Chapter 34 Dimitri
DIMITRI
The name on the screen burns into my retinas like a brand. Mikhail Volkov. I stare at it, my hand frozen on the mouse, and feel the past twenty years collapse into this single moment.
"Dimitri?" Alina's voice comes from beside me, concerned. "Who is he?"
I can't answer immediately. My throat has closed, memories flooding back with such force that I have to grip the edge of the desk to steady myself. The tech specialist who found the connection shifts uncomfortably, sensing the tension radiating from my body.
"Leave us," I say, my voice rough. "All of you. Now."
Alexei hesitates, his blue eyes sharp with concern, but he nods and ushers the others out. The door closes with a soft click, and suddenly, it's just Alina and me in the study, the name glowing on the screen between us like an accusation.
"Dimitri." She touches my arm, her fingers warm against my skin. "Talk to me. Who is Mikhail Volkov?"
I force myself to breathe, to think past the rage and grief and betrayal churning in my gut. When I finally speak, my voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else.
"My mentor. My brother. The man who taught me everything I know about the Bratva." I turn to look at her, seeing the confusion in her green eyes. "The man I sent to prison fifteen years ago. The man who supposedly died in a riot five years later."
Alina's hand tightens on my arm. "But he's not dead."
"No." The word tastes like ash. "He's very much alive. And he must have been planning this for five years."
I move to the bar cart and pour vodka with shaking hands. The Beluga Noble burns going down, but it doesn't touch the cold spreading through my chest. I pour another and down it just as quickly.
"Tell me," Alina says softly. She's moved to stand beside me, her presence grounding me even as my world tilts on its axis. "Tell me about him."
So I do.
The memories come in fragments, sharp-edged and painful.
Mikhail finding me when I was seventeen, bloodied and desperate after my father's latest beating.
Taking me in. Teaching me to fight, to think, to survive in a world that devoured the weak.
He was everything my father wasn't—strong, controlled, brilliant.
He saw potential in me when everyone else saw just another street rat.
"I loved him," I admit, the words scraping out of my throat. "As a brother. As the father I never had."
Alina's hand finds mine, her fingers threading through mine. The simple gesture steadies me enough to continue.
"We worked together for years. Built the Morozov family into something powerful.
But Mikhail's ambition grew. He started making moves that threatened the entire Bratva structure, deals with foreign cartels that would have brought federal attention down on all of us.
He was willing to sacrifice everything for more power. "
I remember the arguments, the late nights trying to talk sense into him. The way his blue eyes would go cold when I questioned his decisions. The moment I realized the man I loved like a brother had become something monstrous.
"The other families came to me," I continue, my voice flat. "They said if I didn't stop him, they would. There would be war. Hundreds would die. So I made a choice."
"You testified against him." Alina's voice holds no judgment, just understanding.
"Yes. I gave the authorities everything they needed to put him away.
Financial records, witness statements, evidence of his crimes.
He got twenty-five years." I touch the eight-pointed star tattoo on my chest through my shirt, feeling the weight of what that mark represents.
"He looked at me in that courtroom, and I saw the exact moment he stopped seeing me as a brother and started seeing me as a traitor. "
The memory is vivid. Mikhail's face across the courtroom, his silver hair perfectly styled even in prison orange, his blue eyes burning with hatred and something worse. Betrayal. The kind that cuts deeper than any knife.
"Five years into his sentence, there was a riot.
Mikhail was killed, or so we were told. I saw the body myself at the morgue.
Attended the funeral. Watched them lower the casket into the ground.
" I laugh bitterly. "Except it wasn't him, was it?
It was all staged. He's been out there for five years, planning this.
Planning to destroy everything I built, everyone I care about. "
Why is my family trying to destroy me? The people I loved, admired, and looked up to? First my uncle Lorenzo, and now Mikhail. My heart bleeds with the knowledge.
Alina is quiet for a long moment, processing. Then she asks the question I've been asking myself since I saw that name on the screen.
"The church attack. My father's betrayal. The frame job with the Kozlov murders. It's all him?"
"Yes." The certainty settles into my bones like ice. "It's all revenge. Mikhail is a strategist, always thinking three moves ahead. He orchestrated everything to bring me to this moment. Isolated. Vulnerable. Watching everything I've built crumble around me."
I think about the precision of it all. How Viktor was approached, his ambition exploited. How the Kozlovs were manipulated into the church attack. How evidence was planted to frame me for murders I didn't commit. It's brilliant and brutal, exactly Mikhail's style.
And Lorenzo. “Although my Uncle Lorenzo acted out of rage and jealousy, I bet Mikhail helped him along that path. Without Mikhail, maybe Lorenzo wouldn’t have lost his damned mind.”
