Chapter 8

Vivienne's POV

The gunshot ripped me out of sleep.

My eyes snapped open, chest constricting instantly as cold sweat broke across my back. It wasn't a single shot—it was several, short and precise, cutting through the heavy walls and windowpanes with the raw force of ignited powder.

I sat up almost on instinct, fingers clenching the sheets, throat tight.

Moretti's men had found me.

The thought sliced through my mind like a blade, too fast for breath to catch up. I threw off the covers and got out of bed, barefoot on the floor. The curtains weren't fully drawn—I yanked them aside and looked down.

The port district was already awake.

Gray-white morning fog pressed against the water's surface, cranes and warehouses and rail tracks and docked cargo ships all submerged in cold, hard light. But what stopped me cold wasn't any of that—it was the men below.

Rows of them stood in formation on the open ground, conducting morning drills. Boots hit pavement, fists cut through air with movements so synchronized they looked like an actual military unit.

Further out, crates of munitions were being unloaded from trucks, inventoried, logged, then carried into warehouses. Nearby, men stood at long tables cross-checking cargo manifests, moving with efficiency that had no room for sloppiness.

The gunshots hadn't been an attack. They'd come from the firing range during training.

I stood at the window, motionless for a moment.

This place didn't resemble any gang operation I'd ever seen.

No hungover drunks sprawled across furniture, no shouting matches or pointless brawls, none of the hollow posturing built on profanity and fists.

Two knocks sounded at the door.

My shoulders tensed as I spun around.

Nadia pushed the door open, expression calm. She glanced at me, then followed my gaze out the window.

"Did we wake you?"

"Those were gunshots," I said, my voice still rough.

She walked to my side and looked down at the men training below. "Morning drills. They start at six. Cargo arrives before dawn, ledgers are reconciled by seven."

I turned back to the window, the tight knot in my chest refusing to unravel—if anything, it grew more tangled.

Before last night, my understanding of the Solovyov Bratva had been limited to guns, blood, smuggling, and the kind of ruthlessness Russians seemed to carry in their bones.

But standing here now, I realized for the first time that this place bore no resemblance to the underworld I knew.

It looked more like an army bound by iron discipline.

That thought forced me to reconsider Dmitri.

Nadia didn't rush me, waiting until I'd changed before leading me out. The hallway was quieter than it had been last night, guards standing ramrod straight, not a wandering glance among them. I followed her deeper inside, and the further we went, the more I could feel that the order here wasn't for show—it was carved into bone-deep habit.

Passing one room, I caught sight through the half-open door.

Two injured men lay inside, arms wrapped in bandages, legs in splints. A doctor was changing dressings while someone else brought in hot water and food.

No one had been carelessly tossed in a corner to die. Further down the hall, an older woman was leading two children toward another room. The children's eyes were red, and the woman murmured soft reassurances as someone handed her keys and a heavy coat.

Nadia didn't stop, simply continued forward with calm purpose, but I couldn't help glancing back.

"Who are they?" I asked.

"Family of the man who died last night," she said. "They'll be settled first, then we'll handle what comes next."

My steps slowed for a beat.

The dead man's family—being sheltered. The wounded—receiving treatment. Warehouses, drills, guards—all operating in coordinated precision, not a single thing out of place.

Something in me went still.

The Moretti family wasn't like this.

There, the living learned to save themselves first. The dead were dismissed with a shrug and a muttered "deserved it." As for family members, if they had no utility, they were discarded quickly.

The so-called "Family" spoke of honor and tradition, but when blood was spilled, the only thing holding order together was fear.

This place was different.

I stared at Nadia's back ahead of me, finally unable to stop myself from asking, "Has Dmitri always been like this?"

She didn't even slow down.

"Like what?"

"Managing everything," I said quietly. "The wounded, the families, the cargo, the training—watching over when everyone does what they're supposed to do."

