“The Italian mafia?!” I blurt out, eyes wide as I take a step back, nearly tripping over the edge of the Persian rug that sprawls across my father’s office floor. The mahogany walls, the cigar smoke lingering in the air, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner — it all feels too claustrophobic now.

This was supposed to be a quick break from college. A couple of days back in New York to recharge, not... this. Not a damn mafia summit.

My father doesn’t even flinch. He leans back in his leather chair, the dim light from the desk lamp casting hard shadows over his face. He looks older than I remember — colder, too.

“The Italian mafia have good resources,” he says slowly, deliberately, like he's speaking to a child. “We’ve been at war with the Lo Russos for nearly a decade. It’s bad for business, bad for the streets. An alliance will benefit all parties.” His voice is gravelly, his tone sharp — the kind that slices through objections before they can form.

I cross my arms, jaw tightening. “You’re seriously telling me we’re just going to trust them? After everything?” I scoff, pacing. “Dad, they burned down one of our safehouses last year. Do you think a handshake and a few bottles of wine are going to erase that?”

He slams his hand on the desk. “Enough!” The echo ricochets off the walls. My stomach clenches.

“This isn’t a negotiation, son. You’re not in a lecture hall anymore — this is real. This is blood and loyalty and survival.” He stands now, towering, his suit immaculate, his presence suffocating. “I’ve already agreed to the terms. You will be there when they arrive. You will smile. And you will show them that the Volkov family honours its word.”

I try to steady my breath, but the storm inside me is growing.

“But, Dad—” I start, but he cuts me off with a glare that could turn steel to ash.

“No!” His voice booms. “I don’t want to hear it. You think this is about what you want? You’re next in line, and you will act like it. This alliance is happening. I will not tolerate your defiance. Do you understand me?”

My mouth goes dry. I clench my fists so hard I feel my nails dig into my palms.

“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at the floor. “I understand.”

He nods once, curtly, then checks his gold pocket watch. “Good. Now sit down. They’ll be here any minute.”

I don’t move at first. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that my father — the man who taught me to trust no one outside the family — is shaking hands with the devil himself.

The Lo Russos. Ruthless. Cunning. And now, apparently, our new best friends.

As I finally lower myself into the leather armchair opposite his desk, the distant rumble of an approaching car drifts through the window. My father straightens his tie.

The alliance may be forged tonight.

But I already know this peace won’t last.

And when it breaks — I will be the one left cleaning up the blood.