Chapter 11
Dimitri
SONG: LOADED GUN BY SAINT VICE
Maxim's intel was a dead end. The "something" he'd found turned out to be circumstantial evidence that pointed everywhere and nowhere.
More burner phone records. More suspicious timing.
Nothing concrete enough to act on. I left the club around six feeling like I'd wasted an entire day chasing ghosts.
The smart move would be to go back to the penthouse, pour a drink, and review the files again with fresh eyes.
Maybe catch a few hours of sleep before my body reminded me that running on caffeine and spite wasn't a sustainable lifestyle choice.
Instead, I found myself in the back of my car telling the driver to head to Silverleaf.
"Again, sir?" He couldn't quite hide his surprise.
"You have a problem with that?" I shot him a scowl, my Pakhan look.
"No, sir. Just...twice in one day is unusual."
Unusual. Right. Because visiting my own wife was apparently noteworthy behavior.
I pulled out my phone and stared at Giulia's last text.
When you figure out what you want from this marriage, let me know.
Good question. What did I want? A week ago, I would have said I wanted distance.
Clean boundaries. A wife who existed on paper and stayed far enough away that I didn't have to think about her.
But that was before she'd stood in that library looking at me like I was capable of being better than my worst instincts.
Before she'd cut through my paranoia with questions that actually made sense.
Before she'd told me to get out of her house with enough conviction that I'd almost obeyed.
Now I didn't know what I wanted. Except that sitting in my empty penthouse thinking about her sitting in that empty mansion felt like the worst possible option.
So here I was. Driving back to Silverleaf like an idiot who couldn't take a hint from his own survival instincts.
The gates opened. Same guards, and same surprised expressions. At this rate they'd stop being shocked and start gossiping, which would be worse.
Margaret answered the door again. This time her disapproval had upgraded to cautious hope.
"Mr. Morozov, back so soon."
"Is she still in the library?"
"Dining room. Helen insisted she eat dinner." Margaret stepped aside. "Should I tell her you're here?"
"No need."
I followed the sound of clinking silverware.
The dining room was smaller than I'd expected.
More intimate with only room for six instead of the formal twelve-seater in the main hall.
Giulia sat at one end with a plate of pasta in front of her.
She'd changed into different clothes. Dark jeans and a soft gray sweater that made her look younger than twenty-one.
Her hair was still up but messier now, like she'd been running her hands through it while studying.
She looked up when I entered and nearly dropped her fork. "Dimitri. What are you doing here?"
"I live here."
"No, you don't." She set down her fork carefully. "You live in a hotel suite and pretend this place doesn't exist."
Ouch. Fair point.
"I came to check on you."
"You checked on me this morning. I haven't changed much in the last eight hours."
"Maybe I wanted to see for myself."
She studied me with those dark eyes, trying to figure out if I was lying. I wasn't entirely sure myself.
"Have you eaten?" she asked finally.
"No."
"Helen made enough for six people. She seems to think I'm starving." Giulia gestured to the empty chair beside her. Not across from her. Beside her. "Sit. Unless you have somewhere more important to be."
I should leave, maintain the distance I'd worked so hard to establish. Coming back tonight would send mixed signals. Make her think I wanted something I couldn't give.
I sat down.
Helen appeared within seconds like she'd been waiting for exactly this moment. She set a plate in front of me without comment, but her smile said plenty. Word would definitely spread now.
The pasta was some kind of carbonara, rich and perfectly cooked. I took a bite and realized I hadn't eaten since breakfast. Maybe lunch yesterday. Time was becoming increasingly theoretical. We ate in silence for a few minutes. The awkwardness was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"So," Giulia said, "did you talk to my father?"
"Not yet. I wanted to gather more information first."
"Information like what?"
"Like whether your cousin has been making calls to anyone suspicious. Meeting with people he shouldn't. Spending money he doesn't have."
"And has he?"
"Still looking into it." I took another bite, stalling. "Your insight this morning was helpful. About him being used instead of being the source."
"Thank you for actually listening to me." She pushed pasta around her plate. "Most men in your position wouldn't."
"Most men in my position would have locked you up and thrown away the key."
"You did lock me up."
"With full access to my organizational files and a staff that actually likes you. That's practically freedom."
She almost smiled. Progress. "Tell me about Maxim," she said.
The subject change threw me. "What about him?"
"You trust him completely. Why?"
I considered how to answer that. The easy version or the truth.
"We grew up together, same neighborhood, same schools.
When my father recruited him into the Bratva, Maxim could have used that position to advance himself at my expense.
Instead, he watched my back. Kept me alive through situations that should have killed me.
" I met her eyes. "He's the only person who's never wanted something from me beyond friendship. "
"That must be lonely. Only trusting one person."
"It's practical."
"Practical and lonely aren't mutually exclusive." She took a sip of red wine. Italian, naturally. "Do you trust me?"
The question landed like a punch. Did I trust her?
I'd given her access to sensitive files, told her about the investigation, and come back here tonight for reasons I couldn't fully articulate.
But trust was different from information sharing.
Trust meant vulnerability. Meant believing she wouldn't use what she knew to hurt me.
"I'm trying to," I said honestly.
"That's more than I expected." She set down her wine glass. "For what it's worth, I haven't decided if I trust you either."
"Smart. You probably shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm Bratva. Because I've killed people for less than looking at me wrong. Because I married you for political gain and then abandoned you in this house like a coward."
I hadn't meant to say that last part out loud.
Giulia was quiet for a moment, then she said, "You're not a coward. You're scared. There's a difference."
"I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." She turned in her chair to face me fully. "Of this, me, of what happens if you actually let yourself care about someone."
How did she do that? How did she see through every defense I'd spent thirty-five years building?
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She leaned closer. "That night in the penthouse when we...when you were with me. You looked at me like I was the most terrifying thing you'd ever seen. And then you ran. Put me in a car and sent me as far away as you could."
"I was protecting you."
"From what? Being happy? From having a real marriage?" Her voice rose slightly. "Or were you protecting yourself from having to feel something?"
The words hit too close. Way too close.
"This isn't a romance novel, Giulia. This is the Bratva. Feelings get people killed."
"So does isolation." She stood abruptly and started clearing plates even though we weren't done eating.
Needing something to do with her hands. "You want to know what I learned today while reading your files?
That your father ran the organization through fear.
People followed him because they were terrified of what he'd do if they didn't. And when someone finally killed him, half the Bratva celebrated. "
That was probably true. I'd been at his funeral. The tears had been scarce.
"Your point?"
"My point is that you're trying so hard not to be like him that you've forgotten how to be like anyone at all." She set the plates down with more force than necessary. "You can't lead through fear alone. You need people to actually care about you. To believe in you. To want you to succeed."
"And how exactly do I accomplish that?"
"By being human." She turned to face me. "By letting people see that you're more than just the Pakhan. That you can be kind. Vulnerable. That you're capable of more than just violence and strategy."
"Vulnerability is weakness."
"Vulnerability is strength." She moved closer. "It takes more courage to open up to someone than it does to kill them. Any idiot with a gun can be violent. It takes a brave man to be gentle."
I stood, putting distance between us before this conversation went somewhere I couldn't navigate. "You have very optimistic views about human nature."
"And you have very pessimistic views about your own nature." She crossed her arms. "You were gentle with me that night. Patient. You made sure I was okay even when you had every reason to just...get it over with."
The memory hit me hard. Giulia trembling under my hands. The trust in her eyes. The way she'd pulled me closer even though she'd been scared.
"That was different."
"How?"
"Because you deserved better than being treated like a transaction."
"And what do I deserve now?"
Everything. The thought came unbidden and unwelcome.