Chapter Six - Dimitri
Four years later, the empire stands stronger than ever.
I move through my days with the precision of a man who’s learned that hesitation kills.
Meetings with city officials who pretend my donations don’t influence their votes.
Acquisitions of properties whose previous owners suddenly find themselves motivated to sell.
Negotiations where the threat never needs to be spoken because everyone in the room already knows what I’m capable of.
The Bratva has grown under Damien’s leadership, expanded into territories that should have been contested but weren’t.
I’ve proven myself indispensable—the legitimate face of operations that can’t afford scrutiny, the businessman whose empire provides cover for money that needs to disappear and reappear clean.
I should be satisfied.
I’m not.
The exposé happened four years ago, and I still haven’t found who was responsible.
Someone spent months compiling evidence of my operations, tracing connections that should have been invisible, documenting patterns that implicated not just me but the entire structure we’d built.
ProPublica published it with enough corroboration that we couldn’t simply dismiss it as conspiracy theory.
The fallout was immediate and brutal. Federal investigations that Felix had to deflect through carefully placed bribes. City contracts that evaporated overnight. Projects delayed for months while we rebuilt relationships and reminded people why crossing the Rudenko family was a mistake.
It cost us millions. Worse, it cost us respect that took years to reclaim.
I never forgot.
Damien wanted blood immediately, wanted to make an example that would prevent anyone from ever trying something similar.
I convinced him to wait. Rushing would reveal desperation, and desperation is weakness. Better to hunt methodically, to uncover every thread until we knew exactly who orchestrated it and why.
Four years of searching. Four years of dead ends and false leads.
Whoever did this knew how to cover their tracks.
I’m still looking.
Felix enters my office without knocking, carrying two tumblers and a bottle of whiskey I recognize as older than both of us combined.
“It’s Friday,” he says, pouring without asking. “You’ve been here since six this morning. Time to leave.”
“I have work.”
“Work will still be here Monday.” He slides a glass across my desk. “Oleg is insisting on Apex tonight. You know how he gets when you refuse.”
I do. Oleg’s idea of bonding involves overpriced bottle service and women who pretend interest lasts longer than the next transaction. Normally I avoid it. Tonight, the thought of going home to an empty penthouse holds even less appeal.
“Fine. One hour.”
“Three hours minimum or Oleg will sulk for a week.”
“Two.”
Felix’s mouth quirks. “I’ll tell him three, and you’ll leave after ninety minutes like you always do.”
Accurate.
I take the whiskey he’s poured, let the burn settle in my chest. Felix watches me with that pale-eyed assessment that misses nothing.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he observes.
“I’m always distracted. That’s called running an empire.”
“No. This is different. You’re searching for something.”
“We’re still recovering from the exposé investigation. Will be for a long time.”
“Isn’t new. You’ve been hunting that ghost for four years.” Felix leans against my desk. “The last few weeks, you’ve been worse. What changed?”
Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.
“Drop it, Felix.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” He swirls his drink. “Damien asked me yesterday if you were compromised. If something from the past was resurfacing.”
My jaw tightens. “What did you tell him?”
“That you’re as focused as ever. That whatever’s bothering you doesn’t affect your work.” His gaze sharpens. “I wasn’t lying, was I?”
“No.”
“Good. If Damien thinks you’re a liability…”
“I’m aware of what Damien does with liabilities.”
“Then stop giving him reasons to wonder.” Felix straightens. “Come to Apex. Drink. Pretend to enjoy yourself for a few hours. Remind everyone—including yourself—that you’re still in control.”
He’s right. Appearances matter in our world. Weakness invites challenges, and I can’t afford either.
“Fine. I’m not staying past midnight.”
“We’ll see.”
***
Apex is exactly what I remember—bass thrumming through floors that vibrate with each beat, lights strobing across bodies pressed too close together, the smell of expensive alcohol and cheaper desperation.
We’re shown to the VIP area immediately, a section cordoned off where we can watch the chaos without being consumed by it.
Oleg is already there, sprawled across a leather couch with a bottle in one hand and his phone in the other.
“Finally,” he says when he sees me. “Felix said you’d probably bail.”
“I’m here.”
“For how long?”
“As long as it takes to finish this drink.”
Oleg laughs, gesturing to the server who appears instantly. “Bring another bottle. The good stuff. My cousin’s paying.”
“Your cousin is always paying,” I mutter, but I don’t argue.
The server—a woman who can’t be more than twenty-two—returns with the bottle and fresh glasses. Oleg tips her with a bill that’s probably more than she makes in a week, and she smiles like he’s her favorite person in the world.
“To Friday,” Oleg announces, raising his glass. “To not thinking about work for at least three hours.”
“Bold assumption,” Felix says, but he drinks anyway.
I follow suit, letting the alcohol do its work. Around us, the club pulses with manufactured energy. The music is so loud thinking becomes difficult. People dancing, touching, losing themselves in the kind of temporary oblivion I’ve never understood.
“You need to get laid,” Oleg says, loudly enough that I’m certain the neighboring tables hear him.
“I don’t need relationship advice from you.”
“Who said anything about a relationship? I’m talking about basic human needs. When’s the last time you even looked at a woman?”
“This afternoon. My secretary.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Marina is sixty and would cut your balls off if you tried anything.” Oleg gestures expansively toward the main floor. “I’m talking about women. Plural. Options. You’re forty, not dead.”
“I’m aware of my age.”
“Are you? You act like a monk who took a vow of celibacy.”
Felix snorts. “He’s not wrong.”