Nadia glanced sideways at me. "I've only ever heard the Boss say one thing." She paused. "A man who can't protect his own people has no right to be Boss."

I said nothing more, but my mind involuntarily flashed to how things worked back with the Morettis.

Punishment, slaps, gun muzzles, betrayal, lives discarded like trash. Marco liked making everyone fear him, and Vincent had learned the same playbook. Fear became chains—binding people, forcing loyalty into performance.

But Dmitri wasn't like that.

The realization tore a hairline fracture through something inside me, dulling the sharp edges I'd been holding up. I didn't like this wavering—it felt like the ground shifting beneath my feet, instinct screaming at me to step back.

At the corner, Alexei appeared, walking toward us.

"Miss Ashford." He stopped, voice crisp as always. "The executive meeting has started."

My chest tightened immediately, feet halting on reflex.

"What does that have to do with me?"

"The Boss wants you there."

"I'm not going."

I moved to step around him. He shifted slightly—not touching me, but perfectly positioned to block my path. His tone remained respectful. "This is the Boss's instruction."

I looked up at him, chest constricting.

"Your executive meeting—what am I supposed to do there? Let them all see I'm still breathing, or remind everyone I'm the trophy you picked up?"

Alexei's expression didn't change. "I only relay messages."

I clenched my jaw. After several seconds, I started walking.

The meeting room was in the innermost part of the main building. When the heavy wooden door swung open, nearly everyone inside looked up simultaneously. Some stares were cold and assessing, others blank, a few briefly curious before snapping away.

I took a seat against the wall, spine straight, fingers pressed against my knees, refusing to show even a trace of retreat.

When the door opened again, the entire room fell silent.

Dmitri walked in, black suit making his shoulders look broader, face devoid of excess emotion. He didn't look at me, moving directly to the table, flipping open files, and immediately issuing orders.

"Lock down two port lines tonight. Hold the Bronx shipment. Transfer the Diamond Row accounts to the new ledger. FBI's been watching closely—reroute the Queens operation to sea freight. Moretti's moving too fast after swallowing Ashford. I need the asset acquisition list by tonight."

One directive after another, no gaps between them.

The men at the table responded instantly—some reporting finances, others port conditions, someone mentioning two names the FBI had been investigating recently. Every thread was clear, every action seemingly pre-arranged in his mind.

Not a wasted word, not a flicker of unnecessary emotion. The entire room moved to his rhythm.

Midway through, one man spoke up cautiously. "Boss, isn't closing the port tonight too abrupt? The FBI—"

Dmitri didn't even look up, simply turned a page.

"I said close it. Close it."

His voice wasn't even raised.

But the man's next words died in his throat. No one else spoke.

This was Dmitri truly occupying the Boss's chair.

When he spoke, those below him had no choice but to comply.

Before long, a very young member stood up, face pale.

"Boss, last night's failure at the East Dock was my mistake." His voice was taut, strained. "I miscalculated their timing. Ivan died because of me."

I looked over instinctively. I knew this scene too well.

Confession, followed by beating, kneeling, bleeding—or being dragged out on the spot.

But Dmitri only looked at him for a few seconds.

"You'll go see Ivan's parents today," he said. "Tell them to their faces why he died. The settlement costs—Bratva covers them."

The young man froze. The room went even quieter than before.

Dmitri continued flipping through files, tone flat, emotionless. "The mistake you made can't be erased with a beating. Remember who you got killed. Remember who he left behind. Make another mistake, don't bother coming back to see me."

"...Yes, Boss."

The man's voice was hoarse, eyes reddening, but he stood perfectly straight.

I watched the scene unfold, something slamming hard against my chest.

Dmitri didn't only wield violence. He made people fear him, but he also made them follow him. Made them know he could kill them—and that he'd catch everything they left behind when they fell.

A Boss like that—how could anyone beneath him not be willing to die for him?

The weight of that realization pressed down on me until I couldn't speak.

