The meeting drags on longer than necessary.
Words blur in and out, echoing off the cold walls of the room. Each man seated around the table are saying one or two.
I hear everything.
I process nothing.
Because he is here—
The Who shall not be named
I keep my gaze fixed on the table, my fingers resting lightly on the polished wood. I keep my posture controlled, my expression unreadable. A mask, one I've worn for years, perfected under Sergei's watchful eye.
But I feel him.
His presence is an infection I can't cut out, a shadow that stretches too close. I don't need to look at him to feel the weight of him beside me, the quiet arrogance in the way he breathes this air like he owns it. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be in my world.
But he is.
His voice, when he speaks, cuts through the room like the edge of a blade, deep and composed.
He's too at ease in this den of wolves, too controlled.
it irritates me.
But I don't let it show
Instead, I fold my hands in my lap, legs crossed. I force my focus elsewhere. To the sound of Viktor's voice, grating and smug. To the shift in power dynamics playing out between the men at the table. To the way the Pakhan steers the conversation, sharp and precise, reminding them all that he is still the one in control.
The tension is suffocating.
And he sits beside me as if he doesn't feel it.
When the meeting finally ends, I rise with the others, l'm already moving. Not quickly—never quickly—but with purpose. I push back my chair, smooth my dress, and step away from the table without a single glance in his direction.
Damien mutters something low, something I don't bother catching, and I brush past him.
I don't stop.
Not until I step out of the building, the crisp night air cutting against my skin. The tension in my shoulders doesn't ease, not even when I reach my car.
Only then do I pull out my phone. My fingers move swiftly, dialing before I can second-guess myself.
The line rings once before Mabel picks up.
"This is unexpected," she says, amusement laced in her tone. "Calling so soon after your big Bratva gathering? Did someone finally piss you off?"
"Tobi. I need to know where he'll be."
A pause. Than a slow inhale.
"Is everything okay?"
"He was at the meeting," I say, voice clipped
"Wait….what?" Mabel's tone shifts, amusement evaporating. "The meeting?!"
"He's the Bratva's new lawyer." My grip tightens on the steering wheel. "He sat right next to me."
There's a sharp intake of breath, followed by a low curse. "Oh my god." Another pause, then a disbelieving laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"You mean your Tobi is the Bratva's new lawyer?"
The weight of her words settles between us.
I lean back against the headrest, staring at the city lights through the windshield. "He goes by Ivan Romanov now."
A pause. Then, Mabel's tone shifts-low, serious.
"Ivan Romanov isn't just a name, ghost. He's a big deal in the underworld. People don't say his name lightly."
My grip on the steering wheel tightens.
"Damn, that explains why I couldn't find much on him." She lets out a heavy sigh, I can picture her running her hands through her hair pacing around
"I need to know where he'll by 9 and let's postpone our meeting on the syndicate till tomorrow"
Silence. The soft click of a keyboard in the background. Then-
"He's got a pattern," she says "Vega Lounge. He's a regular. If he's in the city, that's where he'll be."
I hang up.
I think it's time I have a conversation with him as an old friend.
______________________
Vega is Bratva territory.
One of the many establishments under their control, a sanctuary for their business dealings, their pleasures, their sins. Which means I have to tread carefully. If anything unusual happens here, word will reach the Pakhan. And if it reaches him, it will reach Sergei.
I can't have Sergei on my ass.
I step out of my car, handing my keys to the valet with a sharp nod before making my way inside.
The moment I enter, I spot him.
VIP lounge.
He's leaning back against a velvet booth, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his posture relaxed like he doesn't have a single fucking care in the world.
Our eyes meet, and something flickers in the depths of his gaze. Not surprise. He expected me.
Of course, he did.
I weave through the lounge, ignoring the way people shift when they recognize me, the way conversations dip into hushed tones. He watches me, lazy and unreadable, swirling the amber liquid in his glass as if this is just another casual night.
I slide into the seat across from him, taking my time, crossing one leg over the other.
"Ghost." he says smoothly. "Didn't think you'd
come running to see me so soon."
I ignore the nickname. Ignore the warmth in his voice, like it belongs to the boy I once knew.
I remove my glasses, letting my eyes linger on him for a fraction longer than necessary. "Hello to you too,Tobi."
