Chapter Sixteen - Dimitri
The Pakhan’s annual gathering isn’t optional.
It’s theater disguised as business—a calculated display where alliances are showcased, hierarchies reinforced, and everyone performs the careful dance of respect and intimidation that keeps the Bratva functioning.
Damien hosts it at his estate in Westchester, inviting every significant family within our sphere of influence.
Including the Volkovs.
I consider leaving Janice at home. The event will be tense enough without introducing my new wife to the family that tried to have her kidnapped. Felix suggests the same thing when I mention bringing her.
“It’s asking for trouble,” he says. “Elena will be there. Viktor will see it as provocation.”
“Good.”
“Dimitri, think about it.”
“She’s my wife. She attends family functions. That’s non-negotiable.”
Felix recognizes the futility of arguing further. “At least prepare her. Tell her what to expect.”
I don’t.
Partially because I want to see how she handles pressure without preparation. Partially because explaining the nuances of Bratva politics feels like admitting she’s more than a strategic acquisition.
Partially because I’m curious if she’ll surprise me again.
She does, the moment she steps out of the bedroom.
The dress is midnight blue, silk that clings to every curve before falling in elegant folds to the floor. Her hair is pulled back, exposing her neck and the faint marks I left there this morning. Subtle makeup emphasizes features that don’t need enhancement.
“Is this appropriate?” she asks, catching my stare.
“It’s perfect.”
“You’re sure? Is there some Bratva wife dress code I should know about—”
“There isn’t. You look exactly right.” I cross to her, unable to resist touching. My hand finds her waist, feeling the warmth of her through silk. “Though I’m already regretting bringing you. Every man there is going to stare.”
“Good. Let them stare.” There’s an edge to her voice I haven’t heard before. Confidence, maybe. Or defiance dressed up as composure. “I’m not hiding.”
“No. You’re not.”
The drive to Westchester takes an hour. Janice is quiet, staring out the window while I handle last-minute business via phone. Felix sends updates—guest list confirmed, security positioned, no unexpected complications.
Yet.
“Tell me about Elena,” Janice says suddenly.
I glance up from my phone. “What about her?”
“You were supposed to marry her. She’s going to be at this event. I should know what to expect.”
Fair point.
“Elena Volkov is twenty-six, educated in Switzerland, fluent in five languages, and trained from birth to be a proper Bratva wife. She’s intelligent, strategic, and doesn’t forgive easily.”
“So she’s going to hate me.”
“Probably.”
“Great.” Janice exhales slowly. “Anything else I should know?”
“Don’t let her bait you. She’ll try; it’s what she does. Undermining opponents through conversation is her specialty.”
“What if I can’t avoid it?”
“Then show her exactly why I chose you instead.”
Janice turns to look at me fully. “You didn’t choose me. You forced this marriage.”
“I chose you,” I correct quietly. “The circumstances were complicated, but the choice was always mine. Remember that when Elena tries to convince you otherwise.”
***
Damien’s estate is lit up like a cathedral, all dramatic architecture and strategic lighting designed to impress. Cars line the circular drive; Mercedes, BMWs, the occasional Rolls-Royce. Money and power gathered in one place, pretending civilization.
I help Janice from the car, offering my arm. She takes it after a brief hesitation, and we walk toward the entrance together.
Eyes track us immediately.
I feel the weight of attention, the whispers starting before we even clear the door. My marriage was announced publicly—had to be, given how quickly it happened—but this is the first time most of the Bratva are seeing Janice in person.
Seeing the woman I rejected the Volkovs for.
“Breathe,” I murmur. “You’re doing fine.”
“I haven’t done anything yet.”
The main hall is already full—men in expensive suits, women in designer gowns, everyone performing their assigned roles. Damien holds court near the center, Oleg and Felix flanking him. He sees us enter and his expression tightens fractionally.
Still angry about the marriage. Still convinced I’ve made a strategic mistake.
He’ll get over it. Or he won’t. Either way, the decision is made.
“Dimitri.” Viktor Volkov’s voice cuts through ambient conversation. “And your… wife. How unexpected.”
I turn to face him, keeping Janice tucked against my side. Viktor stands with his sons and Elena, all wearing expressions of calculated neutrality.
“Viktor. I wasn’t sure you’d attend.”
“Miss an opportunity to celebrate family unity? Never.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Though I’m surprised you brought a guest. Given recent… tensions.”
“Janice isn’t a guest. She’s family now. Surely you understand the importance of family, Viktor.”
The jab lands. His jaw tightens fractionally before smoothing.
Elena steps forward, offering her hand to Janice with practiced grace. “Mrs. Rudenko. How lovely to finally meet you properly. I’ve heard so much.”
Janice accepts the handshake, matching Elena’s smile with one equally empty. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course. Though I must admit, your marriage was quite sudden. Surprising, even, given Dimitri’s previous… commitments.”
There it is. The first strike, delivered with surgical precision.
