"We should probably continue this at home," I murmur against his mouth, acutely aware of the realtor still hovering near the stairs. "Before we scandalize the nice woman trying to sell us a building."
His laugh is rough, genuine. "I'll take the building. Have the paperwork drawn up by tomorrow."
The realtor's eyes widen with surprise and delight. "Wonderful! I'll contact the owner immediately and begin the process."
We make our way back downstairs, Nikolai's hand never leaving the small of my back. The possessive touch grounds me, reminds me that this is real. The building, the future, the love we just confessed, all of it real and terrifying and perfect.
I'm taking one last look at the space, already mentally arranging equipment and furniture, when Nikolai's phone buzzes againstmy hip. He pulls it from his pocket, and I watch his expression shift from contentment to something carefully neutral.
"What is it?" My stomach tightens with instinct that screams danger.
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb scrolling through what looks like a message. When he finally looks up, his eyes hold mine with uncomfortable intensity.
"Emergency meeting with the other Pakhans. Tonight."
48
NIKOLAI
The private room at The Golden Lion feels smaller than usual, the air thick with tension that makes my jaw ache from clenching. I step through the door to find them already seated around the mahogany table like judges at a tribunal. Five Pakhans, each one commanding their own territory, their own empire built on blood and calculation. Their expressions range from irritated to openly hostile, and I recognize immediately that this isn't a friendly gathering.
This is an ambush.
Rubio sits at the head of the table, his silver hair slicked back from a face that's seen sixty years of violence and survived them all. He's the eldest among us, the one who's been running his organization since before I was born. His pale eyes track my entrance with the kind of assessment that makes lesser men sweat.
I don't sweat. I move to my seat with deliberate calm, my body language projecting confidence. Cyril materializes at my elbow,his gray eyes scanning the room for threats before he positions himself against the wall behind me.
"Nikolai." Rubio's voice carries that faint accent that marks him as old country, someone who came up through the ranks when the Bratva was still finding its footing in America. "Thank you for joining us on such short notice."
The courtesy is a thin veneer over something darker. I settle into my chair and meet his gaze without flinching. "When the council calls, I answer."
"Good." His fingers drum once against the table's polished surface. "Then perhaps you can explain why federal agents have been photographing everyone who enters and exits this establishment for the past week."
The words land like bullets, precise and devastating. My expression doesn't change, but my mind races through implications with brutal efficiency. FBI surveillance means someone talked, someone gave them reason to look closer at operations we've kept carefully hidden for years.
"I wasn't aware we had that problem," I say, keeping my voice level.
"You weren't aware?" Another Pakhan leans forward with barely concealed contempt. He's younger than Rubio, maybe forty-five, with the kind of build that suggests he still does his own wet work. "How can you not be aware when your face has been plastered across every news outlet in the city for the past month?"
The accusation hangs in the air like smoke. I force myself to breathe slowly, to project calm I don't entirely feel. "Theinterview was carefully controlled. We shaped the narrative exactly as planned."
"You shaped it into a fucking circus." The younger Pakhan’s hand slams against the table hard enough to make the water glasses jump. "Reporters camping outside your home. Photographers following your wife to her destroyed restaurant. Every move you make documented and analyzed by people who have no business knowing our faces."
My hands curl into fists beneath the table, but I keep my expression neutral. He's not wrong. The media attention has been overwhelming, turning my private life into public spectacle in ways I didn't fully anticipate. But admitting that weakness would be suicide in this room.
"The attention will die down," I say with more confidence than I feel. "It always does. People move on to the next scandal."
"Will they?" Rubio's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Will they move on before the FBI finishes building whatever case they're constructing? Before our legitimate business fronts are scrutinized so closely that we can't operate?"
He nods to Cyril, who steps forward and slides a folder across the table toward me. I open it with hands that have steadied, and my stomach drops like a stone thrown into deep water.
Surveillance photographs spill across the mahogany surface. FBI agents outside The Golden Lion, their cameras pointed at the entrance with professional precision. More photos show agents stationed outside my other properties, documenting everyone who enters and exits. Financial auditors requesting records from businesses I own through shell corporations. Reporters bribingmy staff for information, cash changing hands in grainy images that make my vision blur at the edges.
The damage is worse than I realized. Much worse.
"Your marriage has made you visible," Rubio continues, his pale eyes never leaving my face. "Your attachment to this woman has compromised operational security for all of us. When federal agents watch you, they watch everyone who associates with you."
I force myself to look at each photograph, cataloging the threat with cold efficiency. Three different FBI agents, all experienced investigators, judging by their positioning and equipment. Two financial auditors from firms known for their thoroughness. At least a dozen reporters from outlets ranging from tabloids to legitimate news organizations.
