I take it with trembling hands. Dimitri appears in the doorway, alerted by some sixth sense that something is wrong. He crosses the room in three strides.
"What is it?"
"A package." My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
He takes it from me, examining it carefully before slowly removing the wrapping. Inside is a simple cardboard box. He opens it, and I see his entire body go rigid.
"Dimitri?" I move closer, and he tries to block me, but I'm faster. I look into the box and my blood turns to ice.
It's a photograph of Katya. She's walking across the campus of her school, her backpack slung over one shoulder, completely unaware that someone is watching her. The photo is crisp, clear, taken from a distance with a telephoto lens.
Beneath the photograph is a note written in neat block letters,Pretty girl. Would be a shame if something happened to her.
48
DIMITRI
Istare at the photograph of Katya, my hands trembling with a rage so pure it threatens to consume me. The image shows her walking across campus, completely unaware that someone was watching, hunting. The note mocks me with its simplicity.Pretty girl. Would be a shame if something happened to her.
"Cancel it." My voice is steel. "Cancel the gala. Pull Katya from school immediately and shut down the estate."
Alina's hand covers mine, warm and steady. "That's exactly what he wants."
I turn to her, seeing the fear in her green eyes that she's trying so hard to hide. "He threatened your sister."
"I know." Her voice doesn't quaver. "And if we react out of fear, if we hide and cancel and show weakness, he wins. Every neutral family will see that Ivan Volkov can make us run scared with a single photograph."
"I don't care what they see." I pull her closer, my hand instinctively moving to her stomach where our child grows. "I care about keeping you safe. Keeping Katya safe."
"We will be safe." She cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "But we do it smart. We pull Katya from school right now, bring her here, surround her with guards. The gala goes forward. We show strength, not fear."
Alexei clears his throat from the doorway. "She's right, Boss. Running now makes us look weak. But we can make the gala the most secure event this city has ever seen."
I want to argue. Every instinct screams at me to gather everyone I love, lock them away, and paint the streets red with Ivan Volkov's blood.
"Fine." I release her, already moving toward my phone. "But Katya doesn't leave this estate until Ivan is dealt with. And you…" I turn back to Alina, my voice dropping. "You don't leave my sight for a single second tonight."
She smiles, and despite everything, it makes my heart stutter. "I wouldn't dream of it."
The Grand Marquis Hotelrises above downtown like a monument to old money and older secrets. I've held meetings here before, made deals in its private rooms, but tonight it serves a different purpose. Tonight, it's a stage.
My security team has swept the building three times. Every entrance is monitored. Every guest will be screened. Snipers are positioned on surrounding rooftops. If Ivan Volkov wants tomake a move, he'll have to do it in front of witnesses, in front of the entire Bratva hierarchy.
I adjust my tie in the car's rearview mirror, but my eyes keep drifting to Alina beside me. She's devastating in an emerald gown that clings to her curves and matches her eyes perfectly. Her red hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. The dragonfly tattoo on her wrist peeks out from beneath her bracelet.
"You're staring," she says softly, a smile playing at her lips.
"I'm memorizing." I take her hand, bringing it to my lips. "In case I need to kill someone tonight and want to remember something beautiful first."
She laughs, but there's tension in it. "Try not to kill anyone at our charity gala. It sends the wrong message."
"No promises."
The car stops at the entrance. Cameras flash as we emerge. I keep Alina close, my hand at the small of her back as we navigate the red carpet. Reporters shout questions. I ignore them all, focused entirely on getting her inside safely.
The ballroom is magnificent. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over hundreds of guests in evening wear. A string quartet plays in the corner. Champagne flows freely. To anyone outside our world, this looks like any other high society event. But I see the truth beneath the polish.
Every major Bratva family is represented here. The Kozlovs are gone, destroyed. The Popovs are scattered, leaderless. But the others remain, watching, calculating, deciding which side of history they want to be on. The neutral families cluster together,their body language cautious. They're here because refusing the invitation would have been an insult, but they haven't committed to supporting my leadership.
