Chapter Eighteen
Riccardo
I watch Anya in front of the mirror, the way she adjusts the fabric of her dress and brushes her hair back. She looks so fucking calm. As if this dinner with Sergei and the other presumably loyal men doesn’t feel like a ticking time bomb.
In hindsight, taking her out to dinner last week and letting her pull together this meeting was probably an absolute crap idea.
What the fuck had I been thinking encouraging her?
She’d been so fucking sexy, saying she wanted to fight for what should by all rights be hers. My dick had responded like a horny teenager and I’d been so fucking smug that I’d already floated the idea to Gianna and Mikhail that I’d almost laughed when Anya had said the exact thing to me.
Great minds think alike and all that.
Except now I don’t feel so smug because I don’t fucking like the idea of her meeting with all these men. Men who are fucking savages.
I step into the room, my voice sharp as I break the silence. “You’re not going alone.”
She doesn’t even flinch, her eyes flicking briefly to the reflection of me in the mirror. “I’m fine, Riccardo. I can handle this and you being there would certainly not make convincing them I should take over any easier.”
I close the distance between us, standing so close I can feel the heat coming off her. “I didn’t say I was going to come, but you will take Josh and Ren.” My voice is controlled, but there’s a bite in it now. She doesn’t understand that I fucking hate the idea of her walking into that room without protection.
I don’t even understand where this is coming from, because it’s not just some abstract pride about my legal wife possibly being hurt, making me look bad because I couldn’t protect what’s mine.
No, this feels personal.
She turns around, eyes narrowing, already bristling. “I don’t need your bodyguards, Riccardo. If I take your men with me, I’ll look weak. Like I need protection. Like I’m not capable of doing this on my own.”
She’s right, which only makes it worse. I bite back a sharp response. Fuck if I’m not already getting pissed off at myself for caring. I’m not supposed to care about her. Not like this. But I do. And part of me hates it.
Probably the same part that always hated my father.
“You’re not weak,” I growl, jaw tightening as I suppress my internal shit-storm of thoughts. “But the moment you walk into that room with your father’s men, with people who’ve been loyal to him for years, you need them to see you’re not alone. Not now. Not when everything’s up in the air like this.”
She scoffs, seeing through the bullshit, crossing her arms over her chest, as if the last thing she wants is for me to have a say in her plans. “And sending your men will remind them that I married you. You’re an Italian , and in their books a rival. Is that the message I should send, Riccardo?”
I glare at her, fighting to keep my frustration in check. My hands ball into fists, but I don’t let myself move closer. I’m not my father. Never will be. “It’s not about who you’re married to, Anya. It’s about making sure they know you’re serious. That you’re capable. If they see weakness, they’ll take advantage of it.”
She looks at me like I’m a fucking idiot, and it’s making me want to explode. “I don’t need your men, Riccardo. I’ll handle it. I’ll make them see who I am.
Running a hand through my hair, I stare at her as if she’s completely blind to what’s happening, because that’s a fuck of a lot better than to admit what’s really bothering me. “No, you won’t. You’re not going in there by yourself.” I can feel my patience running out. “Take Josh and Ren, Anya. I don’t care if you think it’ll make you look weak. You’re making a mistake if you think you’re going to waltz in there and not risk your life if Dmitri turned some of them already. And don’t you dare act like I’m doing this because I don’t believe in you. I do. But I also know how this works. You need more than just your ambition to control these men.”
I see her jaw clench, that familiar stubbornness flaring up in her, and it has my dick stiffening despite there being little to no chance of that working out at any point today. Anya steps closer, like she’s daring me to back down, and I hate the fact that she’s making this harder. All of it, not just my cock.
“If I bring your men, I’m going to look like I’m under your thumb,” she snaps, her voice low and dangerous.
Ignoring that she also has a point, I stand my ground, my voice dropping into a more dangerous tone, because fuck my motivations, but I have a goddamn point too. “This is about making sure you don’t end up dead, Anya. That’s the reality here. Not how you look to them.”
