"The wives who work for you," Lara continues, "they're already creating goodwill. Making you seem less like an outsider and more like someone who understands our world. Using Bratva suppliers would strengthen that perception."
"Or make me look like I'm laundering money." I force myself to meet her gaze. "Like I'm just another front for illegal operations."
"Only if you let it become that." Her hand covers mine on my stomach, the touch surprisingly warm. "You set the terms, Aria. You decide what kind of business this becomes. But you can't do it alone anymore. Not with a target on your back."
The baby kicks against our joined hands, and I feel tears sting my eyes again. This child deserves better than a mother who's constantly looking over her shoulder, who can't build a business without worrying about bullets through walls.
"I need to think about it," I say, but even I can hear how weak the words sound.
Lara stands, smoothing her emerald dress with practiced grace. "Don't think too long. Your suppliers want answers, and finding alternatives who'll work with you will take time you don't have."
She moves toward the stairs, her heels clicking against the hardwood, then pauses at the top step. "For what it's worth, I think you're stronger than you realize. Strong enough to use Nikolai's resources without losing yourself in the process."
The door closes behind her, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the ruins of my independence.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find a text from the architect.
Need decision on suppliers by Friday. Can't hold the timeline without commitments.
Friday. Three days to decide whether I'm willing to tether my business to Nikolai's world permanently. Three days to choose between maintaining my principles and actually building something that might survive.
I think about the Bratva wives who've become more than employees. Irina with her methodical precision, Svetlana's sharp mind for numbers, and Mila's infectious enthusiasm. They're already part of this, already connecting my business to the organization in ways I can't undo.
Maybe Lara is right. Maybe I've already lost the battle for complete independence. Maybe the question isn't whether to accept help, but how to accept it without losing the core of who I am.
My hand moves to my stomach again, feeling the baby's movements beneath my palm. This child will grow up in Nikolai's world whether I like it or not. The question is whether I'll be strong enough to carve out space within that world for something that's still mine.
The door opens again, and this time it is Nikolai's security guard. His expression is grim as he crosses the space toward me.
"Mrs. Alekseev," he says, his voice tight with controlled urgency. "We need to leave. Now."
My pulse kicks up, adrenaline flooding my system. "What's wrong?"
"FBI agents just arrived at the building. They're asking questions about the ownership, about your husband's involvement in the purchase." His hand finds my elbow, already guiding me toward the back exit. "The Pakhan wants you somewhere safe while he handles it."
I let him lead me down the stairs, my mind racing through implications I don't want to examine. The FBI. Here. Asking questions about Nikolai's connection to my business before I've even decided whether to accept his help.
The choice I thought I had just evaporated like morning mist.
50
NIKOLAI
Istand at the head of the conference table in The Golden Lion's most secure meeting room, watching my legal team arrange documents with the precision of surgeons preparing for a delicate operation. Three lawyers, two PR specialists, and Yaroslav with his laptop open, the screen glowing with evidence that will destroy the narrative that's been bleeding us dry for months.
"Show me," I say, my voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation.
Yaroslav turns his laptop so everyone can see. "The metadata on every photograph tells a story the blackmailer didn't anticipate. Time stamps that don't match solar positioning. Shadow angles that are physically impossible for the claimed location. Pixel degradation patterns consistent with digital manipulation rather than organic capture."
He clicks through images, each one annotated with technical analysis that makes my head spin. But I don't need to understand the specifics. I just need it to be bulletproof.
"Three independent forensics experts have reviewed the evidence," one of my lawyers adds, sliding reports across the table. "All three conclude the photographs were digitally altered to appear more intimate than reality. Their testimony will hold up in any court."
"And the defamation suits?" I lean forward, my hands braced against the mahogany surface.
"Filed this morning against every outlet that published the images." The lead attorney's smile is sharp enough to cut. "We're demanding full retractions, public apologies, and settlements substantial enough to make other media outlets think twice before running similar stories."
I think of Aria's face when those photographs first surfaced, the devastation in her dark eyes as strangers dissected our most private moments. The memory makes rage build in my chest, cold and lethal.
