Page 5 of Empire
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
Ruslan smiles without warmth. “Or what?”
Viktor shifts in his chair, but I can tell he’s not alarmed. I’ve been around the Dragovichs long enough to know that this isn’t unusual for them. Their family doesn’t operate on the same public obedience as ours does. They let their sons show their teeth because it proves they have them.
I should keep quiet, I know that before I open my mouth and do it anyway. “There is a middle ground.”
Every eye in the room swings toward me. My father says nothing, which means I have exactly one chance to speak without regretting it.
“Trieste stays frozen for ten days. Smaller shipments reroute through Rijeka and Koper under secondary manifests. Lower volume, less scrutiny, no full stop on movement. It buys time without turning the delay into a cost spiral.”
Don Conti nods once, Marchetti’s irritation dulls into consideration, and even Barone lifts his head. It’s a good solution, I know it is. Ruslan knows it, too, which is why his smile grows wider.
“That’s your answer?” he asks.
I meet his gaze. “It’s practical.”
“It’s timid.”
A hot, immediate flare of irritation climbs up my spine. “Reducing exposure isn’t timidity. It’s strategy.”
He gives a low, mocking hum. “No. Strategy is forcing the room to move before it gets comfortable. What you’re suggesting is delay dressed up as intelligence.”
“And what you’re suggesting is shoving men into risk because you get bored when things slow down.”
That earns a few quiet breaths from around the table. Ruslan’s expression doesn’t harden—if anything, he looks entertained.
That somehow makes it worse.
He tilts his head. “You always talk this much when you’re trying to sound older than you are?”
My shoulders lock. “You always confuse volume with authority?”
Viktor lets out the start of a laugh and smothers it with his fist. Mikhail ignores it, while my father is still silent beside me. That should calm me down. Instead, it feels like pressure on the side of my head.
Ruslan braces one forearm on the table and leans forward. “Say what you mean, Vieri.”
“I mean, if your men can’t handle ten days of discipline, maybe your father overestimated them.”
The room goes so completely quiet, I can hear the faint hiss of candleflame.
Ruslan is on his feet before I fully register that we’ve both moved. His hands flatten briefly on the table, shoulders squared,blond hair falling forward, blue eyes locked on mine with heat that has nothing to do with anger.
“Sit down,” he says softly.
It’s the softness that does it more than if he barked or sneered. The softness feels intimate and dangerous—like he’s talking to me alone, not in a room full of men who could kill us both.
I smile without warmth. “Make me.”
His mouth twitches because he knows what he’s doing to me. “So quick to anger, Salvatore. I thought it was my father’s men who had no discipline.”
“You fucking—”
“Salvatore.”
My father says my name, and a bullet would have hurt less. He doesn’t slam his palm down or rise from his seat. Just my name, and a look in his eyes that strips me down to nothing.
The heat leaves me so fast it almost makes me dizzy. My chest tightens, my spine locks, and old shame crawls up my spine and settles in my throat.