She stares at me for a moment, her chest rising and falling with a sharp breath, before she opens her mouth to say something else. I cut her off before she gets the chance.
“I’m not asking you to like it,” I snap, “But you’re taking them with you. And if you don’t, you don’t leave this house tonight.”
The words hang in the air. I know I’m pushing her, but I’m past the point of caring. She needs to understand the risks. She needs to stop acting like she can do this without consequences.
I step toward her, voice sharp with impatience. “Take the fucking bodyguards, Anya. I’m not letting you go alone.”
She doesn’t even flinch, just stares at me with that same stubborn look I’ve come to loathe and admire in equal measure. “No,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. “I’m not taking your men. I don’t need them.”
Her words ignite a familiar sense of helplessness, and I fucking hate it. It’s the same way I used to feel watching my mother take pills to mute her depression. Only Anya isn’t anything like my mother.
I need to remember that.
“You’re making a mistake,” I mutter through clenched teeth, trying to rein in my messed up emotions.
She doesn’t budge, doesn’t even soften. “I disagree and even if it is, it’s my mistake to make.”
Taking a step back, I clench my fist, my frustration boiling over. She isn’t my mother. She isn’t one of my men. She isn’t even really my wife except on paper. “You know what? Fine.”
I turn away, my hand on the door, my voice a low growl. “Go ahead, play the fucking martyr. Do it your way, but don’t come crawling to me when things go south.”
I don’t wait for her reply. I storm out, the sound of the door slamming behind me echoing in the silence. My mind races, torn between anger and something deeper. Something I’m not ready to face.
Why the fuck did I ever think it was a good idea to encourage this idiotic plan?
Why the fuck did I ever agree to marry her?
Anya
Sergei stands by the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his expression unreadable. His presence is like a constant reminder of my father. I’m sure that some of the men he’s asked here are probably more loyal to his legacy than truly convinced I’m the best person to take over for him.
At least I have Sergei’s backing for now. He’s one of the few who has some sense of what I’m capable of, and that even though I’d always thought him and my father ignorant, which isn’t exactly reassuring. I don’t like that I had no idea. And even though Sergei knows more than the other men, I can still feel his judgment looming as he watches me.
Today’s a test.
One I damn well intend to pass.
I force myself to walk into the dining room with purpose, the soft click of my heels against the floor the only sound in the otherwise tense silence. There are seven men here and they all know why I’ve asked them here.
“Please, have a seat.”
I watch as five of my father’s highest-ranked men, and a couple of the lower enforcers, sit around the long table where we used to only eat on holidays, some of them eying me with the skepticism I’ve come here expecting. Still, they’re curious, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have come. They want to know if I’m strong enough to take the reins, if I’m willing to lead them as my father once did.
Or if they should start betting on Dmitri.
I take my seat at the head of the table, my back straight, eyes meeting theirs. “Thank you for joining me.” Even though Sergei has relayed the invitations, it’s time to make clear that I’m the one who has invited them here.
“Thank you for having us,” Sergei offers.
“It was a surprise,” Victor says, and adds, “but a pleasant one,” after throwing a look at Sergei, who gives him a minuscule nod.
I don’t need to answer right away, as the caterers bring in the appetizers. After deciding on this dinner, I ordered the meal so I wouldn’t have to bother dealing with any detailed plans. I wait for the two servers to leave the room and close the door before I speak.
“Please, enjoy the meal. We’ll talk business after, but for now, let this be a meal we share in honor of my father.” Given the situation, Sergei and I decided to postpone the official memorial celebration until later, not wanting to play into Dmitri’s hand if he was planning to interfere during that event. Plus, honoring my father during this meal is a reminder to everyone that I am now the head of the family. In Mikhail’s absence, anyway.
By the time dessert arrives and everyone holds a glass of scotch, which I force myself to swallow without making a face, Viktor speaks up. “Dmitri Solntsev has been making some rather big claims” He lets the statement hang in the air, looking between me and Sergei as if to gauge if he’s pushing a sensitive point. “Specifically about you, Anya, and who you are supposed to marry and who you actually married.”
