"Probably," I say, walking past him to the door. "But at least you'll die entertained, husband."
We head downstairs. The atmosphere feels heavy, the hallway guards standing at attention with their hands resting on their holsters.
When we enter the dining room, the scene is exactly what I expected.
Vladimir Morozov and my father are sitting at the long mahogany table. A plate of cold meats and a bottle of high-end vodka sit untouched between them. Vladimir is nursing a glass, his eyes bloodshot and flat. Boris leans on his silver-headed cane, looking entirely too comfortable in our chairs.
"Ah," Boris says, his lip curling as he sees us enter. His gaze tracks my damp hair and oversized black hoodie. "There she is. The lady of the house.”
"Mikhail," Vladimir says, his voice a dry rasp. "We came to discuss the North Dock expansion. And the... unfortunate event at the Queens plant."
"There is nothing to discuss, Father," Mikhail says, standing behind my chair as I sit. His palms are heavy and hot on my shoulders, a physical barrier between me and the two men across the table. "The Queens plant is being handled. The inventory is relocated."
"Relocated where?" Boris asks, leaning forward, eyes narrow. "The Petrov network needs to know the new routes, son. We have shipments scheduled for the weekend. We can't have our trucks idling because you're having security issues."
"The shipments will go out on time," Mikhail says. "But the routes are no longer your concern, Boris."
"No longer our concern?" Boris lets out a dry, clicking laugh. "We are partners, boy. The alliance was built on shared infrastructure. If you're hiding the transit points, you're violating the contract."
"The contract was with Artyom," Mikhail counters, his voice a low, warning rumble. "And Artyom is currently recovering. Until he’s back, I’m the one running the operations."
Vladimir sets his glass down with a slow, deliberate click. "Mikhail. Boris is offering to help us rebuild. He has warehouses in Jersey that can handle the surplus while Queens is offline. It’s a logical solution."
"It’s a parasite’s solution," Mikhail growls. He leans forward, hands flat on the table, his blue eyes fixing on his father. "You think I don't see what you're doing? You think I don't know that you two have been whispering in the dark since the warehouse raid? If you wanted a bigger share of the business, Father, you shouldn't have retired."
"I am still the former Pakhan!" Vladimir roars, slamming his fist on the table.
"And Artyom is the current one," Mikhail says, his voice calm and lethal. "If you want to talk about shares, why are you sitting in my dining room? Go to the hospital. Talk to Artyom. See if he wants to give you his seat."
The silence in the room is heavy. Vladimir blinks, his arrogance faltering as he looks into his son’s eyes.
"We have other options," Mikhail continues, adjusting his cuffs with a terrifying calm. "I’ve spent the morning speaking with Konstantin. And I have three new partners from Brooklyn who are very eager to handle our surplus. We don't need your warehouses, Boris. And we don't need your advice."
Boris’s face darkens, the mention of our Brooklyn contacts clearly hitting a nerve. He stands up, leaning heavily on his cane as he glares at me.
"You think you're clever, boy," Boris says, his voice dropping into a quiet, nasty hiss as he turns to me. "And you… you think because you’ve found a new protector, you can forget where you came from. You should remember who still holds the keys to your happiness, child. Some secrets don't stay buried forever."
I feel the blood drain from my face.
Mikhail stands up slowly, walking around the corner of the table. His steps are slow and deliberate on the hardwood until he’s standing inches from my father, his broad chest completely blocking Boris from my view.
"You have five seconds to get out of my house," Mikhail says, his voice a low, terrifying whisper.
"Mikhail—" Vladimir starts.
"You too, old man," Mikhail growls, not looking back. "Both of you. Get the hell out before I decide that the alliance isn't worth the lead it takes to put you down."
"You are threatening your father-in-law?" Boris sneers, though he takes a step back, hand tightening on his cane.
"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you," Mikhail says, his teeth bared in a jagged grin. "In this house, her word is my word. If you speak to my wife like that again under my roof, I won't just throw you out—I’ll make sure you don't have a tongue left to speak with. Now get out."
Boris glares at me, his eyes dark with a promise of violence, before turning toward the foyer. Vladimir follows him, his expression a mix of fury and embarrassment.
A minute later, the heavy oak doors of the foyer slam shut.
The silence in the dining room is suffocating. I stay in my chair, hands shaking around my mug as the sour taste of adrenaline hangs in the air.
"He’s going to do it," I whisper, my voice cracking as I look up at Mikhail. "He’s going to tell everyone. He’s going to move Oleg. He knows we’re looking."
