Page 123 of Vendetta Crown

"N-no." He stammers. "I just wanted you to confirm that this is your decision."

"It is." I raise my chin defiantly at him. "Semyon had my brother and nephew murdered. He sent Triad soldiers into my home. They tried to kill my nieces." I gesture toward Tamara's grave. "He partnered with a man who killed the mother of those girls. The same man who tried to rape my wife. We've been at war for weeks. It's time we call it what it is."

Voronin stiffens. Sweat begins dotting his brow. "The Triads have numbers?—"

"And we have the guns," I cut him off. "My guns. Is this not why all of you agreed to stand by my side? Is this not why you wish to place that crown upon my head? So that these insults to our collective honor be met with the appropriate response?"

I watch their faces carefully. These men who imagine themselves masters of the west coast. Yet they flinch at the prospect of war.

"The Triads have numbers," Voronin repeats uselessly, his voice paper-thin now. "And they have reach beyond what we can?—"

"They have reach because we've allowed it," I cut him off, my patience wearing thin. "Because Gregor allowed it. Because we've all been content to stay in our lanes, build our little kingdoms, and pretend that the threats weren't growing."

The circle of men shifts uncomfortably.

Svarikov clears his throat, his eyes darting between me and the other pakhans.

"And if we go to war," he asks carefully. "What guarantees do we have that your weapons will continue flowing to all of us when it's over?"

I almost laugh at the absurdity of his question.

"Ask yourself this, Ivan Abramovich," I say, keeping my voice even. "When this war is over, who do you think I will reward? The ones who cowered in the face of the fight, or the ones with the balls to do what is right?"

Potyomkin's permanent scowl deepens, but there's a glint of approval in his eyes. Balakirev and Voronin exchange glances, their calculations visible on their faces.

Korsakov is the first to nod. "My men are ready. The Triads have been stealing our territory for years."

"As are mine," Svarikov adds quickly, not wanting to be outdone.

One by one, they fall in line. Not from loyalty to me. Not from any sense of honor or righteous anger over what's been done to my family.

But because they fear looking weak in front of the others.

Men like these understand only one thing: power.

And right now, the power is mine.

"Good," I say, surveying their faces. "Speak to the undecided pakhans and sway them. We go to war in the morning."

Potyomkin steps closer. "And where will you be tonight, Ruslan Vitalyevich?"

I turn to look towards Aurora. To Stella's face buried in my wife's skirts. To Sofia's shoulders still shaking as tears fall from her eyes. To Mikayla staring at the ground in shock and disbelief. To my mother who seems to have aged so quickly in the past few days.

"To comfort my nieces," I tell him, a bitter taste filling my mouth. "Because in case the rest of you haven't noticed, they're orphans now."

I don't wait for their reaction. I've wasted enough time with these vultures while my family grieves.

* * *

I pushthrough bitterness rising in my throat as I leave the pakhans behind. Their voices fade with each step I take toward my family and away from the pack of wolves in expensive suits watching for weakness.

As I approach, Aurora looks up. Her face is drawn with grief, but when our eyes meet, something softens.

Even as she comforts my nieces, she extends a hand to me.

Both an invitation and a lifeline.

"Is everything alright?" she asks quietly as I reach them.

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