The smell of death clings to my father's room like an unwanted guest. The nurses try. Fresh flowers every morning, essential oil diffusers humming in the corners. But cancer doesn't care about lavender and eucalyptus.
Papa sits propped against pillows, his once-powerful frame now a collection of sharp angles beneath Egyptian cotton sheets. Three months ago, he sent my brothers and sisters to the country house. Didn't want them watching him waste away. Didn't want me here either, but someone had to stay. And the next pakhan seemed the best fit.
His words, not mine.
"You're late." His voice rasps like sandpaper over wood.
I close the door behind me and cross to the chair beside his bed. Same chair. Same routine. Every morning, I sit here and tell him everything that happened the day before. He listens, criticizes, occasionally approves. It's the closest thing to affection we've ever shared.
"Tell me." He waves a skeletal hand. "What required your attention the other night?"
I lean back, crossing my ankle over my knee. "Found the man selling counterfeit product with our mark. The one responsible for those three overdoses last month."
"And?"
"He's no longer a problem."
Papa's eyes narrow slightly. "Clean?"
"Clean enough." I don't elaborate.
"Good." He shifts against his pillows, wincing. I don't offer to help. He'd refuse anyway. "What else?"
This is the part I've been dreading. My fingers drum against my thigh once before I force them still. "Before he died, he told me something. About the Sartoris."
Papa's attention sharpens. Even cancer can't dull his instincts for business.
"They're arranging a marriage for Vittoria. Their princess." The word tastes bitter on my tongue. "Someone else is making a play for the alliance. Without paying a cent."
"And this surprises you?" Papa's voice carries an edge I recognize. Disappointment. "You've been circling that girl for a couple of months, Dmitri. Watching her through cameras. Having her tracked."
I don't flinch. "I'm aware."
"You're obsessed." His hand slams against the mattress with surprising force. "I've watched you these past weeks. You think I don't notice? The way you check your phone. The way you say her name."
My jaw clenches. I don't respond.
Papa's anger fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving exhaustion in its wake. He sinks back, chest rising and falling with labored breaths.
"Listen to me carefully, syn." Son. He rarely uses the word anymore. "This alliance with the Sartoris is everything. Our territories complement each other. Our enemies fear us both. Together, we control half of Chicago's underworld."
"I know."
"Do you?" His gaze pins me in place. "Because if someone else secures that marriage, all the business arrangements we'vemade mean nothing. Another family will have their ear. Their loyalty. Their guns." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "And we'll have nothing but a handshake agreement that dies the moment it becomes inconvenient."
The truth of it settles in my chest like a stone.
"Marriage is currency in our world, Dmitri. Always has been. The girl comes with her family's power. Their resources. Their name tied to ours permanently." Papa's eyes never leave my face. "If you want her, stop playing games. Make the offer. Secure the alliance."
"And if she refuses?"
His laugh dissolves into a wet cough. When he recovers, there's blood on his lips. He wipes it away without acknowledgment.
"Since when does a Baganov accept refusal?" He gestures weakly toward the door. "Go. Talk to Pietro Sartori. Make your intentions clear. Before someone else does."
I stand, straightening my jacket. "Papa?—"
"I want to see you married before I die." The words hit like bullets. Direct. Unflinching. "I want to know our legacy is secured. That everything I built won't crumble because my heir was too stubborn to claim what he wants."