When the meeting ended, everyone rose and left quickly, quietly. I stood as well, about to leave, when Alexei suddenly frowned, staring at Dmitri's shoulder.

"Boss, your wound is bleeding again."

I followed his gaze. The black shirt had indeed darkened at the shoulder, a small patch spreading slowly like ink in water.

Alexei was already raising his hand to call for a doctor when Dmitri cut him off. "No need."

He looked up at me.

"You stay."

Alexei glanced at me, expression unsurprised, and simply nodded. "I'll be outside."

When the door closed, only the two of us remained.

I stood in place, palms slightly warm. "A doctor would be faster."

"I said," he unfastened his cufflinks, tone even, "you do it."

He removed his jacket and draped it over the chair back. I had no choice but to approach. The moment my fingers touched his shoulder, I realized the fabric was already damp.

When I unwrapped the bandage, the metallic scent of blood hit my nose directly. The wound looked worse than last night—edges swollen red, muscle beneath pulled taut.

My breathing stuttered.

Last night's chaotic images crashed back uninvited. His body heat when he'd leaned too close. That moment when his lips had nearly grazed the corner of mine.

I forced myself not to think about it, lowering my head to reach for alcohol and clean gauze, movements deliberately steady. When the cotton swab pressed down, the muscles in his shoulder contracted slightly.

"Does it hurt?" I asked.

The words came out, and I froze for a beat. My tone had been softer than intended.

Dmitri looked down at me, gaze slowly dropping to my lips.

"Not as much as yesterday."

Heat flooded my ears instantly.

I understood perfectly.

He wasn't talking about the wound. He meant yesterday's slap.

My fingers nearly trembled. I could only duck my head lower, wrapping the gauze, refusing to meet his eyes. "Then you're really lucky to be alive."

"Your strength wasn't that great," he said mildly.

"Is that so?" I bit out the words. "Next time I can try hitting harder."

"Mm. You can try."

He was indulging my sharpness. That kind of understated ambiguity was worse than outright flirtation. I finished the bandaging and immediately tried to step back, but he caught my wrist.

I looked up at him.

Dmitri leaned down, using his other hand to pick up a tissue from the table, slowly wiping across my palm. Somehow, it had gotten stained with his blood.

"Dirty," he said.

His fingertip traced along the lines of my palm, touch light but carrying an almost matter-of-fact possessiveness.

I should have pulled away immediately.

But I didn't.

Not until he released me did I snap back to awareness, chest tightening into worse chaos. What was worse—I'd just tacitly accepted his touch in that moment.

A knock sounded. Alexei pushed the door open, speaking with professional detachment. "Boss, which floor should we arrange Miss Ashford's room on?"

I looked up almost immediately.

Dmitri didn't even lift his eyelids. "Next to mine."

"What?" The word escaped before I could stop it.

Alexei seemed prepared for this, lowering his head with a quick "Understood," then backing toward the door as if afraid lingering one more second would drag him into something.

The door closed. Only Dmitri and I remained again.

I stared at him, the earlier confusion instantly burned away by rising anger.

"Why would I stay next to you?"

He fastened his shirt buttons one by one, unhurried. Only after the last button was done did he look up at me.

"Because that's safest."

"Safe?" I laughed coldly. "Or more convenient for you to monitor me?"

He walked toward me, closing the distance until it was almost improper. I straightened my spine on instinct but didn't retreat. His gaze dropped to my lips, gray eyes darkening with intensity, the weight of his presence merging with last night's lingering tension, making the air itself feel scorching.

"You don't like being controlled," he said, voice low and level.

"Of course not."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"But the person who makes the final call," he interrupted, tone utterly flat, "is me."

He didn't pretend to negotiate. He had no interest in coating things with false gentleness.

He was simply telling me that after staying by his side, I'd be allowed to say no. I'd be indulged when I showed my thorns.

But in the end, the one who truly made decisions could only be Dmitri.