2. Ivan

CHAPTER 2

Ivan

A s soon as emotions get in the way, you lose.

In all my years of living, I've come to realize and embody a particularly simple truth. Human beings would be so much better off if they didn't let their feelings rule their every decision. A plethora of the world's problems find their root cause in the depth of people's intelligence.

There are different kinds of it. Mental, emotional, even physicality involves a measure of intelligence. And luckily for me, I've taken the time to hone every aspect of my intelligence. Which is why I'm here today. Because I took the time to observe everything and everyone through gray-tinted glasses. I've been described as stoic, unfeeling, stand-offish. And while I might be all of those things, the one thing that no one can deny is that I'm successful.

I've amassed enough power that no one can ever take it from me. Not so long as I draw breath.

One kick to the shin and the man in front of me falls down to his knees. He promptly jumps back up, which is one point to him. Another point for raising his fists and protecting his face. But then he's still in the same combat position, his stance leaving his shins open again.

So I kick him again, harder this time so that the thud resounds in the air around us. He yells in anguish as he collapses once again, the smooth angles of his face contorting in pain. He's young, in his early twenties. I don't remember his name anymore, although it was mentioned to me at the start of the fight. It's irrelevant, inconsequential. Unless he's able to beat me.

He stands again, legs shaky and face red as hell. I give the illusion that I'll go for his legs again and he takes a step back, like a dumbass. As soon as he does, I grab him by the throat, because of course he left that unprotected. I tighten my hold, giving him just enough room to breathe.

"That was a poor show. And a waste of my time," I pronounce, my voice ringing out.

The room is completely silent. Right now, we're standing on mats in the middle of a boxing ring at my home. It's where my men come to train and also where I engage in fights on occasion. The fights are initiations, tests to see if the men are worthy to join my ranks.

My lips curl in distaste as my eyes narrow onto the man still struggling for air in my grip.

"How does it feel? Being so thoroughly defeated? I'm asking because I'm genuinely curious," I say in a low tone. "I've never experienced it before."

I might be asking him questions, but I'm also not giving him an avenue to reply. He's clawing at my arms now, trying to escape my grasp. I can feel my anger rising. Because he's not only inept at fighting, he's also weak.

"You're lucky I'm not a fan of unnecessary murder," I mutter before releasing him.

He promptly falls to the floor, gasping for air. I turn around, looking outside of the ring as my gaze narrows onto to my second-in-command. He doesn't need me to speak or make any moves before he climbs into the ring, walking toward me.

"Explain why I was made to entertain this farce," I order.

Ruslan's face is hard as granite, unsmiling. I can count on one hand how many times I've seen the man smile. And I've known him for decades. He and I have fought side by side for as long as I can remember. He's a man with unflinching loyalty.

He towers over me by a good three inches, despite my already impressive six-foot-three. Ruslan is built like a beast, and he fights like one, too.

"Sorry, boss. He's the Pakhan's nephew. Thought he'd try his luck getting in with us since the Pakhan wants nothing to do with him. I thought he'd be less…"

"Useless?" I state with an arched eyebrow. "Just get him out of my sight. There's a reason the Pakhan wants nothing to do with him."

I step out of the ring to cheers from the men gathered. Someone rushes forward with my jacket and I put it on, checking to ensure that my shirt is still smooth and devoid of any creases.

"What time am I scheduled to leave for New York?" I ask Ruslan, who's already standing at my side as always.

"In two hours, sir. The pilot is ready to leave as soon as we arrive. You need to get there early so as not to miss your meeting with the Mincetti Don," he replies.

"Let's make a quick pit stop to the Pakhan's house. I'm sure he has something to say with regard to the meeting. And I'd rather walk in there with all the information I'll need."

Ruslan nods once in understanding. By the time I step outside the training facility at my villa, a car has already been pulled up, ready and waiting for me to enter. Ruslan opens the back door for me and I slide in. Once he's seated in front, we're on the move.

The drive to the Pakhan's house is a short ten minutes. When we arrive, several cars populate the driveway—a common occurrence, considering that people are always trying to curry favor with him. As soon as I step out of my car, several gazes swing toward me.

I'm used to attracting attention. I've been doing so ever since my rise to the top. I don't glance to the side as I walk up the steps leading into the Pakhan's mansion. When I reach his office, I find him surrounded by three men. Three incredibly powerful men, high-ranking commanders in the Bratva.

And despite that, they get to their feet at my appearance. Only the Pakhan remains seated.

"Leave us," I order in a low tone.

None of the other men are inclined to protest. They all walk out of the office and the door shuts, with Ruslan standing on the other side. Usually, the other commanders would have been allowed to stay, but this particular discussion is a fragile one. None of the others know that we've been in contact with the Mincettis in New York.

"Ivan," the Pakhan drawls, crossing his feet as his dark gaze meets mine. "I wasn't expecting the pleasure of your company."

