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She arches a brow, her expression cool and unimpressed. “Your beliefs are irrelevant, Mikhail. What matters is the message it sends. To your men. To her father. To everyone watching.”
I lean forward, my hands braced on the table. “And what message do you think it sends when I treat my wife like some medieval trophy?”
Her lips tighten into a thin line, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension crackling in the air.
“You’re playing with fire,” she says finally, her voice calm but cutting. “You’ve already brought her into this world. If you don’t solidify her place?—”
“I know the risks,” I snap, cutting her off. “And I’ll handle them.”
She studies me, her gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “See that you do. Because if you don’t, you’ll have more than just her father to answer to. He’s still a threat.” She rises gracefully, her presence still commanding even as she moves to leave.
At the doorway, she pauses, glancing back at me. “Remember, Mikhail. You chose this path. Now walk it.”
I rake a hand through my hair, frustration and guilt gnawing at me. She’s right, in her way. Lila is already a target, already caught in the cross fire of this life. And every moment I keep my distance, I make her more vulnerable.
But the thought of forcing her into something she doesn’t want, something she hates me for, twists something deep in my gut.
I stare down at my untouched coffee, her voice echoing in my head.
I’ll hate you forever for this.
I’ll protect her. No matter what it takes. Even if it means protecting her from me.
The humof the car engine fills the silence as Torres and I head toward Staten Island. The sprawling skyline of New York disappears in the rearview mirror, replaced by the industrial sprawl that has become all too familiar over the years.
Torres is in the passenger seat, his bulk filling the space as he flips through a tablet, reviewing reports from our men. His face is set in a grim line, the faint scar running along his jaw catching the light.
“Alexei’s been busy,” he says, breaking the silence.
I glance at him briefly before returning my focus to the road. “How bad is it?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, instead pulling up a video feed and handing me the tablet. The footage shows a dockyard—our dockyard—teeming with activity. Men I don’t recognize. Trucks being loaded with containers that don’t belong to us.
“Bold,” I say, my voice calm but cold. “He’s moving on our territory now.”
“Not just moving,” Torres says, his tone sharp. “He’s sending a message. The dock manager said they were bragging about it. ‘Alexei sends his regards.’”
My grip on the steering wheel tightens, the leather creaking under the pressure. Alexei has been a thorn in my side for years, but this? This is a declaration of war.
The warehouse looms ahead, a hulking structure of concrete and steel tucked away in the industrial maze of Staten Island. It’s one of our oldest properties, inherited from my grandfather’s time. I park the car, and Torres steps out immediately, his hand resting on the Glock at his hip as he scans the area.
Inside, the warehouse is alive with activity. Men move between rows of crates. The smell of oil and steel lingers in the air. Anton, one of my lieutenants, approaches quickly. His jaw clenches as he nods in greeting.
“Boss,” he says.
“What’s the situation?” I ask.
“Alexei’s men hit the docks last night. We lost two shipments—cash and merchandise,” Anton says, hesitating before continuing. “And some of the girls.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. I’ve been working to steer the family away from human trafficking, phasing it out of our operations. But it’s not a simple fix, and Alexei knows that.
“Casualties?” Torres asks, his tone hard.
“Two dead. One survivor,” Anton replies.
“Where is he?” I ask.
“In the back office,” Anton says, gesturing toward the far corner.