The dress wasn't silk this time. It was a tailored suit of charcoal wool, sharp enough to cut. I wore the emerald necklace, but I tucked the broken clasp under the collar of my white button-down. I wasn't a showpiece tonight. I was an executive of death.
Dimitri stood by the window of the armored SUV, checking the action on his custom Kimber .45. He looked like a man going to his own execution, yet he had never looked more alive.
"They will try to bait you," he said, his voice a low vibration. "They will speak of your father. They will speak of your price. They will look at you as if you are a ghost or a whore. Do not let them see your pulse."
"I'm not afraid of them, Dimitri," I said, reaching over to rest my hand on his. "I've already looked at the man who killed my father. These are just men in suits."
"They are kings in their own minds, Maya. And kings do not like being told their crowns are made of tinsel."
We arrived at *La Lanterna*, an old-school Italian joint in the heart of Little Italy. The street had been cleared. Black Suburbans lined the curbs like a funeral procession. The air was thick with the scent of garlic, expensive cigars, and the metallic tang of hidden weapons.
Yuri and a six-man team stayed at the door. Only Dimitri and I walked into the back room.
The room was heavy with history. A long mahogany table sat under a cloud of cigar smoke. Four men were already seated. The Irishman, O'Shea, with his ruddy face and cold blue eyes. Chen, representing the Tongs, silent as a statue. Moretti, the old-school head of the Five Boroughs.
And at the head of the table sat Salvatore Romano.
He didn't look like Marco. Where Marco was a firework—loud, bright, and short-lived—Salvatore was a glacier. He was in his sixties, with silver hair swept back and a face carved from granite. He didn't look angry. He looked disappointed.
"Dimitri," Salvatore said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone. He didn't stand. "You've caused quite a mess in my city."
"Your city?" Dimitri pulled out a chair for me, then sat beside me. "I was under the impression the Volkovs owned the ports, Salvatore. You're just a guest who overstayed his welcome."
Salvatore's gaze shifted to me. It was a heavy, physical weight. "And the girl. The Sokolova debt. My son spoke of your fire, Maya. It's a pity he wasn't smart enough to put it out before it burned him."
"Your son died because he was weak, Salvatore," I said. My voice didn't shake. It was a flat, cold fact that dropped into the room like a stone. "He thought a name was enough to protect him. He was wrong."
The room went deathly silent. Moretti dropped his cigar. O'Shea let out a low whistle. In this world, women were meant to be seen, occasionally heard in the bedroom, but never at the table.
Salvatore's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine interest sparking in the depths of his cold gaze. "Bold. Dimitri, you've traded a gambler for a viper. I respect the upgrade."
"She isn't a trade," Dimitri said, his hand finding mine on the table, visible to everyone. A public claim. "She is the Pakhan's wife. And she speaks with my voice."
Salvatore leaned forward, his hands interlacing on the wood. "Then let us speak plainly. My son is dead. My warehouse is ash. The balance of power is tilted, and the other families are nervous. I am a reasonable man, Dimitri. I offer you a choice. Leave New York by dawn. Take your vipers and your gold and go back to Moscow. I will let you live. I will even let you keep her."
He paused, his eyes turning to ice. "Or you stay. And I will make sure the city watches as I do to Maya what your father did to the Sokolov name. I will erase you both."
Dimitri didn't hesitate. He leaned back, a dark, predatory smile touching his lips. "We're not leaving, Salvatore. This city is Volkov territory. It was built on the blood of my people, and I'm not moving for a man who is too old to hold his own leash."
"Then we have war," Salvatore said softly.
"No," I interrupted, standing up. I leaned over the table, looking Salvatore directly in the eyes. "We don't have a war. We have a deadline. Forty-eight hours. No more drive-bys. No more hitting civilian hubs. We settle this where it started."
"The docks," Salvatore murmured, a ghost of a smile appearing. "Pier 42."
"Dawn, in two days," I said. "Whoever holds the pier at sunrise owns the city. The other families stay out of it. We settle the Romano-Volkov blood debt once and for all."
Salvatore looked at the other bosses. They nodded slowly. This was the old way. A trial by combat. Minimal heat from the feds, maximum resolution.
Salvatore stood up then, adjusting his cuffs. "Forty-eight hours, Maya Volkov. I hope you enjoy them. They will be the last you ever spend above ground."
"I'll be sure to send you a postcard from the funeral," I replied. "Yours."
We walked out of the restaurant, the tension in my shoulders only breaking once we hit the cold night air. Dimitri didn't speak until we were back in the car. He pulled me to him, his mouth crashing against mine in a kiss that tasted of adrenaline and desperation.
"You took the lead," he whispered against my lips. "You set the terms."
"I'm tired of being the prize, Dimitri," I said, my hands tangling in his hair. "I want to be the winner."
"Forty-eight hours," he muttered, his eyes burning. "Then the world is ours, or we leave it together."
I looked out at the New York skyline, the lights shimmering like cold diamonds. The clock was ticking.