Tavit Petrosyan stepped forward from the back room, hands raised slowly, face carved from decades of survival. He wasn’t a soldier anymore—he was a king who knew how to read a room.
“Maksim Sokolov,” he said evenly, a single dark brow arching. “You bring war into my house?”
“You brought it to mine,” I snarled.
His brow furrowed—not feigned confusion. Real. “I did no such thing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I slammed my hand against the table, the sound cracking through the room. “Someone tried to kill a woman under my protection tonight.”
Tavit’s gaze sharpened. “The bartender.”
The words hit wrong. Too casual. Too informed.
My gun was in my hand before I realized I’d drawn it, barrel pressed under his chin. “How do you know who she is?”
“Because your Boris doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut,” Tavit quietly murmured. “He’s been telling a lot of people he shouldn’t that you’ve lost your edge over a pregnant girl.”
The room went silent.
Pregnant.
The word echoed like a gunshot. I would’ve sworn each and every person present held their breath.
I stepped back slowly, my mind snapping into place with brutal clarity. “You didn’t order the hit.”
Tavit lowered his hands, anger suddenly flaring in his gaze. “No. Because if I had, she’d be dead and you know this. We do not miss.” He brought himself nearly toe-to-toe with me. “And we don’t kill women carrying children unless war demands it.”
That was Armenian truth. Ugly. Honest.
“Are we at war, Maksim Sokolov? I know we have had petty tiffs in the past, but am I missing something?”
“You shot Boris,” I accused.
“Yes,” Tavit admitted without hesitation. “Because he lied to us. Told us you were planning to wipe us out. Told us we were already marked. But I know you, Maksim. If that was true, we would’ve been dropping like flies instead of one single stupid soldier that you killed at Halloween.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. He knew I’d killed one of his men and yet he hadn’t retaliated. Why?
“Your actions were justified. Which is why I let it lie. For some reason, he wanted war,” Tavit continued. “We wanted quiet… peace. He pushed. We responded. A warning shot. Nothing more.”
“And the attempt tonight?”
Tavit shook his head. “Not us.”
The pieces slammed together.
Public intimidation. A woman labeled as a weakness. Armenians painted as monsters. Boris always nearby. Always soothing. Always helpful.
I holstered my gun.
Tavit studied me carefully. “You didn’t come here for blood.”
“No,” I flatly replied. “I came for truth.”
“You have it.” His jaw tightened. “Unfortunately, my friend, I’m afraid your enemy wears your own colors.”
I left without another word.
Snow bit into my face as I stepped back into the night, my breath coming hard and fast—not from exertion, but from the sick realization clawing its way up my spine.
