Abram settles into the chair with casual confidence, his massive frame making the expensive furniture look small. He doesn't look worried. Doesn't show any sign of the fear he should be feeling. That confidence makes my skin prickle with unease.
The door opens a third time, and the three Moscow delegates enter with the kind of authority that makes everyone in the roomstraighten instinctively. They're wearing expensive suits, their faces carefully neutral, revealing nothing of the judgment they're about to deliver.
The tall one with gray hair, the one who spoke to Eva at the wedding, takes the seat at the opposite head of the table. His colleagues flank him, and suddenly, I'm acutely aware of how this looks. Abram and I facing each other down the length of the conference table, with the delegates positioned to observe us both like we're specimens under a microscope.
"Gentlemen," the gray-haired delegate begins, his Russian accent thick and formal. "Thank you for coming."
As if we had a choice.
"We've spent considerable time investigating the situation here," he continues, his dark eyes moving between Abram and me. "Abram contacted us several weeks ago with concerns about Roman's leadership. He claimed you were going soft, Roman. Turning from the old ways. Prioritizing legitimate business over the organization's traditional operations. He suggested you were no longer fit to be Pakhan."
The words hang in the air, ugly and accusatory. I feel Lev tense beside me, see David's fingers still on his laptop keyboard. But I keep my expression carefully neutral, revealing nothing of the rage simmering beneath my controlled exterior.
"These are serious allegations," the delegate says. "A Pakhan who loses his edge, who allows sentiment to cloud his judgment, becomes a liability to the entire organization."
Abram's smile widens, and I want to reach across the table and rip it off his face with my bare hands. But I force myself to remain still, to let the delegates finish.
"However," the gray-haired man continues, and I hear the shift in his tone, "we've also reviewed the evidence Roman provided. Documentation of systematic sabotage. Testimony from Abram's own soldiers about attacks on Chinese and Irish operations designed to fracture Roman's alliances. Financial records showing how information was fed to American authorities to expose Roman's money laundering infrastructure."
I watch Abram's expression, waiting for his confidence to crack. But it doesn't. If anything, his smile becomes more pronounced, like he's enjoying some private joke the rest of us aren't privy to.
"The evidence is compelling," the delegate says, his voice hardening. "Abram Yakovlev, you have violated the most sacred rules of our organization. You have attacked a sitting Pakhan through deception and manipulation rather than honorable challenge. You have endangered relationships with other families for your own ambition. You have brought shame to the Bratva."
Yes.Satisfaction surges through my chest, hot and fierce. They believe me. They see Abram for what he is.
"Therefore," the delegate continues, "we have reached our decision. Roman Sokolov will remain Pakhan. His leadership is not in question. His methods may be modern, but they are effective and honorable."
Relief floods through me so powerfully, I have to grip the edge of the table to keep from showing it. I remain Pakhan. My empire is secure. Eva and our child are protected.
"As for you, Abram." The gray-haired delegate's voice drops to something cold and final. "You will face consequences for youractions. Your territory will be reduced. Your operations will be monitored. And you will make restitution to the families you've harmed through your deception."
It's not death, but it's close. Abram's power will be gutted, his influence destroyed. He'll be a shell of what he was, barely clinging to relevance in an organization that now knows he can't be trusted.
I wait for his rage, for the explosion of fury that should follow such a devastating judgment. But instead, Abram leans back in his chair and grins.
The expression makes my blood run cold. It's not the grin of a defeated man. It's the grin of someone who's been holding the winning card all along, just waiting for the right moment to play it.
"That's an interesting decision," Abram says, his accent thick with satisfaction. "Very interesting. But I'm afraid I can't accept those terms."
The delegates' expressions harden. "This is not a negotiation," the gray-haired one says. "The council has spoken."
"Oh, I understand." Abram's pale gray eyes lock onto mine, and I see something dark and triumphant flickering there. "But you see, gentlemen, the situation has changed. Dramatically."
My hands curl into fists on the table. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Abram's grin widens. "I'm talking about your beautiful wife, Roman. Eva, isn't it? Such a lovely woman. Pregnant with your heir. So vulnerable."
The world tilts sideways. My phone. The missing text. The unease I've been trying to ignore all afternoon.No. No, no, no.
"What have you done?" The words come out low and dangerous, vibrating with barely controlled violence.
"Nothing yet," Abram says, examining his fingernails with casual indifference. "She's perfectly safe. For now. Comfortable, even. My men are taking good care of her."
Lev is on his feet, his gun drawn again, aimed directly at Abram's head. "Where is she?"
"Somewhere you'll never find her without my help." Abram's voice is calm, almost bored. "And here's what's going to happen. You're going to let me walk out of here, free and clear. No consequences. No restitution. No reduction of territory."
The delegates are speaking, their voices raised in protest, but I can't hear them over the roaring in my ears. Eva. Mysolnyshko. In Abram's hands.
