Page 101 of 10 Days to Surrender

Kosti shakes his head. “Gone. Along with the gambling dens in Flushing and the protection racket on Canal Street.”

My jaw tightens. Those operations took years to build. Thousands of hours’ worth of carefully cultivated relationships, all gone because I’ve been playing house in Tuscany instead of?—

No.I shut that thought down hard.

I’ve made my choices. I won’t regret them now.

“What about the docks?” I ask.

“Still holding, but barely.” Pavel unfolds a detailed map of the Port Authority terminals. Red X’s mark the spots we’ve lost. There are more of them than I’d like. “But Dragan’s offering the longshoremen triple what we pay. It’s only a matter of time before they all start slipping away.”

I trace the familiar geography with my fingertip. Every X represents dead men, lost revenue, shifting loyalties. A decade of power being methodically dismantled while I heal and hide and fall deeper in love.

“He’s being smart about it,” Feliks summarizes, respect and disgust mingling in his tone. “Taking us apart piece by piece. No big moves that would draw attention. Just death by a thousand cuts.”

I lean back, processing.Problems I can handle. It’s solutions that get messy.I once told Kosti that. His response was,That’s because your solutions are limited to ‘shoot it, threaten it, or throw money at it until it goes away.’

What do I do now, though? This is a war I was raised to fight, trained to fight. Who do I shoot? Who do I threaten?

“What are our options?”

The silence that follows tells me everything I need to know. But I wait for them to say it anyway.

Feliks meets my eyes. “We go back. Now. Before there’s nothing left to go back to.”

An unexpected spasm rips through my shoulder as I lean over the maps, and I can’t quite suppress the grunt of pain.Fuck.The bullet wound is singing its favorite song tonight.

I’d hoped we were past that.

Kosti’s eyes track every tremor, every aborted movement. The old bastard doesn’t miss anything. “You’re not ready yet, son,” he says quietly. “Another few weeks of healing could mean the difference between victory and death.”

I bare my teeth at him. “I’ve fought with worse.”

“And look how well that worked out for you last time.” His voice is mild, but the rebuke lands. “The twins aren’t due for three more weeks. Use that time. Build your strength back. If you go rushing into it, then?—”

My fist slams into the table, rattling the glasses. “Three weeks is too long. You heard Feliks—we’re hemorrhaging territory. By the time the babies come, there might not be anything left to fight for.”

“There are other ways,” Pavel interjects. He spreads his hands over the map, indicating key points. “Look—we hit them here, here, and here simultaneously. Coordinated strikes. You direct from a secure location while our crews do the heavy lifting. Minimal physical risk to you.”

I study the marks he’s made. The strategy is sound. But…

“That’s not how this works.” I flex my shoulder, testing the limits of the pain. “The men need to see me. Need to know I’m willing to bleed alongside them. Leadership from behind a desk is no leadership at all.”

“Better a living leader than a dead hero,” Kosti mutters.

He’s right. I know he’s right. But the thought of hiding while my men fight my battles makes bile rise in my throat.

“What about a compromise?” Feliks suggests. “We spend two weeks gathering intel, moving pieces into position. Then you come back for the final push, once you’re stronger.”

I close my eyes. Above us, floorboards creak as someone—probably Ariel—shifts in their sleep. The sound twists something in my chest.

I made her a promise. No more lies. No more choosing power over love.

But what kind of love can I offer if I’m too weak to protect her? What kind of father will I be if I let Dragan strip away everything I’ve built?

My shoulder throbs, a steady reminder of my limitations. Of how close I came to dying last time.

Problems I can handle. It’s solutions that get messy.

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