Chapter 41
YURI
The room is quiet, dimly lit except for the low sun slanting through the blinds. A conference table stretches between us, polished mahogany that reflects the gold ring on Ivan Abramov’s pinky as he drums it against the wood.
He’s not a man who fidgets.
We’ve been speaking for thirty minutes. No aides, no bodyguards. Just the two of us.
“Spalding’s finished,” I say, leaning back. “The FBI has everything. His contacts, his bribes, his dirty assets. He won’t last a week in gen pop.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow, faintly amused. “From what I hear, he’s naming names faster than the agents can write them down.”
I smile without humor. “He’s desperate. I shot him three times, and he still tried to sell me a deal on the way to the ambulance.”
Ivan’s mouth quirks. “And De la Rosa?”
“Picked up the next morning in Waukegan. No security detail, no lawyers. He looked surprised, apparently.”
“Fools always do.”
We fall into a quiet moment. For the first time in months, the chessboard isn’t shifting beneath my feet. No more rogue agents. No more cartel freelancing. No more Tatiana with knives behind her smiles.
Ivan steeples his fingers. “So that leaves you.”
I nod. “Chicago’s ours now. No challengers. The networks Spalding was bleeding are folding back into place. The cartel knows where we stand. And the cops have bigger headlines to chase.”
“Congratulations,” Ivan says. There’s weight in the word, something else behind the polish of his tone. “You’re the undisputed rulers of Chicago. And with that comes the inevitable question—what’s next?”
I lift a brow. “Expansion.”
“New York,” he says, dryly.
I smile. “Only if you’re inviting me.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his eyes glint.
We both laugh. It’s short and civilized.
“Go west, young man,” he offers, almost whimsically. “The Ivanovs of Los Angeles. You could wear linen. Get a yacht.”
I make a face. “Sounds like a bad crime novel.”
“That’s because it would be.” He leans back. “But then again, so is this life.”
Our amusement lingers a beat longer but drains as Ivan straightens, folding his hands with precision.
“And now,” he says, voice dropping, “there’s the matter of my daughter.”
The words sit heavy between us.
Slowly, I lower my gaze to the table before meeting his eyes again. He’s not angry, but his expression is stone-like. No more jokes. No more veiled jabs and brotherly chuckles. Just a father staring down the man his only child tried to ruin.
I don’t blink. “Say what you need to say.”
“She fled the scene, as you know,” Ivan begins. “Tried to hedge her bets, to get credit for taking the Ivanovs down if the plan worked but avoid the consequences if it didn’t.”
“She still in town?”
He nods. “I’ve had her followed. She’s checked into a condo downtown under a pseudonym she thinks I don’t know about. This morning, she ordered her usual coffee. And now she’s planning to come into work. Like nothing happened.”
I laugh, low and bitter. “She’s going to play dumb.”
He nods. “She thinks you’ll look the other way because of our history,” Ivan says. “It’s not going to be easy, what comes next.”
As if on cue, the conference room chime sounds. Then the assistant’s voice, filtered through the intercom announces, “Tatiana Abramova is here to see you, sir.”
“Send her to Conference Room A,” I reply smoothly and lean further back in my chair.
Ivan’s mouth flattens into a thin line.
A moment later, the door opens. Tatiana walks in like she owns the place—heels sharp, suit immaculate, hair twisted into an elegant knot. But her confidence evaporates the moment she sees who’s seated across the table from me. Her spine stiffens. Her eyes flick to the door, looking for an escape.
Too late.
Two guards appear behind her. Silent and stoic, blocking the exit.
She turns as if to run. Ivan’s voice booms throughout the room. “Don’t.”
She freezes and looks between us.
I gesture to the seat opposite me. “Sit.”
She hesitates at first. Slowly, she moves to the chair and lowers herself with controlled grace, though I can see the tremble in her hands as they fold in her lap.
Her father leans forward, elbows on the table. “I taught you better than this,” he says, his tone oddly soft.
“Papa—”
“Don’t,” he cuts her off. “You played both sides. You lied to me, you lied to my crew. You used my name to gain access to meetings meant for family. You helped Christian De la Rosa attempt to take down the Ivanov syndicate. And for what, Tatiana? Leverage? Power?”
“You don’t understand,” she says, voice cold and surprisingly composed. “The Ivanovs have had a stranglehold on this city for too long. They're untouchable, too powerful. No one else gets to breathe, let alone rise.”
Ivan stares at her, stunned.
“I didn’t want a seat at their table,” she goes on, her voice rising. “I wanted to set the table on fire. Chaos was the only way. If Spalding and De la Rosa had succeeded, the vacuum would’ve been mine to fill. I could’ve taken what was owed to us. To me.”
His expression hardens, pain warring with fury. “I understand,” Ivan says tightly. “I understand betrayal. And I understand that when it comes from your own flesh and blood, it cuts deeper than anything else.”
She doesn’t speak. No tears. No shame. Just cold calculation flickering in her eyes, already scanning for exits that no longer exist.
Ivan inhales slowly, then says, “You’re leaving today.”
Tatiana blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You will be on a flight to Moscow in three hours. You will not return to Chicago. You will not return to the States at all. Your accounts are being closed as we speak.”She gasps, but he continues.
“And I’m pulling strings to have your passport revoked.
You’ll be married to a man of my choosing and you’ll live your life in Russia. ”
“You can’t be serious.”
Ivan lifts a hand, silencing her. “This is a mercy, Tatiana. If anyone else had pulled what you did, they wouldn’t have a choice to go.
They’d be a stain on the pavement.” She flinches, but he’s not done.
“Whatever kind of wife you choose to be,” he adds, “is your business. I can only hope you’ll be a better wife than you were a daughter. ”
She rises from the chair in a gracefully furious motion, the guards immediately beside her. She turns to me, eyes burning. “You knew about this.”
I shrug. “I helped plan it.”
Her lip curls. “Coward.”
“No,” I say simply. “I did what I had to do to protect my family.”
The guards lead her out, her heels striking the floor in an angry staccato. The door shuts behind her with a quiet finality.
Ivan and I both exhale. For a moment, we say nothing, just sit in the silence she’s left behind.
Surprisingly, a flicker of regret, faint but real, passes through me. She was brilliant once. Dangerous, but brilliant.
More than regret, I feel relief.
One more loose end tied. One more liability neutralized.
All that’s left now is the final thread.