He's an old man in his late sixties, although you wouldn't know that by looking at him. The Pakhan, Igor Vasiliev, has a youthful look to him, in spite of the gray mixed in with the dark strands of his hair. He carries himself with authority, like a man who owns everything. And he might as well have.

One thing the Pakhan doesn't possess, however, is me. A fact that pisses him off to no end. But it's not something he can change, though. Igor might be the head of the Bratva, but I'm the one running this entire show from the shadows.

"You know me, I've always preferred doing the opposite of what is expected of me," I say dryly as I take a seat on one of the chairs closest to his.

We're both seated around a round table, with him at the head of it, of course.

"To what do I owe this visit?"

"The Mincettis," I start. "I'm meeting the Don today in New York. I came to make sure I won't be running into any surprises or traps."

"And how can I guarantee that?"

"By assuring me that you haven't had any altercations with the family in the past. Can you guarantee I won't be met with hostility?"

The Pakhan strokes the beard on his chin. "I can't guarantee anything, Ivan. But I will say that I've never had the pleasure of relating with the Mincettis. The New York factions and ours have made a point to stay out of each other's business. Until now," he adds meaningfully.

I lean back in my seat, flicking an eyebrow up. "We need to establish alliances. Making a deal with the Mincettis will be good for us."

"You said that a couple of months ago when we were negotiating with Ramirez. And now look at us."

"Ramirez and the Italians have been helpful."

"Catering to their drug supply as well as ours hasn't exactly served as a boon to our resources, has it? If anything, we're struggling to maintain our own supply. I warned you this would happen, Ivan," he says darkly.

"The Mincettis have contacts that'll open up a lot more possibilities for us. We just have to build a relationship with them. It shouldn't be too hard."

The Pakhan stares at me for several seconds before saying with a snarl, "I still don't like this."

"Is your biggest issue the fact that the Mincettis are Italians or that their Don is a woman?"

He glares at me for the question, despite us both knowing that I'm spot on in my observation. The Bratva is an organization that values the upholding of traditions above all else. And the Pakhan is an embodiment of those traditions. They don't see women as fit to lead.

Those archaic ideas don't concern me. If she found a way to the position and has managed to keep it, then she deserves it.

"Careful, Volkov. You're constantly toeing the edge of the plank. Maybe one of these days you'll fall off it."

That's a threat if I've ever heard one. The Pakhan and I have a love-hate relationship. In the sense that he hates how powerless he is in relation to me, but also loves me for doing his job for him on multiple occasions.

I rise to my feet, having gotten what I wanted.

"The good news, Pakhan, is that if I fall, the Bratva falls with me," I say easily, unfazed by his threats.

The old man is a like a wolf with no bite. He curses at me in Russian, his eyes narrowed in a glare as I make my exit.

My men and I head for the hangar, where my private jet is already waiting to take me to New York. I have no doubt that the meeting with the Mincettis will go well. When we arrive in the city, we make the drive toward the headquarters, which is a clear display of just how much power they wield.

Katerina Mincetti is just as I expected—a fierce, beautiful woman, and one who knows exactly what she wants and how to get it. I can see how she's the head of a family in the Cosa Nostra. She listens to my requests and makes some of her own.

By the time negotiations are complete, it's solidified that I made the right choice. Her family's resources are exactly what the Bratva needs. And thanks to her Russian roots, she's more inclined to provide us the assistance we need. We're nearing the end of our meeting when her phone starts to ring. She shoots me an apologetic look before getting to her feet to answer the call. When she returns, her brown eyes are shadowed with worry.

"Mr. Volkov, I have to apologize. I had dinner reservations made for us at a Chinese restaurant in the city, but I won't be able to go with you. There's an emergency at home," she informs me apologetically.

"It's not a problem. We're done anyway," I say, getting to my feet. "You can cancel the reservation."

She shakes her head, offering me a small smile. "I think you should go regardless. You'll be spending the night in New York, right? The restaurant is new and if I'm remembering correctly, you're a big fan of Chinese food."

I ponder her words for a moment before deciding to agree. It wouldn't do me any harm to have dinner at a nice restaurant. And she's right. I do like Chinese food.

"Alright. I'll check it out. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mincetti."

"You can call me Katerina. And it's nice to meet you, too. You're actually not as bad as I thought you'd be."

"Not a lot of people would agree with that statement."

She laughs, freely, easily. It's a bit surprising, meeting someone in our world, so happy and comfortable in their life. Katerina has a family, a husband, and children. I've never considered it a possibility, being able to balance it all. Our line of work is already dangerous enough—adding in more responsibilities just seems like an unnecessary complication.

Families can be a burden at times.

"Don't worry, I won't tell if you don't. Goodbye, Mr. Volkov." She stretches her hand for a shake.

