Page 111 of Sweet Obsession

And the Bratva watched, silent, breath held, because the real power in that room wasn’t the blood or the weapons.

It was me. The woman he chose to listen to. The one who could pull him back from the edge. For now.

The host, the grey-haired man, stepped into the center, smoothing his jacket with shaky hands.

“There will be no vote tonight,” he declared, voice taut with the effort to sound in control. “We will reconvene in two weeks.”

“Why?” someone shouted from the Khabarovsk table. “Finish the vote!”

“Because,” the man barked, “due to the weather forecasts and logistics for safe travel, the Chita delegation must leave by morning. We will not cast the final vote without all five families present. And we will not reward violence.”

He turned sharply toward Misha, eyes narrowing. “You’ve just jeopardized your chances, Petrov.”

Chernov laughed, low, bitter, with blood still wet on his teeth. “Petrov, you humiliated me. In front of them. In front of her.”

Misha didn’t respond. But Chernov wasn’t done. He wiped his mouth, glaring at the wreckage of spilled wine, glass, and pride around him. His voice dropped into something venomous and quiet. meant for Misha, but loud enough for everyone tohear. He nodded toward me, like I was the reason he bled. Like I was the weapon that cut deeper than the knife.

“When I become Packhan, you will live the rest of your days regretting what you did today. Don’t sleep too soundly, Petrov,” Chernov hissed. “You won’t see the next one coming.”

Lev caught his arm. Alexei flanked him on the other side. They stormed from the ballroom without another word, just the thunder of their departure, their power leaving a vacuum that no one dared fill.

And as Chernov and his brothers vanished into the dark, I knew one thing with brutal clarity:

This was war. And wars never ended clean.

I didn’t know what the next few days would bring. Only that men like Chernov didn’t forget. And they sure as hell didn’t forgive. Not betrayal. Not blood. And not me.

Especially not me.

A silence followed.

Tense. Tighter than before.

Then the host cleared his throat again and said, with less force this time, “Everyone should return to their quarters. Now.”

Misha didn’t look at anyone. He turned to me, extended his hand.

I took it.

And together, we walked past the shattered crystal, the overturned chairs, the unfinished courses of venison and caviar, through the ruins of diplomacy and the ghosts of men still breathing.

The storm hadn’t started outside.

But inside him?

Inside me?

It already had.

In the car, the air was thick. Misha didn’t speak for a long time. His jaw was tight, hands gripping the wheel harderthan necessary. I watched the city blur by, the pale lights, the dark windows, the endless white snow building up like silence between us.

“Your chances of becoming Pakhan are slim now,” I said quietly.

His eyes met mine, sharp and unflinching. “It doesn’t matter. I would’ve stabbed him to death already, if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I know.”

He looked back at the road, his voice rough. “They’re going to use it against me.”