Family Pressure (Dmitri POV)

The dining room smelled like old money and older grudges.

Dark mahogany table long enough to seat twenty, though only five of us ever used it. Crystal chandelier throwing jagged light across the walls. Ivan at the head, same place he’s sat since I was old enough to remember anything. Gray suit pressed sharp, silver cufflinks catching the light like knife edges. He doesn’t eat much anymore—just watches. Like he’s waiting for one of us to flinch.

Alex sat to my right, tie loosened already, cracking his knuckles under the table the way he does when he’s bored and trying not to show it. Across from us, two of the cousins—Dima and Sergei—kept their heads down, forks moving mechanically. They know better than to speak unless Ivan asks them something.

I didn’t touch the food.

Ivan’s voice cut through the clink of silverware like a blade through paper.

“Marcus Lombardi is moving product through the old meatpacking district again.” He didn’t look at me. He never does when he’s laying out a problem he expects me to solve. “Three shipments in the last month. Small enough we could pretend not to notice. Bold enough we can’t.”

I stared at the untouched glass of vodka in front of me. The ice had melted into a thin ring at the bottom.

“You want me to handle it?” I asked. Flat. No emotion. That’s how we talk here.

“I want it stopped.” His eyes finally flicked to me—cold, pale blue, same color as mine but without any warmth left in them. “Quietly. No bodies in the river this time. We’re trying to keep the peace with the Italians until the wedding talks are finalized.”

There it was.

The wedding.

He said it like it was a business merger. Like I was signing contracts instead of promising the rest of my life to a woman I’d met twice. Natalia Kuzmina—daughter of the Kuzmina patriarch. Pretty enough. Polite. Terrified of me, probably. Couldn’t blame her.

I felt Alex shift beside me. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the sarcasm radiating off him in waves. He’s the only one who knows how much I hate this part of the game.

Ivan leaned back, fingers steepled. “You’ll meet her again next week. Dinner. Her father wants to see you’re… committed.”

Committed.

Right.

I nodded once. “Understood.”

The rest of the meal passed in silence. Dima and Sergei excused themselves early—cowards. Alex stayed because he always does. When Ivan finally stood and left without another word, the room felt like it exhaled.

Alex waited until the door clicked shut behind the old man.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” he asked, voice low.

“What’s there to say?” I picked up the vodka, downed it in one swallow. It burned clean. “It’s done.”

“You could tell him to fuck off.”

I gave him a look. The kind that usually shuts people up.

He just grinned—sharp, reckless. “Yeah, yeah. Family honor. Legacy. Blah blah blah.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You look like shit, by the way. When’s the last time you slept more than three hours?”

I didn’t answer.

Truth was, I hadn’t slept properly since the night Mom died. Not really. I dream about her sometimes—blood on white tile, her hand reaching for me, then nothing. I wake up tasting copper and guilt.

Alex sighed. “You’re gonna burn out, Dima. And then what? Ivan finds someone else to play attack dog?”

“Maybe that’s what he wants.”

He snorted. “Bullshit. You’re the only one he trusts to not fuck it up.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. My head was pounding. Too much noise, too many expectations, too many things I couldn’t say out loud.

“I need air,” I muttered.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “You mean you need to go brood somewhere dramatic?”

“Something like that.”

He didn’t stop me.

I left through the side door, avoiding the main foyer where Ivan’s security guys would report back to him. The night air hit me like a slap—humid, thick with exhaust and the faint smell of garbage from the alley. I walked. Fast. Hands shoved deep in my pockets. No destination. Just movement.

I ended up near Washington Square. Didn’t plan it. My feet just took me there.

The park was quieter at night, but still alive—couples walking hand-in-hand, kids on skateboards, some guy playing saxophone under a streetlamp. I kept to the edges, hood up, shoulders hunched. Invisible. That’s how I like it.

That’s when I saw him again.

The French kid from the park earlier today.

He was sitting on the low stone wall near the arch, legs swinging, sketchbook balanced on his knees. Same messy brown curls, same soft hazel eyes catching the glow of the streetlights. He was drawing—quick, loose strokes, head tilted like the world didn’t exist outside the page.

I should’ve kept walking.

I didn’t.

I stopped maybe ten feet away, half-hidden behind a tree. Watching.

He looked… peaceful. Like nothing bad had ever touched him. Like the city hadn’t managed to bruise him yet. I hated how much I envied that.

He glanced up suddenly, like he felt the weight of my stare.

Our eyes locked.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then he smiled—small, hesitant, the kind of smile that says I’m trying to be friendly even though you’re kind of scaring me.

I didn’t smile back.

I just stared.

He ducked his head, cheeks going pink, and went back to his sketch—but slower now, like he was hyper-aware of me standing there.

I felt something twist in my chest. Sharp. Unwelcome.

I turned away before I could do something stupid—like walk over. Talk to him. Ask what he was drawing. Pretend, for five fucking minutes, that I was just some normal guy who could flirt with a pretty boy in the park without the entire world collapsing.

I walked back the way I came. Faster this time.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Ivan.

I ignored it.

Another buzz. Alex this time.

Where’d you go, asshole?

I typed back one-handed.

Out.

His reply came instantly.

You’re brooding again, aren’t you?

I didn’t answer.

I just kept walking, the kid’s face burned into the back of my skull.

Innocent. Open. Dangerous.

Because if I let myself want something like that—something soft, something real—I’d lose everything else.

And I wasn’t sure I had the strength to keep saying no.

Not anymore