I glare at both of them. “My personal life is none of your concern.”
“Your personal life is nonexistent,” Oleg counters. “Which makes it absolutely my concern as your favorite cousin.”
“You’re not my favorite anything.”
“Ouch.” He doesn’t look remotely hurt. “Still. When’s the last time you went home with someone? Or let someone go home with you? Or even had a conversation that lasted longer than closing a deal?”
“Leave it alone, Oleg.”
“Why? You clearly need—”
“I said leave it.”
The edge in my voice finally penetrates his alcohol-fueled enthusiasm. He raises both hands in surrender.
“Fine. Fine. For the record, you’re miserable.”
“Noted.”
Felix settles beside me, scanning the crowd with the same analytical focus he brings to everything. “Relax. For once in your life, just relax.”
I try. Take the drink Oleg hands me, let the alcohol burn smooth down my throat, watch people dance and flirt and pretend tomorrow doesn’t exist.
It doesn’t work.
My mind is already elsewhere—reviewing the timeline for the Battery Park acquisition, calculating how much pressure to apply to the holdout tenants, considering which official needs reminding of their obligations. Work is simpler than this. Work has rules, clear outcomes, measurable success.
This—people moving without purpose, touching without meaning, talking without saying anything—makes no sense to me.
Then I see her.
The woman is across the club, near the main bar. Dark hair instead of chestnut, but the same length, the same way it falls across her shoulders. She’s laughing at something her companion said, head tilted back, and the gesture is so familiar my chest tightens.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved.
“Dimitri?” Felix’s voice, questioning.
I ignore him. Weave through the crowd, focus narrowed to a single point. The woman’s back is to me now, but the curve of her waist, the way she gestures with her hands when she talks.
I reach her just as she turns.
She has the wrong face, and the wrong eyes. The disappointment hits like a physical blow.
The woman notices me staring, smiles in a way that’s meant to be inviting. “Can I help you with something?”
“No. I thought you were someone else.”
“Story of my life.” She laughs, light and uncomplicated. “Do I look like someone important?”
“You did. From behind.”
Her smile falters slightly at the phrasing, and I realize how that sounded. I don’t bother correcting it. Just turn and walk away before she can respond, before I make this worse than it already is.
I return to VIP, aware that I’ve just made a fool of myself over a stranger who shares exactly one physical characteristic with a woman I haven’t seen in four years.
Felix is watching me when I sink back into my seat.
“Want to talk about it?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
“The intern. You thought that was her?”
“I said no.”
He nods, dropping it, but I can feel his attention even as he turns back to surveying the club. Felix forgets nothing, files everything away for future reference. This moment will become part of his catalog of my weaknesses, insurance against the day he might need leverage.
I don’t blame him for it. In our world, sentiment is liability.
Oleg returns from whatever he was doing, oblivious to the tension. “There’s a group of women at the main bar. Americans, I think. One of them keeps looking over here. Should I say hello?”
“Do whatever you want,” I say. “I’m leaving.”
“It’s been forty minutes!”
“Emergency came up.”
“What emergency?”
“Does it matter?”
Oleg exchanges a look with Felix, then shrugs. “Your loss. More bottle service for us.”
“Enjoy it.”
I don’t answer. Stand, adjust my jacket, and head for the exit without looking back.
The night air hits cold and sharp, clearing some of the fog the alcohol and disappointment left behind. My driver appears instantly, but I wave him off.
“I’ll walk.”
“Sir, it’s quite far.”
“I’ll walk.”
He knows better than to argue.
I move through Manhattan on foot, letting the city’s rhythm replace the club’s chaos. Even at midnight, the streets pulse with life—taxis honking, vendors closing up carts, people stumbling out of restaurants and bars. Anonymous. Relentless.
Four years ago, Janice stood in my penthouse and looked at me like I was worth knowing. Like the man underneath the empire mattered more than what I’d built on top of it.
Four years ago, I let her go because keeping her would have destroyed her.
Four years ago, I convinced myself it was mercy.
I still don’t know if I was right.
I reach my building, nod to the doorman, take the elevator to the penthouse that’s remained exactly as empty as it was the morning I left her sleeping in my bed.
The city glitters below my windows, millions of lights representing millions of people who don’t know my name and wouldn’t care if they did.
Somewhere out there, Janice is living whatever life she built after leaving New York.
Maybe she went back to school. Maybe she found another internship, a real career, someone who could give her the future I couldn’t.
Maybe she thinks about me sometimes, the way I think about her.
Or maybe I was exactly as forgettable as I claimed she was.
I pour a drink and don’t finish it. Stand at the window and replay the moment in the club—the sharp spike of hope, the crushing disappointment when I realized my mistake.
My phone buzzes. Felix.
You left your jacket at the club. Oleg is sulking, and you need to stop doing this to yourself.
I don’t respond. Felix is right—I do need to stop. Need to let go of whatever ghost I’ve been carrying, need to accept that some decisions can’t be undone and some people don’t get second chances.
I know all of this. Knowing doesn’t make it easier.
I finish the drink this time, then another, standing at the window until the sky starts to lighten and the city shifts from night chaos to morning routine. Somewhere in those hours, I make a decision.
The exposé investigation continues. Whoever orchestrated it will be found eventually—Felix’s people are too thorough, too patient. When we have proof, there will be consequences. Severe ones.
If it was Janice, she’ll pay for what she did. If it was someone else, then maybe I can finally stop searching for her ghost in every woman who shares her silhouette.
Either way, the past needs to stay buried.
I’ve built too much to let it resurface now.