You’ll kill it. Call me after.
I pocket the phone, grateful for friendships that survived my marriage. Diana knows more about my life than most people,understands the contradictions I’ve learned to live with. She doesn’t judge—or if she does, she keeps it to herself.
“We should go,” Dimitri says, glancing at his watch. “Traffic will be hell.”
***
The meeting goes better than expected.
I present the updated community benefits package with the polish I’ve developed over months of similar presentations. Free units for existing residents, local hiring guarantees, preservation of the building’s historic facade. Concessions Dimitri agreed to because I asked, because I made the case that goodwill has value beyond immediate profit.
People ask hard questions. I answer honestly where I can, diplomatically where I can’t. Dimitri sits in the back, letting me handle it, only stepping in when technical details require his expertise.
Afterward, a woman approaches. She’s older, clearly a neighborhood fixture. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone harder. Colder.” She studies me with shrewd eyes. “You actually care what happens to this community.”
“I do.”
“Why? You could just let him steamroll through like developers always do.”
The question deserves honesty. “Steamrolling leaves resentment. Resentment breeds resistance. Resistance costs more in the long run than doing it right from the start.”
“That’s a very practical answer.”
“I’m a very practical person.”
She laughs, warm and genuine. “I like you, Mrs. Rudenko. Don’t let this city harden you too much.”
The conversation stays with me through the car ride home. Don’t let the city harden you. Good advice, probably too late.
I’ve already hardened in the ways that matter—learned to negotiate with people who see violence as a legitimate negotiation tactic, developed instincts for danger that didn’t exist a year ago, accepted that the man I love has blood on his hands and will again.
I’ve softened too. In ways I didn’t expect.
Dimitri’s hand finds mine in the darkness of the car. “You did well tonight.”
“They didn’t throw anything.”
“Low bar, but accurate.”
I lean against him, exhaustion catching up now that the adrenaline’s fading. These events drain me in ways I’m still learning to manage. The constant performance, the need to represent not just myself but Dimitri, the Bratva, everything our name carries.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
The words settle warm in my chest. Dimitri doesn’t give compliments freely. When he does, they matter.
“Thank you for letting me do this,” I say. “I know you’d rather handle it yourself.”
“I would, but you’re better at it.” His arm tightens around me. “I’m learning to delegate to my strengths. You’re one of them.”
***
The next morning, I wake before dawn feeling wrong. Not sick exactly—just off in ways I can’t articulate. The nausea hits when I try to stand, sending me rushing to the bathroom.
Dimitri finds me there twenty minutes later, sitting on the floor with my back against the tub.
