He looks around the table. "I will not be part of this weakness," Ivan continues. "I will not watch the Bratva become some kind of democracy where women have voices and traditions are thrown away. Mikhail died trying to stop this, and I won't dishonor his memory by accepting it."
He starts toward the door, and Boris Petrov stands to follow. Then Gregor Sokolov.
"You're making a mistake," I say, my voice carrying across the room. "Walking away doesn't change what's coming. It just leaves you isolated."
Ivan Volkov turns back, and the look in his eyes makes my hand move instinctively toward my weapon. "We'll see who's isolated, Morozov. We'll see who's left standing when this is over."
He walks out, Boris and Gregor following. The door closes behind them with a finality that echoes through the conference room.
The remaining families sit in stunned silence. I feel Alina's hand tighten on mine, and I know what she's thinking. We just made powerful enemies. Men who won't accept the changes we're proposing. Men who will fight to preserve the old ways.
45
ALINA
The estate feels different when we return from the meeting with the Bratva families. Quieter somehow, despite the guards positioned at every entrance and the security cameras tracking our movements. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the one who's different, carrying the weight of everything that's happened in the past weeks like stones in my pockets.
Dimitri helps me out of the SUV, his hand lingering on my lower back. "You need to rest," he says, his green eyes searching my face with concern. "You look exhausted."
I am exhausted. Bone-deep, soul-weary exhausted. The kind of tired that sleep won't fix. But I nod because arguing takes energy I don't have. "I want to check on Katya first."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "I'll be in my study if you need me. There's damage control to handle after the meeting."
I watch him walk away, his broad shoulders tense beneath his black shirt. The meeting didn't go as well as we'd hoped. IvanVolkov's dramatic exit, taking two other families with him, has created a fracture in the Bratva that won't be easy to repair. But that's Dimitri's problem to solve right now. Mine is making sure my sister is okay.
I find Katya in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her sketchbook open in her lap. She looks up when I enter, and relief floods her young face. "Alina! How did it go?"
I close the door behind me and sink onto the bed beside her, suddenly grateful for the soft mattress beneath me. "It was complicated. Some families are on board with the changes Dimitri proposed. Others walked out."
Katya sets her sketchbook aside, her brown eyes worried. "Is that bad?"
"It's not good." I lean back against the headboard. "But we'll figure it out. We always do."
She's quiet for a moment, then asks the question I've been dreading. "Have you heard from Mama?"
The word feels strange. Mama. As if Irina Popov deserves that title after everything she's done. Or rather, everything she's failed to do. "No. She hasn't tried to contact us since her visit."
Katya nods slowly, her fingers tracing patterns on the bedspread. "I'm relieved, actually. Is that terrible?"
"No." I reach over and take her hand, squeezing gently. "It's honest. Mama made her choices, Katya. She chose Papa over us, every single time. Even when she knew what he was doing, what he was planning, she chose him."
"I used to think she was just scared of him," Katya says softly. "That she stayed because she was afraid. But it wasn't that, was it?"
I think about my mother's perfectly styled hair, her designer clothes, her comfortable life built on blood and lies. "No. She stayed because she liked what he gave her. The money, the status, the power. We were just accessories to that life."
Katya's eyes fill with tears, and I pull her into my arms, holding her while she cries. Not for the mother we lost, but for the mother we never really had. The one who should have protected us, who should have chosen us, who should have been brave enough to leave.
When her tears finally subside, I pull back and wipe her cheeks with my thumbs. "But you know what? We're going to be okay. Better than okay. You're going to have the life you deserve, Katya. The one you've always dreamed about."
She sniffles, managing a small smile. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you're going to finish high school. Then you're going to college to study art, just like you've always wanted." I watch her eyes widen with hope. "You're going to travel to Paris and Rome and all those places you've sketched in your notebooks. You're going to fall in love with someone who treats you well, someone who sees your value beyond what you can offer in an alliance."
"Really?" Her voice is small, disbelieving. "Dimitri will allow that?"
"Dimitri wants you to be happy. He wants you to have choices." I think about my husband, about the man who's so different from what I expected. "He's not like Papa, Katya. He's not going to use you as a pawn."
We spend the next hour talking about her future. She wants to apply to art schools in New York and California. She shows me her portfolio, sketches and paintings that take my breath away with their beauty and emotion. She's talented, truly talented, and I'm determined that the world will see it.
