The conference room at the hotel where we agreed to meet sits in the heart of downtown, neutral territory that no single family controls. I chose it deliberately. Twenty years I've been navigating Bratva politics, and I know the importance of symbolism. This meeting can't happen on Morozov ground or another family’s territory or anywhere that gives the appearance of advantage.
Alina sits beside me in the back of the SUV as we pull up to the hotel's private entrance. She's wearing a tailored black suit that makes her look every inch the powerful woman she's become, her red hair pulled back in a sleek bun. The emerald pendant I gave her catches the afternoon light, the same one with the panic button that saved her life.
"You don't have to do this," I tell her, even though we've had this conversation three times already. "I can handle the families alone."
She turns those green eyes on me, and I see steel beneath the surface. "We've been over this, Dimitri. I'm your wife. Yourpartner. If we're going to change things, they need to see that I'm not just some trophy you claimed."
Pride swells in my chest, mixing with the ever-present fear that something will happen to her. To our baby. My hand moves to her stomach, still flat beneath the expensive fabric, but I know what's growing there. Our future.
"Pakhan." Alexei's voice crackles through my earpiece. He's already inside, coordinating security. "The families are arriving. Fifteen minutes until the meeting starts."
I acknowledge with two clicks and turn back to Alina. "Stay close to me. Don't engage with anyone unless I'm right there. Some of these men are old guard. They won't like seeing you here."
"I know." She covers my hand with hers, squeezing gently. "But that's exactly why I need to be here."
We exit the vehicle, and I keep my hand on the small of her back as we walk through the private entrance. My men are positioned throughout the hotel, visible enough to be a deterrent but not so obvious as to seem threatening. It's a delicate balance.
The conference room is on the top floor, accessed by a private elevator. As the doors close, sealing us in the small space, Alina leans against me. I feel her trembling slightly.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"Terrified," she admits. "But I'm doing it anyway."
That's my wife. Brave even when she's scared.
The elevator opens directly into the conference room, and I feel every eye turn toward us. The space is large, dominated by a massive table that seats thirty. Floor-to-ceiling windowsoverlook the city, and I can see my territory spread out below. A reminder of what's at stake.
Twelve families are represented here. Some are allies, some are neutral, and a few are openly hostile. I recognize most of the faces. Ivan Volkov sits at the far end of the table, his silver hair and cold blue eyes so much like his cousin Mikhail's that it makes my jaw clench.
Alexei stands near the windows, his shoulder still bandaged but his posture alert. He gives me a slight nod. Everything is secure.
I guide Alina to the head of the table, pulling out her chair before taking my own seat. The gesture is deliberate. I want them to see that I treat her as an equal, not as property.
"Gentlemen," I begin, my voice carrying across the room. "Thank you for coming."
"What we discuss today affects all of us." I lean forward, my hands flat on the polished wood. "Mikhail Volkov spent five years manipulating us, turning us against each other. He orchestrated the church massacre. He framed me for the Kozlov murders. He played on Viktor Popov's ambition and nearly started a war that would have destroyed us all."
"Mikhail is dead," says Anatoly Romanov, one of the neutral bosses. He's in his sixties, traditional but pragmatic. "Why are we here?"
"Because the damage he caused is still here." I gesture to Alexei, who pulls up a presentation on the large screen behind me. Financial records, communications, evidence of Mikhail's manipulation. "This is what he did. How he played us. And if we don't change, if we don't adapt, someone else will do the same thing."
The room is silent as they study the evidence. I watch their faces, seeing anger, recognition, and in some cases, shame. They were all pawns in Mikhail's game, even if they didn’t know it at the time.
"What are you proposing?" asks Yuri Kuznetsov, a younger boss who inherited his family's operations two years ago. He's been more open to reform than the older generation.
"A new structure." I stand, moving to the screen. "Less centralized power. Each family maintains autonomy over their territory and operations. But major decisions, things that affect all of us, go through a council. No single family can make moves that endanger the others."
"That's weakness," Ivan Volkov spits. "The Bratva has always had strong leadership. One Pakhan, one vision."
"And look where that got us." I meet his cold gaze without flinching. "Mikhail was a strong leader. So was Viktor Popov. They both used that strength to serve their own ambitions at everyone else's expense."
"So you want democracy?" Ivan laughs, the sound harsh. "This isn't the American government, Morozov. This is the Bratva. We don't vote on things."
"I'm not suggesting democracy. I'm suggesting pragmatism." I return to my seat, feeling Alina's presence beside me like an anchor. "We're stronger together than divided. But that strength only works if we trust each other. And trust requires transparency."
Anatoly Romanov leans back in his chair, studying me. "What else are you proposing?"
This is the moment. The point where I either gain support or lose everything.
