, traditional. They won't like the changes I'm proposing, but they respect strength.
Others are younger, more progressive. They might be open to restructuring.
Then there are those who are pragmatic above all else.
They'll side with whoever offers them the best deal.
"We reach out to them," I say, making the decision even as I speak. "Not with threats, but with opportunity. We offer them more autonomy, a larger share of the profits. We show them that the old ways are dying, and they can either evolve with us or go down with the families clinging to the past."
Borge makes a disgusted sound. "You're going to negotiate? Give away our power?"
"I'm going to consolidate our position." I meet his eyes, letting him see the steel beneath. "Power isn't just about how many soldiers you have or how much territory you control. It's about alliances. About knowing when to fight and when to make deals."
"The Pakhan is right." Alexei nods slowly. "If we can bring the neutral families to our side, the others will be isolated. They'll have to back down or face destruction."
"And if they don't back down?" Yuri asks.
"Then we destroy them." My voice is cold, flat. "But we do it from a position of strength, with allies at our back and the moral high ground. We make them the aggressors, the ones clinging to outdated codes that got Viktor Popov killed."
The room is quiet as my men process this. I can see them weighing the strategy, considering the angles. These are good soldiers, loyal men who've followed me through hell. But they're also used to solving problems with violence, with the direct application of force.
I'm asking them to trust a different approach.
"I'll reach out," Alexei says finally. "I have contacts, people who owe me favors. I can set up a meeting."
"I'll handle the Kuznetsovs." Yuri straightens from the bookshelf. "Their youngest son and I served together. He'll listen."
"The Romanovs are mine." I stand, moving to the window where Borge still looms. I place a hand on his massive shoulder, feeling the tension there. "I know you want blood, Brother. So do I. But I have more to protect now than just territory and reputation."
Borge's expression softens slightly. "The girl. Your wife."
"My wife," I confirm. "And her sister. And whatever future we're trying to build. I won't sacrifice that for pride or tradition."
He nods slowly, accepting if not entirely agreeing. "What do you need from me?"
"Double the security on the estate. I want eyes on every approach, every possible entry point. If someone tries anything, I want to know about it before they're within a mile of this house."
"Done."
We spend the next hour planning, coordinating, assigning tasks. It's a gamble. A huge gamble. But it's better than the alternative.
I'm pouring another round of vodka when the study door bursts open. One of the perimeter guards, his face flushed, his eyes wide, practically skids inside. He's young, maybe twenty-five, and I can see the panic barely contained beneath his professional exterior.
"Pakhan." He's breathing hard, like he ran here. "We just got word. The Kozlov family's remaining leadership has been found dead. All of them. Executed in their homes within the last few hours."
The room goes silent. I feel every eye turn to me, waiting for my reaction.
"How?" My voice is steady, controlled, even though my mind is already racing ahead to the implications.
"Professional hits. Clean. Efficient." The guard swallows hard. "But that's not the worst part. There's evidence. Witnesses who claim to have seen Morozov soldiers in the area. Shell casings that match weapons from our armory. A paper trail linking the hits back to you."
The vodka glass shatters in my hand.