Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dmitri
The door opens without a knock.
Igor.
He stands in the doorway, arms crossed, that look on his face I've seen a thousand times. The one that says I've done something monumentally stupid and he's about to tell me exactly how stupid.
"You're being reckless." His voice cuts through the silence like a blade.
I pour another glass. "Cut it off, Igor."
"No."
The word hangs in the air between us. Igor never tells me no. Not like this. Not with that edge in his voice that sounds almost like fear.
He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. "You walked into Sartori territory tonight. Into their restaurant. Announced yourself as the fiancé of their princess without any backup plan, without any—"
"I said cut it out."
"You could have ended up dead." He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. The words land like bullets anyway. "Dante Castellani had a Glock aimed at your skull. One word from Pietro Sartori, one twitch of that trigger finger, and you'd be bleeding out on the floor of that restaurant."
I set the glass down. The crystal hits the desk harder than I intended.
He's right.
I know he's right.
If Vittoria hadn't backed my play, hadn't confirmed the engagement, hadn't stepped between me and her brother's wrath... I'd be a corpse right now. The Sartoris would be cleaning my blood off their floors and starting a war with the Bratva.
But she did.
She looked her brother in the eye and said yes. Said she chose me. Said this is what she wants.
That tells me everything I need to know.
"She played her role," I say quietly. "She could have let them kill me. She didn't."
Igor shakes his head. "That's what you're taking from tonight? That she didn't let you die?"
"It's enough."
"It's not enough, Dmitri." He steps closer, and I see something I rarely see in Igor's eyes. Genuine concern. "You're not thinking straight. You're making decisions based on... what? Obsession? Lust? Whatever the hell this is with the Sartori girl?"
My jaw tightens. "Watch your tone."
"Someone has to say it." He doesn't back down. "Your father is dying. You're about to become pakhan. And instead of preparing for that, instead of securing alliances the proper way, you're charging into enemy territory like a lovesick fool."
Lovesick.
The word tastes wrong. Too soft for what this is.
"Get out." My voice drops to something cold and final.
Igor holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods once, sharply, and turns toward the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle. "Control your emotions, Dmitri. Before they get you killed."
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand alone in the darkness of my office, the city lights of Chicago glittering beyond the window like scattered diamonds. My hand finds the vodka bottle again, but I don't pour. Just hold it. Feel the cold glass against my palm.
Control your emotions.
When did I lose control?
I set the bottle down and press my palms flat against the desk, leaning forward until my head drops between my shoulders. My breathing sounds too loud in the empty room.
It's not just Vittoria.
That's the truth I've been avoiding. The thing I can't say out loud, not even to Igor.
I'm grieving a man who isn't dead yet.
And grief makes people stupid. Makes them reckless. Makes them reach for anything that feels like life instead of the slow march toward death.
Why did she go to dinner with him in the first place?
The question has been eating at me since Yuri's call. Since I crushed that vodka glass and cut my palm open on the shards. Since I drove to that restaurant with murder in my heart and no backup plan beyond get her away from him.
I pull out my phone. The screen illuminates my face in the darkness.
My thumb hovers over the message icon.
This is stupid. It's nearly midnight. She's dealing with her family. The last thing she needs is me demanding answers like some jealous—
Fuck it.
Why did you go to dinner with him?
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The message shows delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear.
Seriously? That's what you want to ask me right now?
Answer the question.
You just announced our engagement without asking me. You walked into my family's restaurant like you owned the place. And THIS is what's on your mind?
Yes.
The dots pulse for a long moment.
Vittoria: You're unbelievable.
Me: So I've been told. Answer.
I had a plan, okay? Pietro and Nico wanted me to meet with him. I was going to use what I knew about his secret fiancée to humiliate him. Make him back off permanently.
Of course she did.
Goodnight, solnyshko.
I pocket the phone and push away from the desk. My legs feel unsteady beneath me.
The hallway stretches dark and endless as I make my way toward my private quarters.
The master bathroom is cold when I step inside. White marble and chrome fixtures gleam under the harsh overhead lights. I strip off my jacket, my shirt, my pants.
Tomorrow I face Pietro Sartori across a negotiating table.
Tonight, I'm just tired.
The shower spray hits my shoulders like needles of ice before warming to something bearable. I brace my palms against the tile and let the water pound against my back.
I press my forehead against the cool tile.
The elevator doors slide open and I step into the Sartori Import & Export building. Sunday morning. The lobby sits empty except for the guard behind the reception desk who straightens when he sees Igor and me approach.
"Mr. Baganov." The guard's hand twitches toward the phone. "They're expecting you."