"Ivan," I correct, accepting the handshake.

She offers me a warm smile. "Take care of yourself, Ivan."

The restaurant is all elegance and refinement—soft lighting, polished wood, and whispers of conversation that barely rise above the classical music playing in the background. It's the kind of place that requires a reservation months in advance, where every detail is meticulously curated to exude luxury. I like it. The privacy, the quiet—it's just what I need tonight.

Ruslan and the rest of my men opted to stay outside, scanning the perimeter for threats. I'm used to it. Ruslan usually chooses not to have a meal with me unless he absolutely has to. We're as close as brothers but he's always made sure to keep a barrier of professionalism between us.

The restaurant's manager greets with me a warm smile as I appear.

"Good evening, sir. Will it just be you this evening?" she asks, her voice soft, respectful.

"Yes," I reply, nodding. "My companion couldn't make it."

"Of course. Right this way."

She leads me to a table near the floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view of the city lights below. The table is set perfectly, a single white rose in a crystal vase at the center. I sit, appreciating the comfort of the high-backed chair, and she hands me a menu.

"Your waiter will be with you shortly."

I give a brief nod and scan the menu. A young waiter appears, eager and nervous. First day, maybe.

"Will you be the only one this evening, sir?"

My jaw clenches at the repetition. "I'm pretty sure I already answered that question," I state, my voice sharp.

He swallows, his entire countenance exuding discomfort. If there's one thing I hate, it's ineptitude. Especially at such a high-class restaurant. If he can't do his job confidently, then why is he even here.

"I'm sorry, sir. What can I get you?"

"Let's start with a whiskey, neat."

He nods, almost too quickly, and scurries off. I watch him go, noting the way he almost trips over his own feet. I take a breath, trying to relax into the evening and letting the low hum of the restaurant wash over me.

A minute later, I hear a clatter, and my head snaps up just in time to see the waiter coming back with my drink. His grip on the tray is unsteady, and as he nears my table, he slips. The tray tips, the glass tumbles, and the whiskey splashes to the floor, shattering the silence with a loud crash. I react on instinct, standing up and stepping back just in time to avoid the glass shards and liquid.

For a moment, there's stunned silence. The waiter stands there, frozen, his face pale as he stares at the mess on the floor. My jaw tightens, the frustration bubbling over.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I snap, my voice low but cold. "Can't even manage a simple drink?"

The waiter stammers, his eyes wide with fear. He looks like he wants to disappear into the floor. "I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean?—"

"Of course you didn't mean it," I cut him off, the anger rising. "But here we are, my drink on the floor and you standing there like an idiot."

Before I can say more, I hear a voice from behind me—a woman's voice, calm yet firm.

"I think that's enough."

I whirl around and the first thing that registers is her scent. Her perfume is floral and delicate, sophisticated as well. It's a heady scent. And then I take a look at the woman it belongs to. She's strikingly beautiful. Long, pin-straight brown hair cascades over her shoulder, and she stands with a confident posture that's impossible to ignore and a sharp look in her light eyes.

I'm not sure how long I stare. Perhaps a couple of seconds, maybe longer. But eventually I snap out of it enough to narrow my eyes.

"And how does this concern you?" I question.

She's not a member of the restaurant's staff. It's obvious she's a guest, considering her attire. By now, other people have joined, the manager that greeted me when I arrived earlier and a few other employees. The manager is already blurting out apologies but I ignore them in favor of staring at the woman in front of me.

"It doesn't," she says on a shrug. "I just don't like bullies."

"Did you just refer to me as a bully?" I ask slowly.

It's been a long time since anyone has dared to speak to me like this.

"If the shoe fits, wear it with pride. He's already apologizing. Accidents happen sometimes. There's no need to berate him for an honest mistake. I know men like you get a kick out of power trips, but some empathy would do you good as well."

"Men like me?" I scoff. "You have no idea who I am."

"And I don't plan to. Now that we've established that being an asshole in this situation is completely unnecessary, I'm going to walk away. I should probably get seated before my companion arrives."

I watch as she walks away, curves swaying and looking entirely too enticing in the red dress she has on. She settles at a table a few seats away from mine.

Once she's gone, I'm left with the restaurant's staff, who continue their useless apologies. I should leave. This entire experience has been nothing short of an insult. But my gaze moves to her table and I find myself retaking my seat.

The staff offers me a complimentary meal to make up for the inconvenience, and I accept it all distractedly. Her back is to me and the next few minutes are spent watching her and waiting. We're both waiting, it seems.

Whoever her companion is doesn't appear to be in a rush to join her. I watch as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her posture becoming more rigid as time passes. Twenty minutes later and it's clear whoever she's expecting isn't going to be joining her.

I'm not sure what prompts me into standing up and approaching her table. I've always liked curious things. And this woman is the most curious person I've encountered in a long time.