"Vartan wants blood. He's pushing for a strike on their Brighton Beach operations."
"Vartan always wants blood. That's why I don't let him make strategic decisions."
"He's not wrong that we need to respond. If we look weak—"
"We won't look weak." I turned from the window, my mind clicking through options. "Pull security from the non-essential locations. Consolidate around our primary operations. I want extra men on the clubs and the port facilities."
"And Pankratov?"
"We watch. We wait. He'll overreach eventually—they always do. When he does, we'll be ready."
Semyon was quiet for a moment. "Are you coming back to New York? The men are getting restless. They need to see their Pakhan."
The question landed like a stone in my chest. Leaving the island meant leaving Gabrielle—and the thought of being separated from her, even for a few days, made something clench tight behind my ribs.
"Not yet. I'll handle things from here for now."
"Vasily." My brother's voice gentled, which was somehow worse than criticism. "You can't stay on that island forever. Whatever's happening with the woman—"
"Her name is Gabrielle. And she's my wife."
"She's a distraction. One you can't afford right now."
He wasn't wrong. I knew he wasn't wrong. But knowing and caring were different things, and I'd stopped caring about what I should do the moment I'd first seen her through that restaurant window.
"Keep me updated on Pankratov," I said. "I'll fly back when it's necessary."
I ended the call before he could argue further.
***
She found me in the study an hour later.
I was reviewing financial reports—the legitimate ones, from the businesses we used to launder money and maintain respectable facades. Import-export. Real estate holdings. A chain of dry cleaners in Brooklyn. The mundane machinery of organized crime, dressed up in spreadsheets and quarterly projections.
"Am I interrupting?"
I looked up to find Gabrielle in the doorway, her posture uncertain in a way I hadn't seen before. She'd changed from breakfast—now wearing linen pants and a loose blouse, her hair pulled back, her feet bare on the marble floor.
"Never." I set aside the papers. "What do you need?"
She stepped into the room, her eyes sweeping over the bookshelves, the artwork, the massive desk that had belonged to my father before me. Taking inventory, as she always did. Looking for weaknesses, escape routes, anything she could use.
"I need something to do."
The words came out clipped, almost defensive. As if asking for anything from me was an admission of defeat.
"You have the run of the estate. The library, the gardens, the pool—"
"I need something real." She moved closer, her hands clenching at her sides. "I'm going insane, Vasily. I've read adozen books. I've walked every inch of these grounds. I've memorized the guard rotations and the meal schedule, and the pattern of the tiles in my bathroom. And none of it matters because I'm still trapped here with nothing to do but think about how trapped I am."
The frustration in her voice was raw, honest. I'd been waiting for her to break—had expected tears, rage, desperate escape attempts. Instead, she was standing in my study asking for work.
It was so utterly, unexpectedly her that I almost smiled.
"What did you have in mind?"
"I don't know." She threw her hands up. "Anything. I used to work sixty hours a week. I used to have projects, deadlines, people depending on me. Now I have nothing but empty hours and this—" She gestured at the ring on her finger. "This farce of a marriage."
