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I'll accept their payment for my artistic services, just this one commission. That sum will suffice to potentially seek alternative employment or dedicate myself exclusively to my art for several months. Is that a sustainable lifestyle? I'm not sure. But it sounds appealing.

"Just the coffee, then, thank you," Gianna concedes.

That's what needs my concentration. One assignment with the Morettis, seven thousand dollars, and subsequently, a choice. Remain here, or immerse myself in my artistic pursuits temporarily? But what if she recommends me to a friend? Or requests additional pieces? Or commissions one for herself?

I'm getting ahead of myself, admittedly, but should that scenario present itself, I'll decline it firmly. Just one job. This singular occasion. Mom would understand my reasoning.

When I deliver her coffee, Gianna blows across its surface. For a disorienting moment, she embodies Mom's likeness, the identical contour of her lips, the same distinctive character. Gianna smiles warmly. "Everything okay?"

I clear my throat. "Yes, thank you. Enjoy your coffee."

Nico's gaze follows my every move as I walk away. I love it. I loathe it. I simultaneously wish it would end and go on forever.

ChapterFive

Nico

My office doesn't flaunt power. It implies it.

No ostentatious gold. No garish embellishments. Just pristine angles, supple leather, and understated, exquisite pieces. The environment silently communicates that I needn't prove anything. I inherently command the space.

The desk is walnut, grain resembling flowing river currents, meticulously organized, featuring only a pen worth more than most monthly mortgage payments. Floor-to-ceiling glass, fifty stories high, ensures visitors feel diminutive before even taking a seat. The panoramic view of the Dallas skyline showcases the city’s dynamic energy, with modern skyscrapers gleaming in the sun, a bustling atmosphere hinting at its diverse economy, and the feeling of ambition in the air.

I don't necessarily relish this persona, but it fulfills expectations. My intercom buzzes on my desk. My assistant announces Adrian's arrival. He walks through the door, attempting to conceal his admiration.

"You look thoroughly hungover," I observe.

He chuckles, his voice raspy. "I ended up drinking with the Russians."

"Should I be concerned about your Bratva sympathies?"

Another laugh, excessively forceful, almost confrontational. "No, absolutely not, but Father always promoted cultivating Russian relationships. Preferable to conflict, right?"

"Preferable to conflict," I concur. "That's my paramount objective to avoid. In warfare, innocents die, civilians. We aspire to higher standards."

Father didn't. Luka didn't. But I will.

"I get you, cousin," Adrian says. "But Viktor waspissedlast night."

"What grievances could he possibly have?" I dismiss.

"He sees last night as a display of dominance, as though you were diminishing his stature, his significance. You know how prickly he can get. He also mentioned another matter."

Adrian suddenly resembles a Bratva emissary. "Elaborate."

"He'd 'overlook the incident' – his phrasing – if you facilitated permits for warehouse construction in some minor district. Can't recall the location. He merely wants five or six warehouses. He wants you to leverage your connections."

"Absolutely not."

Adrian narrows his eyes suspiciously. "Just like that? Don't you want to consider it? Surely, accommodating six warehouses outweighs tension with the Russians."

"This isn't the first time he’s mentioned these warehouses, but he’s not getting them."

"I stand with you should this call for blood," Adrian declares. "But antagonizing Viktor unnecessarily seems unwise."

"Those warehouses are off-limits. That’s the end of it. If he wants a discussion, he can arrange a formal meeting. We'll address it as equals."

"But why?—"