Smirking, Dimitri grumbles something about honoring family values while shadowing me into the den. Landon wasn’t joking when he said it’s been set up like a fortress. It reminds me of the bunkers my crew slept in while waiting for Clarks to be built, just missing the whores my men trade more regularly than drugs.
I take a seat in an empty chair before gesturing for Dimitri to sit in the one opposite me. It is an amicable gesture, but it doesn’t simmer my annoyance in the slightest. Hoping a hit of nicotine will keep my hands away from my knife, I tap a cigarette out of a half-empty packet, place it between my lips, then light it.
Smoke bellows between us when I mutter, “You shouldn’t be here without an invitation.”
I say my comment only loud enough for Dimitri to hear. If my men discover he’s here without the right protocol being followed, he won’t leave breathing. And although I’ll always class the Petrettis as my enemy, the one sitting across from me deserves a little leeway. He helped me save Justine. If I could set aside a lifetime of hatred, I’d award him more than a half-assed mercy bid. Unfortunately, morals were the first thing I discarded when I lost faith in mankind.
That’s why you can be assured if Dimitri is here for any other reason than to give Justine a full pardon, he’ll discover how the rules of our industry changed the instant Vladimir fell victim to my knife. Nothing is below me when it comes to protecting my queen—not even century-long traditions.
Dimitri adjusts his position so his back faces my men before replying, “I could say the same for you, Nikolai. You don’t belong here any more than I do.”
I admire the grit in his voice. He’s seated in a room full of men who’d give anything to kill him, yet his confidence hasn’t wavered in the slightest. He’s either a stupid man, or he believes he has nothing to worry about. Both expose his recklessness. The fact he is here, in the home of the woman carrying my child, means he’s on my turf. Being here without an invitation is as disrespectful as me arriving at his compound without notice a year ago.
My disrespect can be easily excused. I’ll never be accused of being a rule follower. Dimitri, on the other hand, he follows protocol to the wire—even when it could cost him his life.
Dimitri’s dark eyes stop focusing on the ember of my half-consumed cigarette when I disclose, “Justine is with child. My child.” The pride in my voice can’t be missed during my last two words.
I thought I said my statement only loud enough for Dimitri to hear, but Landon’s near-choke on his spit proves I didn’t. Although Justine requested we keep news of her pregnancy a secret until after Maddox’s release, it is too critical to ignore. Whether a wife or a whore, any woman carrying an heir to a legion is given a full pardon.
I am knowledgeable about this because it’s how my life was spared when Vladimir caught wind of my mother’s floundering ways. If I weren’t conceived by Col’s seed, my blood would have been shed on the concrete floors of the Popov compound long before my sixteenth birthday. Vladimir despised me so much, I wouldn’t have been shocked to discover he requested to carry out my termination himself.
The rules we live by are as misguided as the man who founded them, but this is one I plan to follow to the T. Even though our baby won’t protect Justine’s heart, he’ll keep her physically safe. That in itself is worth a thousand lives.
I watch Landon’s brisk exit from the den while stubbing out my cigarette on the sole of my boot.
Once he is out of my view, I lock my eyes with Dimitri. “Why are you here?”
My question is short and to the point. If Landon is heading where I think he’s heading, I have mere minutes before my battle shifts to one even more detrimental than the one I’m striving to avoid.
My brows furrow when Dimitri answers, “I’m here to issue a warning.”
“A warning for what?” He could be referring to the last time I entered his realm unannounced, but my gut is steering me in another direction.
Dimitri scoots to the edge of his chair, ensuring his words are only for my ears. “The men Landon mentioned in Hopeton are not my crew. They’re a sanction hoping to get a foothold in my area without my approval.”
I’m about to rib him about keeping tighter reins on his entity, but his next lot of words frees the wind from my sails. “They’re Russian.”
“Russian?” My accent is more pronounced from my anger rising. He didn’t directly say he suspects I’m encroaching on his turf, but his snarl sure as fuck did. “Why the fuck would I be interested in a two-bit operation with a main focus on sex trafficking?” Although I’m asking a question, I continue speaking, denying him the opportunity to rebut. “Despite what your daddy told you, there’s no money in the prostitution conglomerate.”
Dimitri’s sixty-thousand-dollar watch reveals my comment is off the mark, but my ego won’t let me shelf my reply.
Dimitri’s usually docile face lines with wolfish satisfaction as his lips tug upward. “Rumors are that you’re getting soft. That your focus has shifted away from the game.”
“Soft?” Anger chops up my growl. “The only thing about to get soft is your cock when I cut it off and feed it to you.” I nudge my head to his right ankle. “That piece youthinkI’m unaware of wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for me.” I turn to face him head on, letting my fury be seen on my face. “The guns your crew carry when shipping whores between states are marked with my brand. Even the coke your men sniffs off their breasts between shipments was purchased from me.”
My stare goes black. I’ve reached the end of my tether. “Disrespect me one more time with claims I’m not runningmyorganization toyourspecifications, and we’ll soon discover who’s soft.” My eyes stray in the direction his goon just went. “This is your final chance to leave before you discover how hard it is to wipe your ass with your non-dominant hand.”
My knife feels heavy in my pocket. It’s begging to be released, to be used as it was intended. My urge to kill is intense, but I’ve got more urgent matters to deal with than a rival mistaking determination as weakness. Dimitri’s rile exposed more than his ability to piss me off. He said the men setting up shop in Hopeton are Russian.
Considering all Bratva crews this side of Russia are under the umbrella of the Popov entity, Dimitri’s assumption they’re a part of my operative is true. It’s the fact I am unaware of their bid for Hopeton that’s frustrating the hell out of me. I may not rule my entity with the iron fist Vladimir used, but I run a tight ship. A slip like this is not acceptable.
Dimitri stands to his feet before fiddling with his jacket. The cufflinks shining on the sleeves of his dress shirt reveal his entity has jumped leaps and bounds from the ruins Col left it in, but his visit also shows he’s aware of his place.
Mafia kingpins don’t warn rivals to steer clear of their turf. They squash them, then use their punishment as a warning to anyone stupid enough to follow their footsteps. In this industry, actions will always exceed words.
“I came here as a mark of respect.”
Dimitri’s eyes, identical to mine in every way, float to the stairwell Justine climbed only minutes ago. His prolonged stare advises where his admiration stems. He’s not here to make amends with me. He’s here to soothe volatile waters with Justine.
