I glance at Mikhail. He’s smirking, tapping his cigarette against an ashtray.
Boris leans forward. “Tell me, Artyom—was humiliating my daughter worth it? You think that little nurse can replace what you’ve thrown away?”
The laugh that almost escapes me tastes bitter. “You seem awfully concerned, Boris. Worried your daughter won’t find anyone else to marry her?”
He stiffens. “Watch yourself.”
“I am.”
The tension stretches. No one speaks. Even the Camorra soldiers stop pretending to check their phones.
Finally, O’Callaghan sets his glass down. “If I might offer a thought,” he says in his thick accent. “We all like our theatrics, but business comes first. If the Morozovs and Petrovs start feuding, it impacts every one of us. The ports, the docks, the product. So maybe you two keep your pissing contest out of our ledgers, yeah?”
Luciano nods. “Agreed.”
I lean back in my chair, forcing my tone calm. “No feud. I’m not interested in destroying profits over pride.” I glance at Boris. “But I won’t tolerate disrespect in public, either.”
He laughs quietly. “You still think you can control how people talk about you? You’re not your father, Artyom. You don’t scare people.”
The words land like a punch to my chest. I shouldn’t care, but I do, because I know he’s testing me in front of men who’ll take silence as weakness. I feel the burn crawl up my spine again, the same one from earlier.
Mikhail sees it. He leans closer, his voice low enough only I hear. “He wants you to lose it again. Don’t give him that.”
He’s right. I unclench my hand from the table and reach for my glass instead. The whiskey is warm, grounding.
When I speak again, my voice is steady. “I’m not my father. That’s the whole point.”
Luciano smiles faintly, meaning he approves but won’t admit it. “Good. The old man’s way of doing things was… loud.”
Boris scoffs. “Loud gets results.”
“Loud gets you caught,” Mikhail says, flicking ash into his drink. “Quiet gets you paid.”
That earns a laugh from Patrick and a nod from Luciano. Boris doesn’t laugh, just sits there, jaw tightening, eyes on me.
The rest of the meeting bleeds into logistics of territory distribution, shipments, new laundering fronts. I answer when I have to, but my focus drifts. Every now and then, a flash of Kira’s face cuts through—her voice in the elevator, her breath in the lobby, that look when she told me I made it worse.
She’s in another wing of the hotel now, probably with my sisters, but she’s still in my head. Under my skin.
The worst part is, she’s not wrong. I made it worse. And the men at this table can smell it on me. They sense distraction like sharks sense blood.
Luciano raises his glass toward me near the end of the meeting. “To peace,” he says. “And to keeping the streets quiet.”
We all drink to that.
When it’s done, chairs scrape the floor, men stand, and the air loosens just enough to breathe again. Mikhail leans back against the wall, watching as Boris lights another cigar. The Camorra lieutenants start filing out first, followed by the Irish. Boris stays seated, waiting. Of course he wants the last word.
Luciano turns to me. “Stay a moment, Artyom. There’s something we should discuss privately.”
It’s not a request.
Boris catches that. His jaw works, like he wants to object but can’t. I can see the humiliation simmering behind his eyes, he’s just been dismissed before he could play his final move.
“Go ahead,” I say to him, standing. “We’ll finish this later.”
His mouth twists. “Count on it.” He pushes back his chair and leaves, his men following in silence.
The door closes behind him.
