Dinner begins without ceremony. My father steers the conversation immediately, as he always does—toward business: construction, new investments, and expansion into the European sector. Anton listens, quiet and dutiful, giving his occasional clipped responses. Maksim pokes at his food until the talk turns to something more colorful, like the possibility of opening a winery in Italy. Then he perks up, finally interested. I should be listening. Should be calculating. Should be the perfect son and CFO.
But my mind drifts.
“Don’t ever grab me again.”
Lucas’s words replay, small but sharp, angry, and trembling. The soundless voice I keep hearing. The look in his eyes as his hands shook, typing fast, furious. The stumble of his step before I caught him. The heat of his body under my hands.
It clings. It gnaws. It consumes me.
“Alex.”
My mother’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp but not cruel. Always precise. I blink, realizing I’ve been staring at my untouched plate.
“Is everything alright?” she asks, eyes fixed on me, seeing too much as always.
“Fine.”
Her gaze lingers, searching. Then she offers me one of her knowing smiles. My mother—lovely, strict, warm in ways that only sharpen the edge of her expectations. The only one I can tolerate.
“Distracted,” Maksim mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear. His grin widens. “Bet it’s not work keeping you up at night.”
I snap my gaze toward him. “Mind your business.”
He chuckles, satisfied, while Anton only watches me—silent, observant, unreadable.
My father finally sets down his utensils. His eyes lock on me, cold and assessing, his voice low but commanding.
“You are the CFO of my investment company, Sasha,” he says, using my Russian nickname like a chain around my throat. “The youngest CFO across all three of my businesses. I know how brilliant you are. I’ve seen how the company thrives under you.”
The room stills. Even Maksim knows when not to laugh.
“My father is a Bratva,” he continues, voice hardening. “But don’t mistake me for one, I left that lifestyle. I built the Pavelempire with my own hands. This conglomerate is clean and efficient. Not like the past.”
He leans forward,
“And just because I trained you all in the Bratva way does not mean I want you living it forever.”
I feel his eyes burn through me.
“Alexander,” His voice sharpens, cutting the air. “I don’t want you doing any of that dirty work again.”
He pauses, deliberate. “Greg told me what you did.”
My teeth grind before I can stop myself. Of course. Greg, my grandfather’s head of security. He must have told my father about Robert Grey. About what I did.
My father sets down his fork, folding his hands like a man at the head of a board meeting. His gaze pins me.
“Any reason you told Greg not to do the cement shoes to Robert?”
I meet his stare without flinching.
“I wanted his body found,” I say evenly. “I wanted the victim to know he was gone. That she could sleep without fearing his shadow.”
His jaw ticks, but his voice stays cold. “You had your fun in Russia with your grandfather and his bratva. But now you’re back. Here, you have an important role in my company. I don’t want your hands dirty anymore. Leave that filth to the bratva.”
For a moment, the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his rules burns hot in my throat. But then Anton’s eyes catch mine across the table—steady, grounding, a silent warning not to start a war tonight. I lock my jaw and give my father the smallest, stiffest nod.
He leans back, satisfied. “And whatever it is that’s distracting you…” His eyes narrow slightly, cutting through me, “Don’t let it interfere with your work. Handle it.” He finishes in Russian.
