The black dress Dmitri insisted I wear clings to my curves, including the swelling curve of my stomach—our secret, now forced into the open. The black sling I’m wearing with it clashes with the white bandages still wrapping my shoulder and arm, where the bullet did little more than graze me. However, I’m grateful it didn’t do much worse.
A dull ache remains, and any sudden movement makes the pain flare. The bruise on my cheek from Dean’s fist is now a yellow-green mark, evidence of last week’s violence. I keep waking up in a cold sweat from nightmares, a scream caught in my throat.
Dmitri stands beside me, impeccable in his dark suit, every hair on his head perfect. There’s still a deep purple shadow under his left eye, a stitched gash over his forehead, and a stiffness in his gait that is imperceptible to anyone but me.
His hand on my lower back, he guides me through the doors to the private room. The air inside is oppressive, thick with cigar smoke, expensive cologne, and absolute authority. Dimitri has called an emergency meeting of the sinister group men who rule part of the city’s underworld.
I’ve faced many frightening adversaries in courtrooms and boardrooms. Hell, the man at my side is probably the most terrifying of them all, but the men who sit in an intimidating horseshoe around a mahogany table gaze at us coldly as we step into the room, seemingly dissecting me with their eyes and making my stomach flip.
But I hold my chin high, because I won’t let them frighten or intimidate me. I refuse to shrink, not after everything that happened with Andrey Mikhailov.
Dmitri stops at the head of the table, but he doesn’t sit as I expect him to. I know nothing of theprotocolsof thisbratva council or their convocations, but the men around the table seem bemused, as well, several of them shifting in their seats, others frowning.
Dmitri makes sure everybody sees how his hand rests, heavy and possessive, on the small of my back. It’s a gesture that says:She’smine. The room falls silent under the intensity of those ice-blue eyes, and the shifting and rustling cease.
Every eye is on him.
“Gentlemen.” Dmitri’s voice is sharp and steady. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I assure you, what you hear today supersedes any prior engagements.”
He pauses, allowing the tension to coil tighter, then turns to me. The raw adoration in his eyes, the gratitude that I am still with him, flashes for a brief second. Then, he turns back to the assembled men, his hand curling around my waist.
“You may or may not know this woman. She is Clara Benson, an attorney on the Smirnov Corporation’s executive legal team. But today, I present her as my future wife, thepakanshaof the SmirnovBratva, and the mother of my child.”
The silence that follows is heavy and stunned, and that includes me. In fact, his announcement has stolen my breath away. This is the first time Dmitri has made his attachment to me and the pregnancy public, and the gravity of the declaration hangs over the room.
“A decade ago, Andrey Mikhailov killed my wife and unborn son. He believed the grief would destroy me, make the SmirnovBratvavulnerable to his scheming.” Dmitri’s voice deepens with emotion and anger that will, no doubt, remain with him to the end of his days. “Last week, he attempted the same crime. He kidnapped Clara, intending to repeat the horror and bring me down once and for all.”
His gaze scans the table, lingering on each man who had refused to side with him against the dangerous psychopath, ending on a single woman. Natasha sits in the seat vacated by her brother’s death. She looks small and broken, so different from the woman who sneered at me, her air of superiority diminished.
“Andrey Mikhailov is dead. I put a bullet in his head myself, ending the threat he posed to my family and to the stability of the entire organization, to all thebratvain New York.”
Dmitri leans forward, seeming to grow as he radiates raw, lethal intent. His eyes are as hard and sharp as ice.
“Let me be clear. The attempt on my family is an attempt on me. The act of kidnappingmywoman, who is pregnant withmychild, was an act of war against the SmirnovBratva. I want every single man in this room, and every single man in your organization, to understand this with crystal clarity. Clara ismine. She is under the protection of the SmirnovBratva. She ispartof the SmirnovBratva, and that means she is untouchable. The child she carries is the Smirnov heir, whichmeans they are sacred. If anyone makes a move against either of them, touches her, speaks her name with disrespect, evenlooksat her the wrong way, they will die. I will extinguish their entire bloodline, theirbratvawill crumble, and their names will be ground into dust and forgotten by history.”
The room falls silent, not in shock but in terrified comprehension. This isn’t just a threat from Dmitri; it is an oath, a blood vow.
The discussion that follows is swift, and the other bosses agree to Dmitri’s demands, ceasing any discussion aboutrebellion The MikhailovBratvais stripped of its transport and import licenses, their territory redistributed. They are financially annihilated, reduced to dependent status.
Natasha remains silent through it all, looking entirely defeated. It is only when her fate comes into question that she shows anyemotion. She scrambles to her feet, her eyes large and pleading. “Dmitri, please! I didn’t know! I told you the truth. I shouldn’t have looked the other way, but I didn’t know. I’ve always cared for you. Please!”
There is no answer to her plea; the faces of the men around the table are grim and show no mercy. I hold my breath, waiting for a response in her favor. I don’t like the woman, but I don’t want her to die. I don’t want to witness the order for her execution.
I glance up at Dmitri, knowing he believes that she should die, that retribution must be complete, that he must make his statement, warning anyone against future plots. His gaze is on Natasha, but then he looks down at the curve of my belly. I watch his jaw clench, fire flickering through his eyes, before the rage that was animating him draws back, replaced with a strange calm.
“Natasha Mikhailov.” Dmitri’s voice cuts through the heavy tension. “You are guilty of staying silent, and silence is complicity. You deserve death, and I would be justified in ordering it.”
His eyes find mine, searching. I meet his gaze full-on, waiting to see what he will decide. This is his world, and I know he is capable of ordering such an execution. By the laws of this underworld, she deserves to pay, her death meant to serve as a warning. But he made a promise to me to be gentler, to come back from the darkness left afterLauren’sdeath and the decade of shadows that followed.
“But I will not repeat the sins of my enemy. Andrey acted in the belief that he could only defeat me by inflicting maximum pain. He followed the path of hate and death. I will not. I have something that Andrey did not, which he tried to take away from me. I have my future, my family. I will not start my child’s life with a vengeful execution that serves no purpose but to feed the cycle of violence.”
I take a deep breath. There are genuine looks of surprise on the faces of the otherpakhanas he turns to face them.
“The Mikhailov name is broken. The blood debt is paid. Strip her of what you will, banish her from this room or the city, but do not take her life. I demand this mercy. Ghosts of the past will not guide the Smirnov Bratva.”
There are nods around the table. The convocation is dismissed.
The ride back to the penthouse is filled with Dmitri and Pavel speaking in Russian, most likely about the convocation. I look out the window at the passing city, lit up brightly for the holidays.
