“In everyone’s eyes, she’s my fiancée,” I say flatly. “He disrespected her.”
He shakes his head, half-laughing. “It’s more than that, brother. You never blow up over respect. You blow up when something really matters.”
I don’t answer. The doors slide open to another hallway, and we walk in silence. I tell myself he’s wrong and that this is business. Because it is. She’s just collateral until all of this is over. But the thought doesn’t feel like it should, it twists somewhere deeper, stubborn and uncomfortable, refusing to settle.
Mikhail pushes the next door open, still grinning to himself. “Let’s hope you don’t start any more fires today.”
The meeting room smells like cigars, scotch, and old grudges. The air’s thick enough to taste. A long table cuts through the center of the room, covered in black linen and half-emptyglasses. Around it sit men who can smile over people they’ve murdered, as long as the numbers add up.
Luciano De Luca, head of the Camorra, leans back in his chair with his easy arrogance, used to being obeyed. To his right sits his underboss, Marco Santoro—older, quieter, the one who watches everything and speaks only when it matters. Beside him, Enzo Ricci flips through a file, gold watch catching the light every time he moves. Across from them, their consigliere, Vittorio Moretti, keeps a hand wrapped around his glass, thumb tapping against the rim in a rhythm that makes the air feel heavier.
On the other side of the table, Patrick O’Callaghan from the Irish syndicate swirls his whiskey like he’s bored but still cataloging every word. Next to him sits his brother, Declan, thick-necked and restless, cracking his knuckles under the table. The third, Finn Donnelly, younger than the rest, looks too clean-cut to belong here—shirt pressed, tie straight, eyes sharp and calculating behind the calm.
And then there’s Boris, already seated across from me, legs wide, shoulders heavy, his expression unreadable except for the smugness hiding behind it.
Mikhail drops into the seat beside me. I take the one at the head of the table, across from De Luca. The conversation stops the second I sit down. Chairs creak. Someone clears their throat.
Luciano leans back, smiling. “Ah, Morozov. You finally made it. We were starting to think you’d left us waiting on purpose.” His tone’s light, but his eyes aren’t.
I meet his gaze. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He laughs once, short and dry, and taps his cigar against the ashtray. “Good. Then let’s get to it.”
He takes a slow drag, exhaling toward the ceiling. “The Morozovs and the Petrovs—two families, two joined empires. And now, one broken engagement.” He gestures with the cigar, the smoke curling around his words. “People are wondering what that means for the rest of us.”
The air shifts, small but noticeable. Moretti whispers something to Santoro, and Marco doesn’t answer, just keeps watching me like he’s waiting for a reaction.
“It means nothing,” I say finally. “There was no official proposal, nothing was ever finalized. There was no contract, no alliance, no papers signed.”
Luciano’s gaze stays steady, but I can see the flicker of amusement behind it. He enjoys this—the tension, the testing. He’s been playing this game longer than most of us have been alive.
Across from him, Boris lets out a low laugh. “A man’s word used to mean something.”
The sound makes a few heads turn. Mikhail exhales slowly beside me, leaning back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show. I keep my eyes on Boris.
“Depends on the man, and I never gave my word” I say.
Boris tilts his head, that smug half-smile tugging at his mouth again. “And what kind are you, Artyom?”
I don’t blink. “The kind who knows when to walk away from a bad deal.”
The room goes still again, a sort of quiet that feels like it’s waiting to break.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Careful how you talk to me, boy. You might’ve inherited power, but you can lose it just as fast as your old man gave it to you.”
“You’ve exploited people,” I say evenly. “In my eyes, that’s a mistake. And I see you’re making another one right now.”
A murmur passes through the room. Mikhail leans back, watching the exchange like it’s a show. His eyes flick between us, sharp with amusement.
Luciano clears his throat. “Gentlemen. Please. We’re here to talk business, not trade insults.” He looks at me. “There’s concern. Chicago’s pushing east again. The Irish are asking for a bigger cut. Your father’s health isn’t what it used to be. Andwith Petrov’s daughter—” He gestures again, not finishing the sentence.
“With Petrov’s daughter,” Boris interrupts, “the alliance could’ve held all that together. But now it’s gone, because Artyom here prefers to make emotional decisions.”
I feel my hand tighten around the edge of the table. “There was nothing emotional about it.”
Luciano gives me a look that says he doesn’t believe it. “Then why the performance downstairs?”
I don’t answer right away. The room is too watchful. I can feel Boris’s satisfaction bleeding into the air. He knows he’s got an audience, and he’s going to use it.