His smirk widens. "It's Ivan Romanov now."
"I don't care what you go by now," I say, my voice calm, detached. "How convenient, two weeks ago you were at the gala. Now, you're the Bratva's lawyer." My fingers drum lightly against the table, controlled, measured. "You don't belong in this world."
He tilts his head, studying me. The dim lighting casts shadows over his features, sharpening the high cheekbones, the sharp jawline, the dark eyes that never quite give away what's lurking beneath.
Then he smirks-lazy, arrogant-as he traces the rim of his whiskey glass with his finger.
"Last time I checked," he says, voice smooth like silk over steel, "you don't belong in this world either." A pause. A flicker of something darker in his gaze. "Yet here we are."
I study him, this version of Tobi or Ivan-sitting across from me, perfectly at ease in a world he was never supposed to be part of.
He doesn't flinch under my scrutiny. If anything, he welcomes it. Invites it.
The dim lighting casts shadows across his face, sharpens the edges of his features—the high cheekbones, the strong jawline, the mouth that once knew how to smile without calculation.
Once.
But the boy I used to know is long gone.
I lean forward, elbows resting lightly on the table, voice lowering. "Are you working for someone?"
He chuckles, low and deep. "You insult me, printsessa." He leans back, the leather of his seat creaking under his weight. "Do I look like someone who takes orders?"
Damn him. I shouldn't have asked that. Even in school, Tobi never followed rules. Never listened to teachers. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and somehow still ended up on top.
Some things never change.
His eyes lock onto mine, and I feel it then-the slow, deliberate push and pull of an old game.
One we never got to finish.
Because back then, it was always like this. Silent wars fought in glances and unsaid words.
In sharp intellect and stubborn pride. In moments where I could feel his gaze on me from across a crowded room, a challenge written in his expression.
And now?
Now, it's something else entirely.
Something darker.
Something more dangerous.
Tap
Tap
Tap
His fingers drum against the armrest, controlled, precise. A pattern.
"I love the woman you've grown up to be, Maya."
The words hit me like a gunshot.
I inhale sharply.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second—quick, calculated, but not fast enough to miss.
Eighteen. A locked classroom. A debate turned argument turned something else entirely. A moment where the air was too thick, where neither of us moved, where I should've walked away but didn't.
The memory flares before I can bury it.
I blink it away.
I steel myself. "Why are you here, Tobi?"
His lips quirk slightly, but his voice is steady. "I'm not a threat to you, printsessa."
There's no hesitation. No shift in his posture.
Just quiet certainty, like he's stating a fact, not an argument.
I hate how easily I almost believe him.
"Stop calling me that," I snap, my voice colder than before.
His smirk deepens. "You didn't mind back then."
Back then.
A time when our world was different.
I don't respond.
He watches me, eyes dark, unreadable. "You said you'd shoot me if you ever saw me again."
I tilt my head slightly. "I'm still contemplating it. So don't push it."
He laughs.
A real laugh. Deep, warm, genuine.
It hits me like a ghost of the past.
For a second, I hate how familiar it sounds.
His laughter fades, but his gaze softens just a fraction. "Some things don't change," he murmurs, watching me too intently. "How hard was it?"
I frown. "What?"
He exhales, swirling his drink slowly. "When you disappeared. The life you lived. I know it wasn't kind to you." His voice lowers, just enough to be heard over the club's ambient noise. "So how hard was it?"
The question digs beneath my skin. Claws its way into the parts of me I keep locked away.
I don't answer.
Because if I do, I might tell the truth.
Instead, I rise abruptly, smoothing my dress, pushing every unwanted emotion back into its place "just don't cross me, tobi."
I take a step back. Then another.
"I got into Harvard, by the way."
The words freeze me mid-step.
For a moment, I don't move. Don't breathe.
Because in another life, in another world, that should've meant something.
It takes everything in me not to sit back down.
Not to let myself sink into the past, into the memories that taste too much like regret.
I turn, meeting his gaze one last time.
"Take a look around," I say softly, the weight of my words settling between us. "Do you see Maya anywhere?"
A beat of silence.
"She's dead" I whisper
I let the words hang, cutting through the air like a blade.
Then I give him a small, empty smile.
"But I'll make sure to relay your message to her ghost."
I don't wait for his response.
I walk away.