Page 29 of Crimson Curse
The water finally runs clear. I turn off the faucet and wrap my hands in clean towels, then climb the stairs back to the main house. The hallway is dark and silent. Naomi will be asleep by now, probably wondering if I'll ever find my way back to the man she fell in love with.
Revenge is no longer a strategy. It's a necessity. And necessity, I've learned, makes monsters of us all.
11
NAOMI
The council chamber smells faintly of cigar smoke and polished oak, the air heavy with the tension that only comes when men are deciding who lives and who dies. Through the heavy double doors, I can hear the low rumble of voices, the scrape of chairs against hardwood, the occasional sharp laugh that has nothing to do with humor.
I wasn't invited. I’m not supposed to be here. That is precisely why I straighten my spine and push open those doors.
The conversation dies instantly. A dozen heads turn toward me, their expressions ranging from surprise to irritation to something far more dangerous. These are not men accustomed to interruption, especially not from someone like me. The mahogany table stretches between us like a battlefield, its surface reflecting the amber glow of the overhead chandelier.
Daniil stands at the head of the table, his ice-gray eyes scanning the faces of the gatheredvors. His posture is rigid, imposing, every inch thepakhanthey've sworn to follow. Lex occupies his usual position at Daniil's right, solid as bedrock, while theothers stir restlessly in their seats like wolves testing the air for weakness.
I feel their stares, assessing, questioning, and measuring my worth and my threat level, but I don't let their scrutiny shake my resolve. I cross the room slowly, my heels clicking against the polished floor, each sound amplified by the sudden silence that has fallen over the chamber.
But I don't just march up and start talking. I'm not that foolish. I stop a few feet from Daniil and meet his eyes directly. There's surprise there, quickly suppressed, but also curiosity. The cords in his neck tighten almost imperceptibly. For a heartbeat, I think he might order me out, and end this before it begins.
Then his gaze moves slightly, taking in the faces around the table, and the tension that crackles through the room like lightning before a storm. When his pale eyes return to mine, there's the slightest nod. Permission. Or perhaps acknowledgment that I'm here now, and he won't humiliate either of us by making me leave. I take my place beside him, and he doesn't move to stop me.
The reason I'm here burns through me like molten metal in my veins. These men are talking about war, blood, and tearing each other apart over pride and old grudges that should have been buried years ago. But what they don't understand, and what they refuse to see, is that their enemies are counting on exactly this reaction. Viktor wants them fractured, wants them driven by rage instead of strategy. And beyond Viktor, lurking in the shadows, others are waiting to pick apart whatever remains of what the Zorin family has built.
I've seen what Daniil has created here. I've watched him lead with precision and intelligence, turning the Zorin Bratvainto something more than just another criminal organization run on fear and brutality. They have legitimate businesses, international connections, and a structure that could last generations if they're smart enough to protect it.
But if they let raw emotion drive them now, if they descend into the chaos their enemies expect and demand, all of it will crumble. Everything Galina Zorin died protecting, everything Daniil has bled and sacrificed to build, will turn to ash in their hands. And more than that, I can’t let them make choices that might cost him his life. I don’t care about the empire if he isn’t in it. I can’t stand here silent while they risk Daniil being cut down in a war that doesn’t have to happen.
The silence closes in like a noose that draws tighter with each passing second. I can practically hear the wheels turning in their heads, the rapid recalculation of power dynamics, and the questions they're too disciplined to voice aloud. One of the seniorvors, a man with silver threading through his dark hair and scars mapping his knuckles, leans toward his neighbor. His whispered Russian is too low for me to catch, but his tone carries clear disapproval.
Lex's gray-blue eyes sweep the room in a warning that needs no translation. Then his gaze settles on Daniil, and I see the almost imperceptible nod that passes between them. Whatever silent communication just occurred, it alters something in the room's atmosphere.
Daniil remains silent. His presence beside me is steady, unyielding, and somehow that silence carries more power than any declaration could.
I straighten my shoulders and look at each man in turn, these wolves who control the streets of Chicago from behind thispolished table. My voice is calm and clear, reaching every corner of the room despite the tremor I feel in my chest.
“I know I'm not one of you.” The admission permeates the space, honest and unflinching. “I wasn't born into this life, and I don't pretend to understand every rule you live by or every tradition you hold sacred. But I do know this; if you let chaos lead you, you'll tear each other apart faster than any enemy ever could.”
A few eyebrows lift. Others furrow their brows, whether in confusion or annoyance, I can't tell. The silver-hairedvor'smouth twists into what might charitably be called a smile, though it holds no warmth.
“You talk about legacy,” I continue, holding their eyes one by one, refusing to look away even when their stares grow hostile. “About protecting what your fathers built, and what their fathers died for. But if you fight like wild men, consumed by rage and pride, you’ll lose like them. Everything you claim to protect will crumble in the hands of those who take it from you.”
Some faces remain impassive, carved from stone by years of discipline and violence. Others show flashes of consideration, as if they're turning my words over, examining them for truth.
From the far end of the table, a younger lieutenant with ambitious eyes and a mouth that curves too easily into cruelty leans back in his chair. His smirk is deliberate, designed to undermine. “And what would you have us do? Speak pretty words while our enemies slit our throats? Hold hands and sing lullabies while they burn down everything we've built?”
His mocking tone sparks murmurs of agreement from a few others. I can see them testing me, probing for weakness, waiting to see if I'll crumble under their derision. They expect me toretreat, to apologize for overstepping, and to remember my place.
Instead, I meet his gaze without wavering. “I'd have you think before you bleed for nothing. True strength isn't measured by how many bodies you leave behind or how much fear you inspire in small men. It's about how long you can hold your ground without losing the very thing that makes you worth following.”
The lieutenant's smirk falters slightly. His eyes narrow, reassessing.
“You want to honor your legacy?” I press on, my voice gaining strength. “Then be worthy of it. Your enemies expect you to react with mindless violence because that's what weak men do when they're threatened. But you're not weak men. You're better than that, smarter than that. You have the discipline and the strategy to win without destroying yourselves in the process.”
The room has gone completely still. Even the youngervorshave stopped their restless stirring, caught despite themselves by words they probably never expected to hear from someone like me.
Then Lex steps forward, his voice cutting through the silence. “She's right.”
Those two words send a visible ripple through the assembled men. Lex doesn't waste breath on empty platitudes. He doesn't offer support lightly, and he certainly doesn't back anyone unless the matter carries serious consequences. His endorsement reshapes something fundamental in the room's dynamics.
