Igor stays a half-step behind me as we enter the private elevator. He hasn't spoken since we left the estate. He knows my patience runs thin today.
My father asked for me this morning. I sat beside his bed and watched his chest rise and fall in shallow, rattling breaths. He couldn't speak. Just looked at me with those fading eyes, trying to communicate something I couldn't decipher.
Be strong, maybe. Ordon't fuck this up.
Both sound like him.
Aleksander told him that I was about to seal the marriage with Vittoria.
The elevator ascends. I crack my knuckles. Igor shifts his weight but says nothing.
When the doors open on the executive floor, Dante Castellani stands waiting. His hand rests on his hip, fingers brushing the gun holstered there. A warning. A reminder of what happened last night.
"Baganov." His voice carries the warmth of a Siberian winter.
"Castellani." I match his tone. "Your boss is expecting me."
Dante's jaw tightens. He steps aside, but his eyes track my every movement as I pass. Igor positions himself by the elevator.
The double doors to Pietro Sartori's office stand open. I walk through without knocking.
Four men wait inside.
Pietro sits behind his massive desk, fingers steepled, face carved from stone. Nico Sartori stands by the window, arms crossed. Lorenzo leans against the far wall, casual in a way that fools no one. I've seen the files on him, know what he's capable of beneath that diplomat's smile.
And Bruno.
The former heir sits in his wheelchair near the corner, positioned to see everything and everyone. His eyes burn with barely contained fury.
I've walked into worse odds.
"Gentlemen." I incline my head. "Thank you for meeting on such short notice."
Pietro gestures to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
I take the seat.
"Drink?" Pietro reaches for a crystal decanter.
"I'm fine."
He pours one for himself anyway. Whiskey. The good stuff, from the color. He takes his time, letting the silence stretch. A power play. I've used the same tactic a hundred times.
I could end this in thirty seconds. Tell them I don't give a damn about their traditions or their blessing. That Vittoria already said yes, and that's the only permission I need. That whatever they want—territory, distribution rights, political connections—they can have it. All of it. I'll sign over half my empire if that's what it takes.
But these are her brothers.
And she loves them and that means I need to play this smart.
Be clever, I remind myself.
Pietro sets down his glass. "Let me be clear, Baganov. We're going to talk. Really talk. No bullshit, no diplomatic dancing."
"I wouldn't expect anything less."
"Good." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "Because no one in this room knows how you managed to make my sister decide she's marrying you."
Bruno snorts from his corner. The sound carries pure contempt.
