Now, crossing the foyer with him at my side, I feel that belief settle into certainty.
There was a time I would have stood at the edge of a room like this, eyes on everyone else’s hands. There was a time I would have felt the weight of my difference like a brand.
That time is over.
Ivan’s hand is in mine.
The gesture is small—fingers interlaced, palms pressed together—but it carries a weight this crowd understands instinctively. The Pakhan of the Baranov organization does not hold hands with his bodyguard. The Pakhan does not touch anyone in public unless the touch is meant to communicate something specific.
This touch communicates everything.
We move through the crowd together. Attention follows us like heat.
Some of it is curiosity. Rumors about the new Pakhan and his unconventional Second have spread far beyond Chicago.
Some of it is calculation. Rivals trying to determine what our partnership means for the balance of power. Whether it makes Ivan unstable or untouchable.
Some of it is simple fascination.
I meet their gazes without flinching.
Ivan’s grip on my hand never changes. He doesn’t squeeze harder to reassure himself. He doesn’t loosen to pretend he’s not doing this.
“Viktor is watching,” Ivan murmurs.
I follow his gaze.
Viktor Sorokin stands near a column. His scar catches the chandelier light. He is wearing the careful neutrality of a man who knows how quickly loyalty can become liability, but when he sees me looking, he gives a single nod.
Acknowledgment.
“He’s adjusting,” I say.
“They all are,” Ivan replies. His thumb makes a slow circle over the back of my hand. “Some faster than others.”
We accept champagne from a passing server.
A man approaches us near the grand staircase.
Andrei Volkov. Pakhan of the New York organization. Mid-fifties, silver hair, immaculate suit.
“Ivan,” he says, extending his hand.
Ivan shakes it with the measured grip of an equal.
“It has been too long,” Volkov continues. “My condolences on your father’s... retirement.”
“He is comfortable,” Ivan replies. “That is what matters.”
Volkov’s gaze slides to me.
Assessing.
“And this must be Maksim Orlov,” he says. “I’ve heard a great deal.”
“I hope the reports were accurate,” I answer.
His mouth curves slightly. “Intriguing, certainly. An unconventional choice for a Second. Some might call it unprecedented.”
