We gather in the large study at the back of the house.
“Welcome,” I say, my voice controlled and my eyes assessing everyone present.
Dark mahogany bookshelves line the walls, filled with volumes that have not been touched in years. A massive oak desk dominates the center of the room—my father’s desk. I take the seat behind it without hesitation. The generals and assassins settle into the leather armchairs arranged in a semicircle. Ivan remains standing near the window, ever watchful.
No one speaks at first.
The silence carries respect for the dead and the gravity of why we are here.
I pour myself a measure of vodka from the crystal decanter on the sideboard and take a slow sip. The burn grounds me. I motion to one of the generals to make drinks for everyone. I might be the pakhan, but I need my men to know that I respect them.
“Speak,” I say, voice low and controlled. “The dead man downtown. What do we know?”
One of the generals, Kas, leans forward. His face is scarred from old knife fights. “The blade work was clean. Professional. Not a street thug. The body was dumped near the warehouse district. Our territory. A clear message.”
The second general, Andrej, nods grimly. “Word on the street points to the Mexicans. The Cabella cartel has been pushing harder into the city for months. They want the ports, the routes, everything we control. Killing one of ours could be the opening move to eliminate the Russian families entirely.”
Ivan crosses his arms, his sharp eyes narrowing. “It fits. The cartel has grown bold since the Italians weakened. They see an opportunity with your father gone and the pact with Viktor still fresh. If they take out the Antonovs, the other Russian families will fracture. Then they sweep in for a full takeover.”
I set my glass down with deliberate calm, though anger simmers beneath the surface. “So they believe the new pakhan is weak. They think one bullet and one knife will make us bleed out.”
The older assassin, a quiet man named Isaak, speaks for the first time. “We have seen this pattern before. They test, they probe, then they flood the streets with product and bodies. If it is the cartel, this is only the beginning of a war.”
I lean back in the chair, fingers steepled. The possibility settles heavily in the room. A full-scale war with the Mexicans would be bloody and costly. But backing down is not an option. Not for an Antonov.
Ivan steps closer to the desk.
“I have a few Mexican contacts,” Ivan says. “These are men who owe me favors from old jobs. I can reach out quietly. Feel the temperature. See if they are posturing or if this is a coordinated move. But we must proceed with caution. One wrong step and we ignite the entire city.”
I nod once. “Agreed. Caution for now. Gather information. But if this is the cartel declaring war on all Russian families, we cannot wait long. Unless we get a hold of this quickly, all hell could break loose. The streets will run red, and the police will have no choice but to crack down on everyone.”
I pause, letting my gaze move across each man. “There is another possibility I cannot ignore. A Russian family might beworking with the Mexicans. Someone ambitious enough to trade loyalty for a power-sharing agreement. They help eliminate the stronger houses—starting with mine—then carve up the remains with the cartel.”
The room grows even quieter. Betrayal from within stings deeper than any external threat. Andrej’s jaw tightens. “We will look into our own as well.Quietly.”
“Good,” I say. I stand, the meeting reaching its natural close. “Prepare for war. Strengthen our defenses. Double security on all operations. We move carefully, but we move.”
The generals and assassins rise, offering respectful nods before filing out. The door closes behind the last man, leaving only Ivan and me in the study.
I pour two fresh glasses of vodka and hand one to Ivan.
We drink in silence for a moment, the liquid warming our throats. The weight of the house presses in—the empty rooms upstairs where my mother once read to me, the garden where my father taught me to shoot. This place is mine now, but it still feels like theirs.
Ivan swirls the vodka in his glass. “You handled that well. Your father would be proud of how comfortably you are stepping into the role.”
I give a short, humorless laugh. “Proud, perhaps. But he would also warn me not to let anything distract me.” I take another sip, then set the glass down. My thoughts shift, unbidden, to softer territory. “There is something else on my mind.Teddy.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow but says nothing, waiting.
I continue, voice lower. “I do not want to risk the boy’s life. He is bright, optimistic, untouched by this world. Bringing him any closer could paint a target on his back the moment the cartel… or a traitor… decides to strike at what I care about. Yet I feel like I simply must have him. The way he challenges me, the spark in his eyes when he stands up to me… it stirs something I have tried to bury. He makes me want to be more than just the pakhan. Imusthave him. It’s non negotiable. He will be mine.”
Ivan studies me for a long moment, then shakes his head slowly. “This is one decision I cannot get involved in, Kirill. I can help with the cartel, with traitors, with blades in the dark. But matters of the heart… of a young man like him… are yours alone. You know the risks better than anyone. A pakhan’s boy becomes a weakness… or a strength. Only you can decide which he will be.”
I nod, appreciating his honesty.
Ivan has his own Forever Boy. He understands the pull, but he also knows the danger.
We finish our vodka in silence. The meeting is over, but the real work is only beginning. War is coming—whether from the Mexicans, from within our own ranks, or both. And in the middle of it all, a bright-eyed personal trainer with a sassy mouth and a submissive heart I can no longer ignore keeps slipping into my thoughts.
