Still, thinking about him questioning my choices about Lila, imagining him calling her a weakness or a distraction, the answer changes. "If he disrespects her, yes."
"She is just girl?—"
"She's under my protection. That makes her off-limits. That makes her mine." The words bite harder than intended. "Anyone who forgets that learns the hard way."
Pyotr studies me with his pale, weathered eyes. "You are falling for her."
It's not a question.
I should deny it or laugh it off. I should maintain the fiction that this is a strategy in a broader game of keeping a useful piece off the board until Dmitri is handled.
Instead, I'm silent.
"Boss." Pyotr's voice softens. Rare for him. "This is dangerous. For you. For her. For all of us."
"You think I don't know that?"
"You know, but don't care." He picks up his chips again, like he needs something to do with his hands. "You are tired of being what your father wanted. Tired of arranged marriages and alliances and living for Bratva instead of yourself."
He’s right. Damn it, he’s completely fucking right.
"I've spent three years doing what my father would want. Being the Pakhan he raised me to be. Following traditions. Building alliances. Putting the Bratva first." I look toward the bedroom where Lila sleeps. "And for what? So I can die alone in a car bomb? So I can sacrifice everything and get nothing?"
"Boss—"
"I'm thirty-eight years old, Pyotr. My father was sixty-five when he died, and he spent his whole life serving the organization. Never took a day off. Never chose something for himself. Just duty and tradition and sacrifice and bullshit." My hands clench. "And it didn't save him. Didn't protect him. He died following all the rules, and I'm supposed to do the same?"
"Your father was good man. We remember him. Good leader."
"He was. But he's dead. And I'm alive. And maybe—" I stop, because finishing that sentence means admitting things I'm not ready to admit.
"Maybe you want something for yourself," Pyotr finishes quietly. "Before you end up like him."
"Yeah."
We stand in the silence of that admission. The weight of it settles between us.
"The girl," Pyotr says eventually. "She make you feel alive?"
"She makes me feel human." The truth comes easier in Russian, in the dim light, with the one person whose loyalty I've never doubted. "Like there's more to existence than blood and business."
"This is dangerous feeling for Pakhan."
"I know."
"Men who feel too much make mistakes. Get soft. Let emotion cloud judgment."
"I fucking know."
"But also—" He pauses, searching for words. "There is... word I am looking for. English word." He frowns, thinking. "You seem... content. Yes. Content. With her."
"Content?"
“Da. Content. First time I see you like this. I know this feeling.” He taps his chest. “I am content serving Petrov. Serving you. Not happiness, not excitement. Just… right. Pieces fit.”
A tightness in my chest loosens slightly.
"You think I'm making a mistake?" I ask.