I nod once and keep walking. No civilians today. No secretaries typing away at their desks. No businessmen shuffling papers and pretending they don't know what really happens in this building.
Sundays belong to us. To the real work.
Igor stays a half-step behind me as we enter the private elevator. He hasn't spoken since we left the estate. He knows my patience runs thin today.
My father asked for me this morning. I sat beside his bed and watched his chest rise and fall in shallow, rattling breaths. He couldn't speak. Just looked at me with those fading eyes, trying to communicate something I couldn't decipher.
Be strong, maybe. Or don't fuck this up.
Both sound like him.
Aleksander told him that I was about to seal the marriage with Vittoria.
The elevator ascends. I crack my knuckles. Igor shifts his weight but says nothing.
When the doors open on the executive floor, Dante Castellani stands waiting. His hand rests on his hip, fingers brushing the gun holstered there. A warning. A reminder of what happened last night.
"Baganov." His voice carries the warmth of a Siberian winter.
"Castellani." I match his tone. "Your boss is expecting me."
Dante's jaw tightens. He steps aside, but his eyes track my every movement as I pass. Igor positions himself by the elevator.
The double doors to Pietro Sartori's office stand open. I walk through without knocking.
Four men wait inside.
Pietro sits behind his massive desk, fingers steepled, face carved from stone. Nico Sartori stands by the window, arms crossed. Lorenzo leans against the far wall, casual in a way that fools no one. I've seen the files on him, know what he's capable of beneath that diplomat's smile.
And Bruno.
The former heir sits in his wheelchair near the corner, positioned to see everything and everyone. His eyes burn with barely contained fury.
I've walked into worse odds.
"Gentlemen." I incline my head. "Thank you for meeting on such short notice."
Pietro gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I take the seat.
"Drink?" Pietro reaches for a crystal decanter.
"I'm fine."
He pours one for himself anyway. Whiskey. The good stuff, from the color. He takes his time, letting the silence stretch. A power play. I've used the same tactic a hundred times.
I could end this in thirty seconds. Tell them I don't give a damn about their traditions or their blessing.
That Vittoria already said yes, and that's the only permission I need.
That whatever they want—territory, distribution rights, political connections—they can have it.
All of it. I'll sign over half my empire if that's what it takes.
But these are her brothers.
And she loves them and that means I need to play this smart.
Be clever, I remind myself.
Pietro sets down his glass. "Let me be clear, Baganov. We're going to talk. Really talk. No bullshit, no diplomatic dancing."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
"Good." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Because no one in this room knows how you managed to make my sister decide she's marrying you."
Bruno snorts from his corner. The sound carries pure contempt.
"She barely knew you existed a month ago," Nico adds. His arms stay crossed, his posture rigid. "Now suddenly she's choosing you over a Rogers alliance? Over every other option we presented?"
I meet his gaze without flinching. "Perhaps she has better taste than you give her credit for."
"Or perhaps you manipulated her." Bruno wheels forward, his chair scraping against the hardwood. "Cornered her. Did God knows what to convince her—"
"Bruno." Pietro's voice cuts like a blade. "Enough."
The former heir's jaw clenches, but he falls silent.
"However you did it," Pietro continues, "she made her choice. And we're going to honor that choice."
I keep my face neutral.
"But." Pietro's eyes harden. "We need to make something very clear before we discuss any deals."
I wait.
"Despite whatever agreements we make in this room today none of it matters if you hurt her."
"I have no intention—"
"I'm not finished." Pietro's palm slams against the desk. The whiskey glass trembles. "If one single word reaches us that you've disrespected her. One complaint. One tear she didn't choose to shed. One bruise she didn't ask for. War starts. The marriage ends. And you end with it."
I should bristle at this. Should remind him that I'm about to become pakhan of the Chicago Bratva. That my men outnumber his. That threatening me in my position carries consequences.
Instead, I feel something unexpected.
Respect.
These men would burn their alliance with me to ash if I hurt their sister. They would sacrifice territory, money, political advantage for her safety.
And this is rare in their world. I've seen parents selling for money their daughters. I've also seen worse than that.
This is what family looks like, I realize. This is what she has.
I lean back in my chair. "I understand."
"Do you?" Nico pushes off from the window. "Because you don't seem like a man who takes orders."
"I don't." I hold his stare. "But this isn't an order. It's a promise I was already going to make."
Silence.
"Vittoria Sartori will be my wife," I continue, my voice dropping low. "That means her safety, her happiness, her wellbeing—they become my responsibility." The word slips out before I can stop it. True, but perhaps too revealing.
Bruno's eyes narrow.
"I didn't pursue her for the alliance." I address Pietro directly. "The alliance is convenient. Useful. But I would have pursued her without it."