"Da. This is why I move quiet. Did not want to wake you."
"Back to your post."
He nods but doesn't leave. He hovers, chips in hand, looking at me like he wants to say more.
"What?"
"May I speak freely, Boss?"
He asks in Russian, so the question signals we’re about to have a serious conversation. The kind that can't happen in English, where walls might have ears. Where Lila might wake and overhear.
"Speak."
He places the Doritos down as if handling a newborn."What is really happening with her?"
"Protection. You know this."
"I know what you tell me. But I have eyes. I see how you look at her. Now she sleeps in your bed." His expression is careful. "When has Viktor Petrov's son ever kept American girl like this?"
The question lands harder than it should. He’s right. My father would be ashamed. Furious. Hell, he’d probably disown me.
"Back to your fucking post."
"The men are talking?—"
"I don't care what they are saying."
"You should." Pyotr's tone is quiet but firm. "They wonder why Pakhan reject Russian girls. Morozov offered his daughter. Beautiful girl, good bloodline. Volkov offered his niece before the war. And Ivanov sent his sister's photo. All refused."
"I decide who shares my bed. Not the other families."
"Da, Boss. But they wonder reason. Why you reject goodmatches for nobody waitress who serve coffee? No bloodline. No Russian."
Nobody, waitress. The words clamp my jaw shut. She’s not a nobody. Not to me.
But I can't say that. Nor can I explain that three months of watching her serve coffee changed me. That her laugh makes me feel human again. That her sketches make me believe there are things in this world worth more than power and revenge.
"Tell them to fuck off," I say instead. "My father is dead. I run Petrovs now. What I do is my business."
"Your father built alliances through marriage. Created peace through family bonds." Pyotr's voice is careful. "You spit on tradition for American girl. They see weakness. No discipline. They see opportunity."
"Let them see what they want. I'm Pakhan. They follow, or they die."
"Is not that simple anymore." He shifts his weight, struggle playing out in his face. Loyalty versus truth. "Boris says you dishonor your father's memory."
Boris. Of course. Old guard. My father's generation. The type who thinks tradition trumps everything, who believes a Pakhan should sacrifice personal wants for organizational strength.
"Never liked that pompous fuck," I mutter. "Acts like he knew my father better than me."
"He was your father's captain for twenty years?—"
"And now he's my captain. My organization. My rules." I lean against the counter. "Tell him if he has concerns, he can say them to my face. See how that conversation ends."
Pyotr is quiet for a moment. "You would kill Boris? For questioning you about the girl?"
Would I?
A week ago, the answer would have been no. Boris is old guard, yes, but he's loyal. Capable. Connected.
