Page 36 of Cashmere Ruin

“Not a friendly meeting”is the understatement of the year. As soon as I enter the office where the meeting is to take place, Ican feel the temperature plunge. It’s like dipping a toe into the Arctic.

Then it begins.

Once upon a time, myvoryused to be terrified of me. I wasn’t just respected—I was feared.That’s the prerequisite of everypakhan: if you can’t make your men fear for their lives at the slightest slip, you’re just not cut out for the gig.

But now, my men are no longer mincing words. Worse than that, they’re pushing back against me.

When the Solovyov half of the table joins in, I realize who’s behind it all.

“I have to agree with the others,” Vlad coughs and spittles all over the table. “Between the botched acquisition, losing track of your own newborn, and now, this mess with the Italians… let’s just say there’s been more than a few setbacks, son.”

“Not to mention the business has been suffering.” Ivan twists the knife. “Our partners and top clients have seen you decline every request to meet over the past four weeks. If they were feeling neglected before, now, they’re outright scorned.”

“‘Scorned’?” Grisha laughs. “Forgive me, Ivan. I wasn’t aware that ourpakhanwas supposed to treat his business partners as wives.”

Ivan fires back, “If he treated them like his wife, he’d pretend they never existed at all.”

I slam my palms on the table and rise. “Enough.”

I didn’t want Yuri here today—that’s on me. I needed him elsewhere. But it’s one less voice to speak in my favor on a shittyfucking day to be without advocates. If there’s one thing I hate more thanI-told-you-so’s, it’s politics.

Petra could have helped, though. After all she’s done to fuck up my life, I wouldn’t even have to ask—she’d side with me in a heartbeat. If she was allowed to be here, she’d bring the Solovyovs around with a single glare.

But with her pregnancy so heavily publicized, it was the worst possible timing in the world to push for her promotion tovor, so she’s not in this room, either. No, if I want to get anything done here today, I’ll have to rely on the one person who never let me down.

Myself.

After my outburst, I look every singlevorin the eye. Aside from Ivan, none of them dare hold my gaze, not even Vlad. That’s the thing about packs: take their members one at a time, and they’ll be nothing but lone wolves, ready to roll on their backs and whine pitifully at the first hint of an alpha’s teeth.

So I bare my fangs. “While you squabble over minor setbacks and missed dinners, I’vebeen hunting for our enemy. The one who botched our D.C. deal, who tried to kidnap my daughterthree timesand failed—and who now threatens the very existence of our organization.”

Then I whip out a picture and toss it over to the center of the table.

Thevorylean in like chickens over scattered grains. “Who is this man?” Stanislav asks.

“Carmine Bonaccorsi,” I snarl.

The table falls silent.

“The Bonaccorsi family?” Vlad frowns. “As in, the Italian mafia in D.C.? What do they have to do with us?”

“Everything.”

It’s Ivan who steals the word right out of my mouth. But he spits it out with disdain, like he’s just seen a bug crawl over his papers. “Is this what we’ve become then, Matvey? A personal vendetta you can’t let go of?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“This is what we’ve always been.”

Thevoryfall quiet in unison. Ivan’s lips press into a tight, white line. It’s my turn to speak. Their turn to fucking listen.

“You of all people should know that, Ivan. You were there at the beginning. Since the first Groza Bratva, am I wrong?”

“I served your grandfather with pride,” Ivan snarls. “He was a great man with a great vision.”

“Yes. And he’s dead.”

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