The room falls quiet, with only some glasses clinking as the men set them down. Instinct to have their hands free during tense situations, perhaps.
Not giving Sergei the chance to speak first, I smile at the men. “Another reason I invited you here today is that I wanted to share news of my marriage with you all. As rumors are obviously preceding my announcement, let me make clear that I have very good reasons for why I married Riccardo Angelo. In fact, I am here to tell you that I was able to win the agreement of not only the Angelo syndicate but also the Bruno syndicate that they will not interfere with our business or push at the established borders as long as I will take over operations of my father’s businesses and the larger organization.”
I give the men a moment to take that in. A few of them look appalled. Viktor and a couple others look contemplative. Sergei gives me a nod that isn’t quite approval, but more so an encouragement to go on. It’s not like I don’t already know that he hates Riccardo with a fierce passion, so that hardly comes as a surprise. Still, he continues to give me a chance to explain myself, and I need to use the opportunity while it’s here.
“I am also aware that Dmitri has made some claims about an intended marriage between him and me, but I can assure you, I have never endeavored to tie myself to a would-be rapist.”
Anger flashes on a few faces. Micro-expressions that convince me I didn’t misstep by sharing that fact. It could have gone either way, making me look weak, or rousing their protective spirit against an outsider.
Not that I have won them over yet.
“You think you can take on the leadership? We’re here because we were loyal to your father, but...” Rocco, one of the enforcers, trails off, and I can hear the unsaid words: But you’re a woman.
I put my glass down and turn to stare at him directly. “I am more than capable of running the operation. What I need from you is your respect. And I assure you, I can earn that respect.”
Rocco looks like he wants to reply, but Sergei holds up a hand to silence him, his eyes on me.
“The question is, Anya,” Sergei says carefully, “what makes you think you can control the Bratva? Your business savvy isn’t in question. You have the necessary credentials and the experience of running the Flemingdon Park club for years, but what can you offer your men to gain their loyalty and respect? Some might question a woman calling the shots. We know your father did.”
His question is both a challenge and an opportunity. I suppress my smile. By questioning my capability of gaining respect and loyalty while also highlighting my experience and ability to run things at the club that Mikhail was supposedly in charge of, Sergei is giving me the opportunity to outline my plan to the men, while indirectly also lending his approval to my leadership skills and experience. It’s subtle and will deter anyone from suggesting he’s only supporting me because of some misled loyalty to my family.
I let the challenge hang in the air for a moment, my pulse steady but my heart hammering against my ribs. This is what I’ve been preparing for. This is where I prove that I’m not just my father’s daughter, but the one who will shape the future.
“Because I am my father’s blood, Sergei,” I say slowly, deliberately. “And I will not let this organization fall into the hands of those who will sell us out for their own gain, like Dmitri Solntsev. I have the resolve and the alliances to keep this family intact. I also have ambition, and a plan to make the clubs even more profitable. Under my father’s leadership, the Bratva secured our place in this city. He ran the clubs and the girls, and we all profited from it. With the ceasefire agreement between us and the Italians, we now have the opportunity to grow the business within our turf. This means the loyalty of those who support me will be rewarded in literal cash—not just through protection from the suffering that will come during the inevitable war if Dmitri tries to claim the territory and make a power grab, pissing off the Italians.”
Silence falls again. The men glance at each other, but none of them speak. It’s an interesting game. They want to see if I have the balls to back up my words, even though they know I lack exactly that. Actual balls. None of this would be necessary if Mikhail was here instead of me. It’s fucking annoying.
Sergei looks at me with an unreadable expression before taking a long sip of his whiskey. “Power rarely comes without bloodshed.”
“I’m not afraid of bloodshed.” The words slip from my lips before I can stop them, and it’s the truth. In this life, blood is the only currency that matters.
The table goes quiet, but Sergei only nods, satisfied with my response. “Good. We’ll see what you’re made of.”