"The war between our families." He says it casually, testing the word and watching my reaction.
War. A word that gets men killed and territories redrawn.
"Didn't realize we were at war, Dmitri. Thought it was a series of unfortunate misunderstandings."
"Oh, come now." He tilts his head, that clever glint in his eyes. "Several of my men dead. Several of yours. The Morozov family picking sides. The Ivanovs watching to see who comes out stronger." He spreads his hands, reasonable, like he's explaining this to a child. "This needs to stop before it gets worse. Unless, of course, you're enjoying it?"
He's not wrong. What started as border disputes and territory arguments has escalated. Blood draws more blood. That's how these things work—one shooting leads to retaliation, which leads to another shooting, until nobody remembers what started it and everyone's too proud to stop.
Leadership means knowing when to fight and when to find another way.
"I'm listening," I say.
Dmitri relaxes slightly, smirk deepening. "Our families have history, Petrov. Your grandfather and mine worked together. Built this city together. The Volkov and Petrov alliance was legendary." He pauses, letting the history sink in. "Back when we remembered what mattered."
"That was before your father tried to take our territory on the docks."
"Old business. Settled business." He waves it away like brushing off dust. "My father made mistakes. I'm not him. I want what's good for both families. What's good for the Bratva." He offers another calculated pause, always one for the drama. "What's good for you, if you're smart enough to take it."
"Get to your point."
"The tensions between us—they're not about territory or respect. They're about a girl." He says it plainly, no accusations, just facts. "An American who doesn't understand our world. Who can't possibly understand what her presence costs."
I force my jaw to relax, refusing to show weakness. I can't show how deep that particular knife cuts.
"We can end this tonight," Dmitri continues. "I'm offering you a deal. A real deal, one that benefits everyone." He steps closer. "Even you, Ivan. Especially you."
"I'm still listening."
"Give up the girl. Choose a woman that the families have offered. Morozov's daughter—brilliant, educated, born into this life. Ivanov's sister—Bratva royalty, connections that would strengthen your position." He counts them off on his fingers, like he's listing menu items before pausing, that smirk turning knowing. "My niece would still have you, though I admit my pride took a hit when you rejected her the first time. She's gotten over it. Mostly."
The offer lingers—precise, stripped of fluff.
Rational. Efficient.
And out of the question.
"I wouldn't be hurt if it's not my niece you choose," Dmitri adds. "Even in the Bratva, we allow true love." The way he says it makes it sound almost mocking. "Find a woman who belongs in this world. Someone who makes you stronger instead of vulnerable. Someone who won't get you killed."
True love. As if that's what this is about. As if I could swap out Lila for someone more acceptable to men like Dmitri.
As if I haven't tried to convince myself to do exactly that.
I've run the numbers a dozen times since she tried to escape. Calculated the costs, weighed the options, and looked at this from every strategic angle, as my father taught me. A Pakhan doesn't make decisions based on feelings. He makes them based on power, territory, and legacy. Things that last. Things that matter when you're dead, and your son is trying to hold together what you built.
Morozov's daughter would bring alliances. Her family controls the ports. Shipping routes I need, distribution channels that would expand my reach into markets currently closed to me. She's educated, raised in this life, knows how to smile at the right people and keep her mouth shut about the wrong things. Perfect Pakhan's wife material.
Ivanov's sister would be a better strategic choice. Her brother is old guard, respected, connected to families in New York and Boston. That kind of alliance would make me untouchable. It would give me reach beyond Chicago, expanding my regional power to the national stage. Something my father never achieved.
And Dmitri's niece—she'd end this war before it really starts. Unite the Volkov and Petrov territories back into the powerhouse our grandfathers built. No more border disputes, no more watching my back, wondering when he'll make his move. Just peace. Stability. The kind of unified front that makes other families think twice about testing us.
Any one of them would be the smart choice.
The safe choice.
The choice that keeps me alive, in power, and respected.
"The girl walks away unharmed," Dmitri says, like he's doing me a favor. That generous, reasonable tone that makesme want to put a bullet in his skull. "We send her somewhere safe. Give her money, a new start. She goes back to serving coffee or whatever normal life she wants. You marry someone suitable. The tensions end. Our families go back to the alliance our grandfathers built." He spreads his hands. "Everyone wins, Ivan. Even her."