I take a deep breath and run my hand through my hair, the weight of such betrayal almost too heavy to bear.
"Mikhail wanted me to suffer first," I say, the pieces falling into place. "To lose Sergei, to be accused of crimes I didn't commit, to watch the Bratva families turn against me. And then, when I was at my weakest, he'd reveal himself and take everything."
Alina's face has gone pale, but her voice is steady. "Except he didn't count on me."
I look at her, really look at her. My wife. The woman who's changed everything. Her red hair catches the lamplight, and I see the strength in her green eyes, the steel beneath the softness. She's right. Mikhail's plan didn't account for Alina, for what she's become to me.
"No," I agree, pulling her closer. "He didn't count on you. On us."
She leans into me, and I breathe in the scent of her hair, jasmine and something uniquely her. For a moment, I let myself feel the fear I've been pushing down. Fear of losing her, of watching Mikhail destroy everything I love.
Then I push it away and become the Pakhan again.
"If Mikhail is alive, where is he?" Alina asks, her voice muffled against my chest.
"I don't know. But I have resources." I pull out my phone and start making calls. First to Alexei, then to my network of informants across the city. I offer a substantial reward for information on Mikhail Volkov's whereabouts. Half a million dollars to anyone who can give me a location.
The response is immediate. My phone starts buzzing with incoming messages, calls, tips. Most are useless, people trying to claim the reward with false information. But some are promising.
Alina sits in the leather chair by my desk, watching me work. I'm aware of her presence, of the way she's studying me with those perceptive green eyes. She's learning to read me, to see past the cold exterior to the man beneath.
"You're afraid," she says softly.
I want to deny it, to maintain the facade of the ruthless Pakhan who fears nothing. But I've promised her honesty, and I won't break that promise now.
"Yes," I admit. "Mikhail knows me better than anyone. He knows my weaknesses, my strategies, how I think. Fighting him is like fighting myself."
"But you're not the same man you were five years ago," Alina points out. "You've changed. Grown. You have things to fight for now that you didn't have then."
She's right. Five years ago, I was building an empire for the sake of power, for survival. Now I'm fighting for Alina and the future we're trying to create. That changes everything.
By the time the sun starts to set, painting the study in shades of gold and amber, we have a lead.
One of my most reliable informants calls with information that feels solid.
A private estate in the countryside, about two hours from the city.
It's owned by one of Mikhail's old associates, a man who supposedly retired from the Bratva years ago.
"It makes sense," Alexei says when I call him back to the study. "Mikhail would need a base of operations, somewhere secure where he could plan without being detected. And Anatoly Volkov has always been loyal to him."
Anatoly. I remember him, a distant cousin of Mikhail's. Quiet, methodical, the kind of man who fades into the background. Perfect for hiding a ghost.
"We need to confirm it before we move," I say, already planning. "Send a reconnaissance team. I want eyes on that estate, photos of everyone coming and going. If Mikhail is there, I want to know his security setup, his routines, everything."
Alexei nods and starts coordinating on his phone. I turn to Alina, who's been listening quietly.
"You should rest," I tell her.
"Don't," she interrupts, her voice firm. "Don't try to protect me by shutting me out. I'm in this with you, Dimitri. Whatever happens, we face it together."
I want to argue, want to lock her in our bedroom where she'll be safe. But I see the determination in her face, the same strength that made her pull a gun on me, that made her kill her own father.
"Together," I agree, pulling her into my arms.
We spend the next few hours planning. Alexei coordinates the reconnaissance team while I review everything we know about Mikhail's tactics, his preferences, his weaknesses.
Alina sits beside me, asking questions, offering insights.
She has a sharp mind for strategy, seeing angles I might have missed.
Night falls, and still no word from the reconnaissance team. I'm starting to pace, the dragon tattoo on my neck feeling tight against my skin, when my phone buzzes.
But it's not a call from my team. It's a video message from an unknown number.
My blood runs cold.
"Dimitri?" Alina's voice is concerned. "What is it?"
I don't answer. I just tap the screen to play the video, and suddenly, the study is filled with a voice I haven't heard in five years. A voice I thought I'd never hear again.
The video shows a luxurious room, all dark wood and expensive furnishings. And there, sitting in a leather chair with a glass of what looks like expensive scotch, is Mikhail Volkov.
He looks older than I remember, his silver hair longer, his face more lined. But those blue eyes are the same, cold, calculating, and filled with intelligence. He's wearing an expensive suit, perfectly tailored, and he looks completely at ease.
When he smiles at the camera, it's the smile I remember from our early days together. Warm, almost paternal. It makes my skin crawl.
"Hello, old friend," Mikhail says, his Russian accent smooth and cultured.