Leo has raised us all, even though he was only twenty-five when we lost our parents to a car crash. Nikolai and I were babies. Aleksei and Mikhail were grown-up, but not exactly mature men. Leo turned us all into assets, into proper bratva men.
The weird thing is, I remember Mikhail telling me that Leo argued with our father when he was young about leaving the family. He didn’t want to be a part of the bratva.
He lifts his glass from the table, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I was thinking the other day,” he says slowly. “If I were to retire early, who would I hand this empire to?”
I raise a brow. “You’d never retire early. You live for this. You don’t even have hobbies. Or a wife. You’d only micromanage the next pakhan with all the free time on your hands.”
He chuckles, low and humorless. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“Then why bring it up?”
He doesn’t answer.
Lena comes over with three plates, breaking the silence. “So,” she says, placing one in front of him, “who would you pass it to?”
Leo’s expression stays unreadable.
I take a bite of the pasta. It’s good. Simple, warm, real.
When I look up again, Leo’s gaze is on me. There’s something almost fatherly in it, something that feels like a weight being placed on my shoulders.
“You,” he says.
The word hits like a bullet. I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth.
Lena looks between us, startled.
Leo doesn’t blink. “You’ve got the mind for it. The control. The patience. You see the long game. You remind me of me, before the world got noisy.”
I can’t speak. For once, all the numbers, all the calculations in my head, go silent.
Lena’s hand trembles slightly as she sets down the last glass. The baby monitor crackles faintly in the background.
Leo finishes his drink, his voice calm, certain. “One day, Dmitry, this will all be yours.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than the silence that follows.
Me. The next pakhan.
I set my fork down, staring at Leo. “You’re joking.”
His eyes stay steady. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“I’d never be good at that role,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m too young.”
“You’re twenty-one,” he replies evenly. “I was only a few years older when I took over.”
“That’s different.”
“Not really.” His tone is calm, matter-of-fact. “You’re strategic, you think ten steps ahead. You don’t make emotional decisions. You calculate what you have to gain from every deal, every alliance. That’s what makes a leader.”
A bitter laugh slips out of me. I don’t makeemotionaldecisions? Every decision I’ve made with Callista has been deeply emotional. “I’m just a numbers nerd.”
Leo’s expression doesn’t shift, but there’s something sharp in his eyes, almost fond, almost proud. “That’s what you think. You don’t see what I see. You don’t lose your temper. You don’t waste energy proving yourself. I was much more emotional and less mature at your age. You build systems that last. One day, you’ll realize that control isn’t about violence; it’s about precision.”
I stare down at my plate. The steam from the food fogs my thoughts.
If he knew what I just did, if he knew I spent the night in a college girl’s bed, careless, reckless, without protection, he’d take back every word.
