It’s a testament to how bad things have gotten between our families. Where "come alone" is aesthetic bullshit while both sides position their armies in the shadows, waiting.
The warehouse door hangs crooked on its hinges. I push through. The stench hits immediately—rust, old fish, and decades of neglect. Neutral ground because neither family wants to claim this shithole.
Perfect for meetings where everyone's ready to kill everyone else.
He's already here, sitting on a chair in the middle of rubble like he's holding court. Red suit and a glass in his hand. Clear liquid inside catches the dim light. Vodka. Always vodka with the old-school types.
Part of me wants to pull my gun right now and end this before it starts. One shot through his forehead would brain paint the concrete behind him. Problem solved.
But his snipers would return fire immediately and take out half my men before Pyotr could respond. I can’t let that happen.
Not yet.
Not without knowing where she is first.
"Have you reconsidered my generous offer, Petrov?"
His voice echoes in the empty space. Too confident. Too comfortable.
I don't respond, but study him. The way he sits—casual lean, legs crossed. The fucking smirk playing on his lips. The glass, held loosely in his fingers like this is a social call.
He's hiding something.
I can feel it. That wrongness in the air. That sense when someone knows more than they're saying.
"Leave the girl." He takes a sip. "Everything returns to normal. No more encroachment on territories. No more tension between families. You go back to being the respected Pakhan. I go back to running my operations. Chicago stays peaceful."
Leave the girl.
Three words that make the rage boil immediately and white-hot.
This roach already has her. I know he does.
Hell, I can practically smell it. Smellher. That intoxicating scent. A faint whisp of Jasmine and amber.
Fuck. My men searched everywhere else. She disappearedinto nothing. And now he's sitting here playing dumb. Acting like she's still my choice to make. Like she's an object I can walk away from.
What's his angle? Ransom? Humiliation? Does he think I'll just agree and forget she exists?
Battling rage, I take a step forward. I must stay composed. I can't let him see how badly I want to tear his throat out with my teeth or show weakness. A pakhan doesn't show weakness. Even when the only thing he cares about is missing.
"What happens if I say yes?"
His smirk widens, and he settles deeper into his chair, getting comfortable.
Great. Here comes the monologue.
"Greatness awaits both families, Ivan. Just like the nineties." His eyes get that distant look. Nostalgic. "Your father and mine—both inheriting empires from the USSR generation before them. You know what came next? Glory. Real power. They made Chicago their bitch for decades."
He leans forward now, earnest, like he believes this revisionist bullshit.
"My father never shut up about those stories. The territory wars they won together. The politicians they bought. The empire they built side by side. Brothers in everything but blood." He pauses and takes another drink. "That can happen again. The Petrovs and Volkovs together. Like always. Like it was meant to be before you decided to throw it away for an American waitress."
I want to punch his teeth down his throat and show him exactly what I think of his legacy worship and his assumption that I give a single fuck about what our fathers built.
My father's dead. His empire got him killed. I'm not making the same mistakes.
I take another step. Now there’s ten feet between us.Memories close in around me. My family. My legacy. Mywoman.They all swirl in the air.
