Page 48 of I (One) (War of Roses 3)

My brain shies away from envisioning it.

“Politics,” he replies. “I trust Vanya with my life—but he is an optimist. If he truly wanted power, Sergei would already have it. For some reason, he seeks to use you.” He brushes my cheek and scowls at his fingers. “Do you remember the man you saw with Nicolai the night he attacked you?”

I swallow the memories back. “Yes. You brought me to him as well.”

“Before I knew he was a fucking traitorous prick,” he insists. “But he would have never had the balls to ally against me without sniffing something in the air. Rats are opportunistic, Rose. They only strike when it’s to their advantage.”

“So what do I do?”

His lips twitch, part grimace, part smile. “Be the daughter of a Vasilev—but never forget what leverage you have in your possession.”

With that ominous warning, he steers me back into my room, and together, we enter the hall.

“When we reach the bottom of these stairs, we won’t be allies,” he warns.

But I marvel at his use of the word. Have we ever been so aligned? His tone didn’t sound mocking.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I point out.

“And that’s why you need to fucking fight.” He snatches my hand, gripping tight, and I stare at our entwined fingers: his rough and callused, mine slim and pale.

With every step, we draw closer to the line he’s drawn—once past it, we’re enemies again.

But he takes his time.

And so do I.

* * *

I’ve only seen an official meeting of themafiyaonce before, called to discuss the betrayal of Kostantin Vorshev. But these men, and their twisted society, seem to thrive on consensus, much like a corrupted democracy. In fact, Mischa’s manor sported a space designed for the sole purpose of hosting an enormous gathering.

Unsurprisingly, Sergei’s home contains such a room as well, located at the rear of the house. It’s spacious, its layout resembling a great hall. Wood-paneled walls create an enclosed atmosphere as marble flooring magnifies every footstep Mischa and I take over it.

In a grim bit of irony, I recall the pomp and circumstance that took place at Winthorp manor whenever a gathering was hosted there. Such an event would require months of preparation and organization—and if so much as a napkin color deviated from expectation, it would be deemed a massive failure.

In contrast, Mischa and his ilk seem to thrive on converging with barely an hour’s notice.

Already, the room is partially filled with men and women gathered around a circle of eleven chairs positioned at the heart of the space. The impromptu layout evokes a sense of authority nonetheless. Those without power to their name seem to congregate on the outskirts, leaving a generous swath of space beyond the seating.

There doesn’t appear to be a general consensus as to the dress code of this occasion. Some of the onlookers sport suits or dresses like mine. Others wear leather and jeans.

Dressed in his fatigues, Mischa approaches a chair slightly taller than the others, ornately carved. Meeting my gaze, he nods to one a few seats down. Warily, I approach the chair and perch myself on it.

Not long after, Sergei and Vanya arrive. The elder brother takes a seat across from Mischa, while Vanya stands beside his leader. As the room fills to capacity, Sergei rises, drawing all eyes to him.

Unlike Mischa, he opted for a black suit, expertly tailored to cast a subtle air of intimidation. He wouldn’t belong at a Winthorp gathering—that’s for sure.

“I’ve called a council for one reason only,” he says, his voice booming to the farthest reaches of the room without the need for a microphone. “To put an end to this war. Mischa, while he may lead us bravely, will have us continue down a never-ending path of violence. Fortunately, I see another way to end this conflict.”

“And how is that?” someone demands from the crowd.

“It’s simple: We come to an arrangement with the younger Winthorp. Rumor has it that he is shrewder than his father ever was.”

“Rumor?” Mischa scoffs. “Rumor has it that I dine on children for breakfast and bathe in their blood. Fortunately, at leastoneof those isn’t true.”

Uneasy laughter rumbles from those gathered, but the tension is palpable in the air. It’s as if invisible battle lines have been drawn, apparent in the subtle body posture of those seated at the circle. Some eye Mischa intently, attuned to his every word. Others look to Sergei.

“The point is: I believe we should end this war now,” Sergei insists.

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