He steps into the office and closes the door behind him. "You walked into Sartori territory tonight. Intotheirrestaurant. Announced yourself as the fiancé of their princess without any backup plan, without any?—"
"I said cut it out."
"You could have ended up dead." He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. The words land like bullets anyway. "Dante Castellani had a Glock aimed at your skull. One word from Pietro Sartori, one twitch of that trigger finger, and you'd be bleeding out on the floor of that restaurant."
I set the glass down. The crystal hits the desk harder than I intended.
He's right.
I know he's right.
If Vittoria hadn't backed my play, hadn't confirmed the engagement, hadn't stepped between me and her brother's wrath... I'd be a corpse right now. The Sartoris would be cleaning my blood off their floors and starting a war with the Bratva.
But she did.
She looked her brother in the eye and said yes. Said she chose me. Said this is what she wants.
Thattells me everything I need to know.
"She played her role," I say quietly. "She could have let them kill me. She didn't."
Igor shakes his head. "That's what you're taking from tonight? That she didn't let you die?"
"It's enough."
"It's notenough, Dmitri." He steps closer, and I see something I rarely see in Igor's eyes. Genuine concern. "You're not thinking straight. You're making decisions based on... what? Obsession? Lust? Whatever the hell this is with the Sartori girl?"
My jaw tightens. "Watch your tone."
"Someone has to say it." He doesn't back down. "Your father is dying. You're about to become pakhan. And instead of preparing for that, instead of securing alliances the proper way, you're charging into enemy territory like a lovesick fool."
Lovesick.
The word tastes wrong. Too soft for what this is.
"Get out." My voice drops to something cold and final.
Igor holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he nods once, sharply, and turns toward the door.
He pauses with his hand on the handle. "Control your emotions, Dmitri. Before they get you killed."
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stand alone in the darkness of my office, the city lights of Chicago glittering beyond the window like scattered diamonds. My hand finds the vodka bottle again, but I don't pour. Just hold it. Feel the cold glass against my palm.
Control your emotions.
When did I lose control?
I set the bottle down and press my palms flat against the desk, leaning forward until my head drops between my shoulders. My breathing sounds too loud in the empty room.
It's not just Vittoria.
That's the truth I've been avoiding. The thing I can't say out loud, not even to Igor.
I'm grieving a man who isn't dead yet.
And grief makes people stupid. Makes them reckless. Makes them reach foranythingthat feels like life instead of the slow march toward death.
