“Especially then.”
The sleeping pills finally begin to take effect, dragging me toward unconsciousness despite my resistance. As the world blurs around the edges, I hear Nicolai’s voice like an anchor in the darkness:
“Sleep, sestrenka. Tomorrow you can start becoming who you’re meant to be.”
But as I drift off, all I can think about is the look in Rafa’s eyes when he pulled that trigger—not regret or hesitation, but absolute certainty that protecting me was worth any cost.
Even the cost of becoming someone who could live with killing for love.
Tomorrow, I’ll have to decide if I can become someone who can live with being loved that completely.
Someone who can build a future on the foundation of such devastating sacrifice.
Someone worthy of the choice he made when he chose me over everything else.
Tonight, though, I just want to forget that love sometimes looks exactly like the thing that destroys you.
Even when it’s the only thing that saves you.
The conference room of the Petrov financial headquarters feels different when you’re sitting in the chair at the head of the table instead of halfway down its length. Larger somehow, as if the space expands to accommodate the weight of absolute authority.
Three days since Father’s death. Three days since I inherited an empire built on his corpse.
Twelve faces stare at me from around the mahogany table—senior lieutenants, regional commanders, financial advisors who’ve served the Petrov family for decades. Some with respect, some with curiosity, some with barely concealed skepticism about whether a twenty-eight-year-old woman can fill the void left by Vadim Petrov’s elimination.
“Gentlemen,” I begin, my voice carrying through the room with more authority than I feel. “Thank you for gathering on such short notice.”
“Of course, Miss Petrov,” Viktor Kozlov responds from my right—Father’s oldest lieutenant, a man who’s survived four regime changes and countless purges through careful political navigation. “We’re eager to understand how the organization will proceed under new leadership.”
Miss Petrov. Notpakhan, notvor, just the polite acknowledgment of my bloodline without recognition of my authority. A test wrapped in deference, designed to see how I’ll respond to subtle challenges.
“The organization will proceed with the same operational excellence you’ve maintained for years,” I reply smoothly.“However, there will be strategic adjustments to reflect changing market conditions and political realities.”
“What kind of adjustments?” asks Dmitri Volkov, head of our Eastern European operations. His tone carries just enough challenge to be notable without crossing into outright disrespect.
“Adjustments that prioritize sustainable growth over territorial expansion. Alliances over conquest. Intelligence over brute force.” I lean forward slightly, letting my gaze move around the table. “The kind of adjustments that ensure this organization thrives for the next thirty years instead of burning out in the next three.”
“And our relationship with the Rosso family?” This from Pavel Morozov, our West Coast coordinator. “Given recent... developments?”
Recent developments. Such a delicate euphemism for watching my father die at my fiancé’s hands.
“Our alliance with the Rossos will continue as planned,” I state firmly. “In fact, it will be strengthened. My marriage to Rafael Rosso will proceed as scheduled, cementing a partnership that benefits both organizations.”
The silence that follows is thick with unspoken questions. Because everyone in this room knows what happened three nights ago, even if the official story attributes Father’s death to “complications during a business meeting with rival factions.”
“You’re certain this alliance serves our interests?” Viktor’s question walks the line between legitimate concern and veiled accusation.
“I’m certain that the alternative—open war with one of the most powerful Italian-American families—would destroy us within six months.” I pull up financial projections on the conference room display. “These numbers represent the cost ofsustained conflict versus the benefits of cooperative partnership. The choice is obvious.”
For the next hour, I walk them through strategic plans I’ve been developing since inheriting this position. Operational reorganization that reduces unnecessary violence while maintaining territorial control. Financial diversification that moves us away from purely criminal enterprises toward legitimate business ventures. Intelligence sharing agreements that strengthen our position against common enemies.
Everything Father should have been doing instead of planning genocidal revenge fantasies.
“Questions?” I ask when the presentation concludes.
“Just one,” says Dmitri, his expression carefully neutral. “What assurance do we have that personal feelings won’t compromise professional judgment? That your... attachment to Rafael Rosso won’t interfere with decisions that require putting family interests first?”
The question everyone’s been thinking but nobody else had the courage to ask. The elephant in the room, finally acknowledged.
