Control it. You're the Pakhan. You don't lose control.
But he keeps going.
"—piece of trash she is. What, you think she's special? Think she's different? She's a diner whore, Ivan. Probably fucked her way through every customer who left a decent tip?—"
Each insult is worse than the last. Crude. Degrading. Meant to cut.
"—and now she's got the Pakhan wrapped around her finger like a lovesick fool. Your father would've thrown her back into whatever gutter she crawled out of?—"
Meant to humiliate not only her but me for choosing her.
"—but you? You're too pussy-whipped to see what everyone else does. That she's nothing. A nobody. A cheap American slut playing dress-up in your penthouse, pretending she belongs in our world when she can barely?—"
The other men have stopped shouting now. I see it on their faces—they know Boris has crossed a line. This isn't complaining anymore. This isn't even about Lila being unfit for our world.
This is insulting the Pakhan's woman. Directly. Publicly. In front of witnesses.
This is my cue. Making an example. Even from someone as respected as Boris.Especiallyfrom someone as respected as Boris.
Rank doesn't protect you from consequences. The old rules. The old ways. My father's ways. For once, I don't mind following them.
Lila scurries out of harm’s way as I round the table in two strides.
My fist connects with his nose—one precise punch, all my weight behind it. The bone crunches under my knuckles. The sound is satisfying and final. Blood spurts, immediate and red,staining his shirt, his hands, the floor. Boris staggers back, shock registering on his face before pain catches up.
I don't let him fall. I drive him to the floor myself, following him down, my foot on his chest, pinning him. He tries to push up, and I press harder, his ribs compressing under my weight.
"Ivan—" he gasps.
I don't respond. The time for words is over.
I grab his right hand. His gun hand. The hand that's killed for my family, for my father, for decades before I was born. The hand that taught me how to hold a weapon properly. How to aim. How to pull the trigger without flinching.
I bend back the first finger. Slowly. Methodically. Past where it should bend. Past where the joint wants to go. Just as he taught me.
The snap is audible.
Boris grits his teeth, trying not to scream. His whole body goes rigid. He's fighting to maintain dignity, maintain that old-guard toughness. But his eyes water. His breath comes in short gasps.
Second finger. The same slow pressure. The same inevitable break.
This time, he does scream. Just once. Cut off fast, but it happened.
Third finger.
Fourth.
Each one breaking the way respect breaks—suddenly, with a sound that can't be unheard. With a violence that changes everything.
I'm methodical. Clinical. This isn't rage. This is teaching a lesson that needs to be learned.
When I'm done, his right hand is useless. It'll heal eventually, with surgery and time. But it'll never be the same. He'll always remember. Every time he tries to hold a gun, he'll remember what happens when you insult what's mine.
"Consider that a warning. Next time, it'll be worse."
I look at his face, searching for even a flicker of… I don’t know—pride? That old-guard toughness. The "I'm proud of you for holding your ground" expression my father used to get whenever I stood up to challenges.
There's none of that.
