Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MAKSIM
The heavy double doors of the private estate's grand ballroom wing open, and the low, rumbling chatter of the Bratva elite instantly dies out. A heavy, suffocating silence blankets the room.
I step across the threshold, and for the first time in my life, I don’t immediately scan the room for threats. My focus is entirely directed inward, fueled by the sheer, unadulterated weight of the woman on my arm.
Camilla looks like a fucking goddess of war.
The severe black dress she chose is lethal.
The sharp, structured shoulders add a commanding presence to her frame, while the high collar frames her jawline with a chilling elegance.
But it’s the thigh-high slit that cuts with every step she takes, teasing the smooth skin of her leg, that has my blood roaring.
I can still feel the faint, possessive thrill in my chest knowing what lies beneath that fabric.
She looks sexy as hell, dangerous, and completely untouchable.
With her chin held high and her dark eyes flashing with unyielding confidence, she looks like a queen. For the first time since taking the mantle of Pakhan, I feel like I am on top of the world. Let the old men stare. Let them try to find a weakness. They will only find a fortress.
I lead her down the short steps into the main dining area, my large hand resting firmly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the long, mahogany high table where the most powerful players in the Sokolov syndicate are already seated.
Waiting for us at the center of the room are the four elders of the syndicate—the true traditionalists who still hold major territory and deep-rooted influence.
Yuri Morozov sits to the left, his hands clasped over his cane, his eyes narrowed as he tracks our approach.
Next to him is Igor Petrov, a man whose greed is as legendary as his cruelty.
Beside them sit Daniil Volkov and Matvey Sokolov, two older captains who have survived decades in the underworld by playing the long game.
Every single one of them is judging us, weighing the Caruso alliance, and waiting to see if I have brought home a liability. But as Camilla steps into the light of the chandelier, her gaze locking onto theirs without a single hint of fear, I watch the subtle shift in their expressions.
Slowly, the heavy silence breaks as the four men rise from their seats to greet me, the scraping of their chairs loud against the polished floor. It is a mandatory show of respect to the Pakhan.
I give a curt, tight nod of acknowledgement, my hand remaining possessively on the small of Camilla’s back. "Elders," I address them, my voice a low rumble. "This is my wife, Camilla."
Camilla doesn't falter. She offers them a flawless, entirely polite smile that doesn't reach her calculating dark eyes. "Good evening, gentlemen. It is a pleasure to finally meet the backbone of the Sokolov syndicate."
Yuri, Daniil, and Matvey offer stiff, traditional murmured greetings, their eyes lingering on her sharp posture. But when it’s Igor Petrov's turn to speak, the atmosphere turns instantly toxic.
"Welcome to the family, dear," Igor draws out, his tone dripping with a condescending, greasy warmth that makes my jaw tighten as he addresses Camilla. "Let us hope the Caruso blood brings us fortune, rather than the usual chaos your father is known for."
“Igor…” my voice carries a warning. “…if I were you, I’d watch it tonight.”
Igor slightly lowers his head. Camilla simply smiles at him.
The hostility radiating from him is palpable.
Igor and I have shared bad blood for years.
He has hated me since the day I took control of the syndicate, viewing me as an arrogant, youthful upstart who disrupted the old ways.
Up until now, he has been smart enough never to cross his boundaries or challenge me openly, but tonight, the bait of Viktor’s brewing war is clearly making him bold.
I lock eyes with him, a lethal promise flashing in my stare that tells him exactly what will happen if he pushes his luck one inch further. Igor holds my gaze for a fraction of a second before giving a dismissive, tight-lipped smile and looking away.
I pull out the heavy chair at the head of the table for Camilla, ensuring she sits right beside me, before taking my own seat. With a sharp flick of my wrist, I signal the servers standing in the wings.
Dinner starts.
The clinking of heavy silverware and the pouring of rich red wine fill the tense silence that followed our entrance. Plates of roasted lamb, dark rye bread, and traditional stews are placed before us, the rich aromas filling the air.
For the first few minutes, the conversation remains strictly polite, circling entirely around the food and the vintage of the wine.
"The lamb is excellent tonight, Pakhan," Matvey Sokolov notes, wiping his gray mustache with a linen napkin.
