Only shame. Embarrassment. Pain. Like a child slapped after throwing a tantrum. Like someone who thought they were untouchable, discovering they're not. Complete fucking humiliation.
And I have no regrets.
I release him and straighten, wiping the blood off my knuckles with his ruined suit jacket and taking my time. The room is silent.
I scan their faces—shock, fear, calculation. Some of my own men look uncomfortable. They know Boris. Respect him. Seeing him broken on the floor changes how they see me. Some of them look like they're reassessing everything they thought they knew about me. About how far I'll go.
Good.
Lila stands frozen with wide eyes, napkins still clutched in her hands.
I turn to face the table, letting them all see my face, broadcasting that I'm not apologizing. Not explaining. Not justifying.
"Anyone else want to discuss my personal life?"
The ensuing silence is absolute. They're all waiting to see who's stupid enough to speak next.
No one dares.
"You make good points," I say, continuing on with the meeting like I didn't just break a respected man's hand. "Great points, actually. Points that I would appreciate." I pause, letting them wait for the other shoe to drop. "If I were my father."
Their expressions shift. Understanding dawns. Hope dies.
"But I'm not.”
I let my gaze move across each face, making eye contact and ensuring they understand my word is law.
"If you want to keep allied with the Petrovs, get used to who's running the family now. I chose her because she's MINE. End of story."
Men glance at each other, taking a collective temperature.
"We'll continue this meeting another time." I gesture toward the door. "Out. All of you."
They file out like they're walking through a minefield. All avoid eye contact with me, with Lila, with the blood across my floor and table.
Boris lingers, holding his broken nose, blood streaming between his fingers. His right hand hangs at an odd angle, fingers pointing directions they shouldn't. He needs a hospital. Soon.
"This won't end well, Ivan."
I step closer.
"Well, if it doesn't. You know the consequences well, Boris."
He doesn't respond. He knows the weight of what he implied. Execution. The Bratva’s oldest law. Rules are iron.
I hope it won't come to that. Boris was my father's friend. My teacher. But with each passing day, it seems more likely. The tension’s building.
Boris leaves without another word.
The room empties until it’s only Lila. Pyotr lingers by the door, watching everything with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.
I nod to him. "Out."
"On it, Boss." He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the silence.
Now it's just us.
I cross to her. She hasn't moved, still holding those stupid napkins with wide eyes.
