Chapter 6

SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA (THE BRATVA’S EMPIRE)

The Pakhan’s lavish birthday celebration had ended, the once-vibrant grand hall now emptying of its powerful guests. Laughter faded into distant echoes, leaving behind a wake of quiet farewells and lingering champagne.

From the shadows, the La Famiglia De Luca stood observing, their silence cloaked in purpose. Ivan De Luca, Capo of the Italian mafia family, kept his eyes trained on the Pakhan, still at the center of the shrinking crowd. Years of rule clung to the old man like a second skin.

“Barino,” Ivan muttered, “is it time?”

Barino Moretti, his trusted underboss, nodded once. “The moment is now.”

Ronan Marino, Ivan’s personal guard, studied the Pakhan. “The crowd’s cleared. We do this now—before we lose the chance. Giovanni deserves justice.”

Ivan’s jaw clenched. “Let’s go.”

The group approached with caution. As they neared, Bratva guards Adrian Barinov and Igor Stravinsky stepped forward, barring their path.

“I am Ivan De Luca,” the Capo said smoothly. “I’d like to extend my wishes to the Pakhan and discuss a matter of mutual interest.”

“Pakhan is not seeing visitors,” Adrian replied, unmoving.

But the Pakhan had noticed the exchange. His gaze flicked toward the Italians, eyes narrowing in recognition—or curiosity.

“Let them through,” he commanded.

The guards hesitated. Donatella, standing behind her father, met Adrian’s eyes with a fierce stare that unsettled him.

“I said let them through,” the Pakhan repeated.

The group stepped forward. Ivan led, flanked by Ronan and Barino. Behind them, his wife Anastasia and daughters Valerie, Donatella, and Ariana stood tall, regal and tense.

“Happy birthday, Pakhan,” they said in unison.

Ivan made the introductions with formal grace, naming each family member. The Pakhan’s gaze lingered briefly on Donatella, unreadable.

“We seek an alliance,” Ivan said. “There is strength to be shared between our families.”

The Pakhan raised an eyebrow. “And why would I entertain that idea?”

Ivan smiled faintly. “Because our interests align… but the details require privacy.”

The Pakhan studied him for a long, silent moment. Then: “Very well.”

⸻

NIKOLAI’S PENTHOUSE

Nikolai Morozov stormed into his penthouse, yanking off his tie with a snarl. Savannah trailed behind him, exhaustion in her eyes.

“Long day?” she asked softly.

“I need a moment,” he snapped, disappearing into the bathroom.

Moments later, he returned—tense, still simmering. Savannah approached with quiet grace.

“Dinner’s ready.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should eat—”

“I SAID I’M NOT HUNGRY!” His voice exploded through the room.

Savannah flinched. “Nikolai—please, not again.”

“If this is how you plan to give me an heir, maybe we’re wasting time.”

Her eyes welled up. “Don’t say that.”

Nikolai’s rage ignited. He grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against the wall. “Two years, Savannah. Two years. No child. And now Dedushka talks about Mikhail replacing me?”

He let her go with a shove. “Get out.”

Tears streaked Savannah’s face as she stumbled out the door. Nikolai, seething, swept a vase from the shelf—glass shattered across marble.

⸻

THE PAKHAN’S OFFICE

In the dim-lit room, Ivan De Luca stood before the Pakhan. Barino and Ronan flanked him, tension thick between them. Adrian and Igor guarded the door.

Ivan launched into the tale: the five-year war with La Mano Roja, the loss of Giovanni Bianchi, the growing threat from Mexico. His voice cracked with guilt. “We can’t survive alone.”

He fell to his knees. So did Ronan and Barino.

“I should’ve protected Giovanni…”

As Anastasia and the girls began to kneel as well, the Pakhan held up a hand. “No. This part is not for your ears. Leave.”

The guards escorted the women out. Silence fell.

The Pakhan leaned back in his chair, eyes distant. “I heard about your Consigliere. A great loss.”

“Thank you, Pakhan,” Ivan said softly.

“But alliances come at a price,” the Pakhan said. “And the Bratva does not enter them lightly.”

Ivan nodded slowly. “We’re prepared to meet your terms.”

The Pakhan gestured. “Stand.”

They rose. He signaled for Adrian and Igor to leave.

“Pakhan—” Adrian began, but the old man waved them off. “I want to speak alone.”

Once they left, the Pakhan’s eyes darkened. “This must stay between us. I may not live much longer… and I need a successor. Mikhail.”

“Mikhail?” Ivan echoed.

“He has the mind for it. But he resists. He doesn’t want the title, not yet. Not until he’s married.”

Ivan stilled. The pieces fell into place.

“You have three daughters,” the Pakhan said, voice calm. “Give me one for Mikhail.”

“No.” Ivan stood abruptly. “I won’t give my daughter to the Bratva. Name something else.”

The Pakhan’s smile faded. “Then perhaps you don’t need help after all.”

Ivan’s shoulders sagged under the weight of what was being asked.

“We will not mistreat her,” the Pakhan said. “Mikhail is cold, but loyal. He will respect her.”

Ivan closed his eyes.

“I want an alliance,” the Pakhan said. “I’m offering you a lifeline. In return, I want a wife for my grandson. This is not coercion—it is opportunity.”

He stood. “Stay the night in our guest quarters. I’ll bring the contract tomorrow morning. If you refuse… then there is no alliance.”

Ivan bowed his head. “Yes, Pakhan.”

⸻

LATER THAT NIGHT

The De Lucas exited the Pakhan’s office in a daze. The women rushed toward them.

“What happened?” Anastasia whispered.

Ivan couldn’t meet her eyes. “We need to rest.”

They moved through the grand corridors like ghosts—haunted, shattered, uncertain of what dawn would bring.