I open my mouth to intervene, but Janice speaks first.
“Sudden, yes, but not surprising. Not to those paying attention.” Her voice is pleasant, conversational, hiding the blade underneath.
“Real connections don’t follow timelines, Elena.
They simply are. I imagine that’s difficult to understand when you’ve spent your life preparing for arrangements that never materialize. ”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Elena’s composure cracks slightly in a flash of fury quickly concealed. Around us, I feel the shift in attention. People are listening now, watching this exchange with the fascination reserved for blood sports.
“How interesting,” Elena says, voice tight. “You speak as if you understand our world. Tell me, Mrs. Rudenko, what exactly did you do before marrying into the Bratva? Marketing, wasn’t it? Such a… pedestrian profession.”
“Someone has to know how to craft narratives. Control perception. Make the unsavory look palatable.” Janice tilts her head slightly.
“Though I suppose your education covered more traditional skills. Languages, etiquette, the art of being decorative. Very useful when the only value you bring is ornamental.”
I have to suppress a smile.
Elena’s face flushes. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I? You were raised to be a trophy.
Polished and positioned and ultimately rejected because someone decided you weren’t worth the trouble of keeping.
” Janice’s voice never rises, never loses its pleasant tone.
“I wasn’t raised for any of this. I earned my place.
That’s the difference between us, Elena.
You were offered and declined. I was chosen. ”
The room has gone completely quiet now.
Elena looks like she wants to physically strike Janice. Viktor’s hand on her shoulder is probably the only thing preventing it.
“We should circulate,” I say, steering Janice away before the situation escalates further. “Enjoy your evening, Viktor. Elena.”
We move through the crowd, and I feel the weight of eyes following us. Respect, curiosity, fear—all the reactions I hoped for when I decided to bring her.
“That was dangerous,” I murmur once we’re out of immediate earshot.
“She started it.”
“I know, and you finished it beautifully.” I can’t quite keep the pride from my voice. “Where did that come from?”
“Years of dealing with people who underestimate me. I’m done being quiet about it.”
Something shifts in my chest. Possessiveness, yes, but also recognition. This is what I’d sensed in her four years ago—the spine underneath softness, the refusal to be diminished.
I’d just never seen it fully unleashed before.
The evening continues. Janice handles introductions with surprising grace, navigating conversations about business and territory with more understanding than I expected. People respond to her not just because she’s my wife, but because she commands attention in her own right.
By the time dinner is announced, she’s made more positive impressions than some members born into this life.
I’m contemplating how to leverage that when I see him.
A man approaches Janice while I’m momentarily distracted by Oleg. He’s mid-thirties, wearing an expensive suit and a too-familiar smile.
I watch Janice’s expression shift—surprise, then recognition, then warmth that makes my blood freeze.
She knows him.
They’re talking now, his body language too comfortable, too easy. He gestures animatedly, making her laugh, and she touches his arm in return.
Then he leans in for a hug.
Something dark and violent erupts in my chest.
I’m across the room before conscious thought catches up, my hand closing around the man’s collar, yanking him backward with force that nearly lifts him off his feet.
“Dimitri!” Janice’s voice is shocked and angry.
I ignore her. My attention stays fixed on the man now stumbling, confused and terrified.
“Who are you?” I demand.
“Just an old friend.”
“You thought putting your hands on my wife was appropriate?”
“We were just—it was just a hug.”
“You’re nothing.” I shove him backward, and he catches himself against a nearby table. Glasses rattle. Conversations die. “You don’t touch her. You don’t approach her. You don’t exist in the same space as her unless I permit it. Are we clear?”
The man nods frantically, already backing away.
“Dimitri, stop.” Janice’s hand on my arm, trying to pull me back. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong!”
“He touched you.”
“He hugged me! We worked together for months.”
“I don’t care.” I turn to face her, aware that everyone is watching, aware that I’m making a scene. Don’t care about that either. “No man touches what’s mine. Not friends. Not former colleagues. No one.”
Her eyes flash with fury. “I am not property.”
“In this world? Yes, you are. My property. My wife. Mine.” I lower my voice, only for her. “Everyone here needs to understand that. Especially men who think familiarity gives them permission.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“I’m being clear.”
The man has disappeared into the crowd. Smart man. If he’d stayed, I might have done something that couldn’t be walked back.
Janice stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. Maybe she doesn’t. This is the side of me she’s seen hints of but never fully experienced—the possessive violence that comes with genuine threat.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
“We just got here.”
“Now, Janice. Unless you want me to make this worse.”
She must see something in my expression that convinces her I’m serious. She lets me guide her toward the exit, though her posture radiates fury.
The drive back is silent. Janice stares out the window, jaw tight, refusing to look at me.
I don’t apologize. Seeing another man’s hands on her, seeing her smile at him with genuine warmth, ignited something I can’t control or reason with.
She’s mine, and I’ll burn down anyone who forgets it.
Even if that makes me exactly the monster she thinks I am.