Chapter 8 #2
Everyone lowered their heads. No one dared look at me.
Because they all knew I wasn't joking.
In my first five years as Pakhan, three men tried to challenge my authority.
One took a bullet to the head in a duel.
One had an "accident" and ended up in the East River.
The third—his family was still collecting pieces.
The Pakhan of the Volkov family wasn't elected. It was made with fists and bullets.
And my fists were harder than anyone's.
"Since no one wants to challenge me," I said, sitting back down, "we do things my way. My marriage, my family, my business—all my call. Your job is to follow orders. Clear?"
"Yes, Pakhan," they answered in unison.
Good.
I picked up my pen, acting like nothing had happened, and scanned the room.
"Anything else?"
Silence lasted a few seconds. Then Viktor changed his expression, suddenly warm like a concerned elder.
"Dmitri's coming back to New York next week," Viktor said with a smile. "He wants to see you."
My hand paused.
Dmitri.
My nephew. Viktor's grandson. The waste of space who ran off to Europe two years ago to lay low.
Now he was coming back.
"Why?" I asked.
Viktor shrugged. "He says he misses home."
Misses home.
I almost laughed.
Dmitri had never missed home a day in his life. When he was in New York, all he thought about was spending money, chasing women, and living off others. When he left, he didn't even look back. Now suddenly he "misses home"?
"Let him come," I said. "I'll see him when I have time."
Viktor got what he wanted. He nodded, satisfied, and said nothing more.
After the meeting, everyone filed out.
I didn't move.
I sat at the head of the table, watching them leave one by one. Viktor walked last, pausing beside me like he wanted to say something. But he just clapped my shoulder, smiled, and said, "Good night, nephew," then left.
Where his hand touched, a chill spread—like something cursed had latched on.
Bogdan closed the door and came to my side, speaking quietly. "We traced Dmitri's accounts from his two years in Europe."
"Talk."
"He's been in constant contact with Viktor. Frequent money transfers." Bogdan set a folder in front of me. "Officially business, but the channels are suspicious. Also, he booked his return flight three days ago. Not a last-minute decision."
I flipped through the file, scanned it, then closed it.
"Viktor knew in advance," I said. "But he only told me tonight. He wanted to catch me off guard."
Bogdan stayed quiet, waiting for my assessment.
Dmitri.
Two years ago, he came to me saying he owed two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, begging me to cover it. By then, he'd already racked up debts—casinos, women, failed investments—I'd bailed him out too many times.
"Handle it yourself," I told him. "If you drag the family or company into it, you'll regret it."
His face went pale. His lips trembled. He wanted to say something but didn't. He just turned and left.
I thought he couldn't handle it. I thought he'd come crawling back or disappear for good.
But he handled it.
A man who never earned, only spent, suddenly cleared a quarter-million in debt. Clean. No trail. Even I couldn't trace where the money came from.
Then he left for Europe, stayed two years, lived lavishly, and never owed another cent.
That wasn't right.
Something happened that I didn't know about.
I stood and walked to the window.
The Upper East Side at night was quiet. Streetlights cast cold light over the ivy outside the old mansion. I'd lived in this house since I was a kid. I'd touched every brick seam, walked every hidden passage. But it never felt like home.
Only danger.
And betrayal.
"Have Marco tail Dmitri," I said. "The second he lands, I want to know."
"Yes."
"Also—" I paused. "Double security around the apartment."
Bogdan hesitated—brief, but I caught it.
"Miss Collins' place?" he asked.
I paused. "Assign two men to stay close to her. But don't let her notice."
Bogdan lowered his head. "Understood." Then, after a beat, he added, "Anna says the master bedroom is ready. She asked if you're staying at the mansion tonight."
"No," I said. "Tell her I appreciate it, but Misha's waiting at the apartment."
I waved him off. He left and closed the door.
The conference room was empty except for me.
I leaned against the windowsill, loosened my tie, and took a deep breath.
I'd been doing this for twelve years. I'd seen this pattern too many times—one side goes quiet, the other starts moving, then one day everything explodes at once.
Viktor was already positioning his pieces.
Dmitri was just the first move.
I closed my eyes and replayed tonight's meeting—every face, every word, every look sent my way.
Three men reacted wrong. Pavel spoke less, Nikolai stared at the table the whole time, and Ivanov didn't say a word but I could feel him watching, waiting.
In this position, neutrality equals betrayal.
I filed their names away with question marks.
Then I thought of Ella.
Just for a moment, that smile flashed through my mind—her learning Russian, her holding Misha while she slept, her flushed panic when she woke and saw me—
I shoved the image down.
Not now.
Can't be now.
People around me were either pawns or enemies. No exceptions. That was the first lesson my father taught me, and the only judgment that hadn't failed me in twelve years.
Viktor knew about her.
I'd confirmed that from his probing.
And anything he knew would eventually become a blade in his hand.
I pushed open the conference room door and walked into the night.
I got back to the apartment just before eleven.
Misha heard the door and came wagging over, circling my legs twice.
"Alright," I crouched down and rubbed her head. "Enough."
She looked up at me, eyes full of unconditional trust.
Just these eyes.
In twelve years, only these eyes never lied to me.
I sat on the couch. Misha jumped up and sprawled beside me, chin on my knee—exactly like this afternoon, except then her chin had been on Ella's knee.
I looked down at him. She closed his eyes, ears twitching occasionally, like she was dreaming.
I thought of how she'd looked in Ella's arms today—that total relaxation, that defenseless weight. She rarely did that even with me.
"You like her," I said quietly. "But you don't know what that means."
Misha didn't open her eyes. Her tail swept once.
I rested my hand on her back and stared out at Manhattan's lights.
Can't let her get too close.
Viktor would use her. Dmitri would use her. Anyone wanting to take me down would use her. And people around me, once they became leverage, never ended well.
I'd seen it too many times.
She was just an ordinary girl. I couldn't drag her into this world.
I leaned back into the couch, closed my eyes, and let the night and all those messy thoughts sink down together.
Misha pressed closer against my leg and sighed.
I didn't move.
Outside, New York blazed bright as daylight. But in this room, just me and a dog, quiet as the end of the world.
The next morning, I brought Misha into the office building.
I arrived an hour earlier than usual.
Bogdan was already there. He handed me today's briefing. I flipped through it and told him to set up the first meeting.
At 8:45, I ran into Emily in the hallway. She said Misha's room was ready and asked when to bring her down.
"Now," I said.
I personally took Misha downstairs, handed her to the waiting assistant, gave a few instructions, then straightened and headed for the elevator.
Passing the architecture department, my steps slowed.
Just for a second.
Through the glass, I could see her—she'd just arrived, standing by her workstation taking off her coat. Auburn hair had come loose from walking. She tucked it behind her ear absently, then bent down to turn on her computer.
She wore a cream-colored sweater today.
I stood outside the glass for less than three seconds.
Then stepped into the elevator.
The doors closed.
I looked at my reflection in the polished steel. Tie, suit, perfectly groomed silver hair.
Pakhan.
That's all.
The elevator rose.