He turns his gaze to Camilla, his expression softening just a fraction.
"I hope the Russian palate isn't too harsh for you, Camilla.
I imagine it is quite different from what you are used to. "
"Not at all, Matvey," Camilla replies smoothly, picking up her wine glass with an elegant, steady hand. "Good food is universal. My father always appreciated a heavy, hearty meal after a long day of business. I find comfort in it."
Daniil Volkov nods approvingly, leaning forward slightly. "A good attitude to have. Our winters require heavy food, and our business requires thick skin. You seem to possess both."
"She possesses more than that," I interject, my voice cutting through the clatter of silverware. I rest my forearm on the table, casually leaning toward her. "Camilla understands the weight of our world better than most."
Yuri Morozov chuckles softly into his glass. "A rare trait for most women. Usually, women are kept behind high walls, shielded from the reality of the ledger. It is refreshing to see the Pakhan has a partner who can stand beside him, not behind him."
Throughout the entire exchange, the men actively try to make Camilla feel comfortable, probing her with polite questions, testing her quick wit, and clearly growing more impressed by the minute as she holds her own without a single stutter.
But across the table, Igor Petrov stays completely silent.
He doesn't touch his food, only swirling the dark liquor in his glass.
His heavy, hooded eyes never leave Camilla, tracking the sharp lines of her black dress and the easy confidence in her smile with a cold, simmering malice.
The silence coming from his side of the table is heavy, a dark cloud over the dinner, but I keep my focus on my wife.
Let him stew in his hatred; tonight, she is ruling his table.
Matvey looks seemingly pleased with her composure, and he leans in to ask another question.
"Tell me, Camilla, with the current shifts in the shipping routes, how does the Caruso network handle the maritime blockades near the Black Sea?
Our men have been running into compliance issues with the local port authorities. "
Before Camilla can even part her lips to answer, Igor finally speaks.
"How do you expect a bought Italian bride to know anything about that?" Igor cuts in, his voice dripping with venomous amusement.
He sets his glass down with a heavy thud, leaning forward to glare across the table.
"She was traded like a piece of meat to secure a border treaty.
Let us not pretend she understands high-level logistics, Matvey.
She is here to look pretty and breed, not to lecture hardened men on syndicate revenue. "
A sudden, violent rage flares in my chest. The temperature in the room plummets instantly as my jaw locks, and my hand begins to tighten around the heavy silver handle of my steak knife.
I start to rise, ready to drag Igor across the mahogany table and show him exactly what happens to men who disrespect my wife.
But before I can make a move, a warm, firm hand slips under the table and wraps tightly around my wrist.
I glance down. Camilla’s grip is unyielding, pinning my arm down with a silent, iron command. She doesn't look at me; her eyes are locked dead on Igor, completely calm, unbothered, and terrifyingly sharp. She squeezes my wrist once—a signal to let her handle it—before slowly releasing me.
Camilla tilts her head as she addresses Igor directly. She doesn't raise her voice, yet the entire table goes dead silent, the other three elders freezing with their drinks halfway to their mouths.
She takes a slow sip of her wine, sets the glass down, and rests her hands elegantly on the table.
"Am I mistaken when I say that your entire northern territory is currently hemorrhaging cash? Don’t your premium casino revenues rely entirely on the offshore laundering channels running through the Adriatic coast? "
Igor’s smug expression suddenly stiffens, his eyes widening a fraction.
"Channels that my husband currently controls and protects," Camilla continues, her voice cutting through the room like a razor blade.
"The Pakhan could completely freeze your assets by tomorrow morning, leaving your entire operation bankrupt.
How long would your men stay loyal to you if you couldn't pay for their silence? "
A heavy, suffocating silence falls over the grand room.
I relax my grip on the knife, a slow, dark wave of pride washing over me.
I stay completely still, letting her finish, because I realize something profound in this exact moment: she has just defended my power, my territory, and her own place at this table far better than my violence ever could have.
She didn't just break Igor's pride; she systematically dismantled his leverage in front of the entire council.
Across the table, Igor’s face turns a dark, mottled red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he realizes he has been completely cornered by the very woman he tried to humiliate.