"I've handled media attention before," I say, but even I can hear how hollow the words sound.
"Not like this." The younger Pakhan leans back in his chair, his expression carved from ice. "Not when you're playing house with a pregnant wife and giving interviews about island romance. You've made yourself human, Nikolai. Relatable. And that makes you vulnerable in ways you clearly don't understand."
Another Pakhan speaks up from the far end of the table, one I've worked with for years on joint operations. His voice carries the weight of genuine concern rather than contempt. "My clients are nervous. They're asking questions about association, about whether doing business with me means exposure to federal scrutiny. I've lost three major contracts this month because people are afraid of guilt by association."
"Same here," a fourth Pakhan adds, his accent thick with frustration. "Legitimate fronts that have operated smoothly for decades are suddenly being audited. Permits are being delayed. Inspections are finding violations that never existed before. Someone is applying pressure, and it's coming from the attention you've brought down on all of us."
The accusations pile up like bodies after a war. Each one lands with the force of truth I can't deny. I've been so focused on protecting Aria, on building our future together, that I failed to see how the spotlight was burning everyone around me.
"My shipping operations are under review," another voice chimes in. "Customs agents who used to look the other way are suddenly interested in every container. I've had to reroute three shipments this month alone, costing me hundreds of thousands in delays."
"The construction permits for my new development have been held up for six weeks," the younger Pakhan says. "Six weeks of inspectors finding problems that don't exist, of bureaucrats suddenly developing consciences. All because they've seen my face in photographs with you at charity events."
I think of Aria in that building today, her face glowing with excitement as she described her vision for the new restaurant. The way she looked at me when she said she loved me, like I was something precious rather than the monster these men know me to be. The feel of our child kicking against my palm, that tiny life that represents everything I never thought I'd have.
"The woman saved my life," I say quietly and watch their expressions shift to something between contempt and pity. "She jumped into an ocean when she could have let me drown. She'scarrying my child. My miracle. I won't apologize for protecting what's mine."
"No one's asking you to apologize." Rubio's voice drops to something almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying. "We're asking you to understand the consequences of your choices."
"I understand perfectly." My voice comes out harder than I intend. "You're afraid. The FBI makes you nervous, so you're looking for someone to blame."
"We're not afraid." The younger Pakhan’s eyes flash with anger. "We're practical. We've all built empires by staying invisible, by keeping our faces out of the news and our operations in the shadows. You've violated the first rule of survival, and now we're all paying the price."
"Then what do you want from me?" The question comes out rougher than I intend, frustration bleeding through my carefully maintained control.
Rubio studies me with those pale eyes that have witnessed decades of violence and betrayal. "We want you to remember who you are. What you are. A Pakhan doesn't give interviews about romance and redemption. He doesn't let sentiment compromise his judgment or endanger his brothers."
"I haven't compromised anything." But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. I've compromised everything. My security, my anonymity, my carefully constructed walls between the legitimate businessman and the criminal empire beneath.
"Haven't you?" Another Pakhan gestures to the photographs spread across the table. "These agents weren't watching us a month ago. These auditors weren't requesting our records.These reporters weren't digging into our connections. All of this started when you decided to play the devoted husband for the cameras."
The truth of it sits heavily in my chest. I wanted to give Aria the fairy tale, to show the world that she'd transformed me into something better. But in doing so, I've painted a target on all of us.
"I can fix this," I say, but the words sound weak even to my own ears.
"Can you?" Rubio's fingers drum against the table once, that tell I've learned to recognize over years of negotiations. "Can you make the FBI lose interest? Can you convince reporters there's no story worth chasing? Can you restore the operational security we've all depended on for years?"
The questions hang in the air like accusations. I want to say yes, but looking at the evidence spread before me, at the faces of men whose empires are crumbling because of my choices, I'm not sure I can.
"The woman is pregnant," I say, grasping for something that might make them understand. "She's carrying my child. I can't just abandon her to the wolves."
"No one's asking you to abandon her." Rubio's voice remains maddeningly calm. "We're asking you to contain the situation. To remember that your first loyalty is to this council, to the organization, to the brothers who've stood beside you through wars and betrayals."
"My first loyalty is to my family." The words come out before I can stop them, and I watch understanding dawn in their eyes. Not sympathy. Not approval. Just the cold recognition that I'vealready chosen, and my choice puts me at odds with everything they represent.
The room falls silent except for the distant hum of the city beyond the windows. I feel every eye on me, measuring my reaction, calculating whether I'll fight or fold. The Pakhan in me wants to put my fist through Rubio's face, to remind them all exactly who they're threatening.
Rubio's fingers drum against the table once. "You have two weeks, Nikolai. Fourteen days to make this problem disappear." He leans forward, pale eyes cold as winter. "After that, the council votes on your removal as Pakhan."
49
ARIA
The morning sun streams through the massive windows of my new building, throwing golden rectangles across the hardwood floors. I should be excited. This space is everything I dreamed of when I started Thyme & Tide. Instead, my stomach churns with dread that has nothing to do with morning sickness.
My architect stands near the exposed brick wall, his tablet clutched against his chest like a shield. The contractor hovers by the door, his weathered face arranged in an expression I've learned to recognize as bad news delivered with reluctance. Neither of them will meet my eyes.
"Just tell me," I say, my hand moving instinctively to the swell of my stomach. The baby kicks against my palm, responding to my spiking anxiety.
