38

38


Christian Whitmore. First son of the notorious British crime clan. A man whose reputation balanced razor-sharp decency with lethal danger.

Dmitri read Dante’s message again, the words heavy in his mind: the Whitmores had just secured a major territory in the city, and Christian’s Omertà was only days away.

The reason for the relocation was unclear, and Dmitri didn’t like the idea of sharing his city with some newcomers, especially not ones with blood on their hands and a legacy that screamed power.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the estate. The Vintage Street had once belonged to a prominent Italian Bratva, long since dismantled after a bloody fall from grace.

Now, the British clan had claimed it. The change was undeniable: iron gates embossed with lions and crowns, meticulously trimmed hedges, and the faint, crisp scent of old money.

Dmitri remembered the stories his father used to tell—how the Bellini family had scammed and cornered rivals, how the estate had been a fortress of Italian cunning and cold-blooded strategy. Now, all traces of the Bellinis’ dominance had been replaced and eradicated.

The moment Dmitri stepped inside, the sharp tang of blood and the bitter bite of alcohol hit him.

Christian sat on a dark leather sofa, while maids cleaned the remnants of a body from the floor, blood pooling onto the grounds.

Blond hair perfectly styled, piercing blue eyes. He had that British charm alright.

My eyes darkened the moments our eyes clashed.

“Dmitri Kalashinkov. You’re early.” He looked down at the space rhe body had been reminants of bloods still there then back to him.“Excuse me for the mess, it’s seems in this part of the world the only language they seem to understand is violence.”

He chuckled but Dmitri’s face remained cold as steel. He wasn’t here to exchange any form of pleasantries and wasn’t about to act like he liked guy either.

“What are you doing in my city?” Dmitri blurted.

Christian’s expression darkened for a fleeting second before he smirked. He gave a glance to the two men who stood at attention and immediately both them and the maid cleared from the room.

He walked over to a table that nursed a bottle of vodka, poured it into two glasses, and handed one to Dmitri.

“That isn’t why I called you,” Christian said smoothly. “You and I… we need to talk.”

When Dmitri didnt take it, he asked. “You don’t take alcohol?”

Reluctantly, he accepted the glass.

Christian leaned back, swirling the liquid. “This city… it doesn’t belong to a single man.” He started. “And I am sure you must know your history.”

Dmitri knew two things about it first was the Bellini eradication he’s family has been top seat to execute and the other was the goal behind it. His ancestors wanted it all.

“Your point?” Dmitri asked unfazed.

“My point is, my family carved a large piece of the north, and I suspect we might share equal, if not greater, rights to this territory.”

“The Whitmore’s have no share here in this part of the continent, your home is in west Europe but you should know that so what exactly are you playing at.”

“My home in Europe was carved my myself alone. I am talking about the one my ancestors built.”

“Your ancestors?”

A smug smirk grew on his lips. “Alessandro Bellini. Ring any bells?

Dmitri froze for a second. “What the heck are you talking about?”

He paused, eyes sharp. “Both my younger brother and I. Our father was Italian—full-blooded Bellini—but we were bred in Europe and took our mother’s name.” He tilted his head slightly, letting the words hang in the air. “In fact i am in my father’s home.”

Dmitri’s fist clenched if he knew that much then he probably already knew who exactly sent him to his grave.

Christian’s smirk widened slightly. “I don’t suppose we need to rehash history. But understand this, Dmitri Kalashinkov: the streets of this city are not ruled by one man alone. And I intend to ensure my family’s legacy is honored.”

Dmitri’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t share my city lightly.”

Christian chuckled, a smooth, dangerous sound. “Nor do I. Perhaps that’s why I wanted to meet in person. To see where our interests intersect… and where they might clash. And if they don’t I know a thing or two about Lily Hills.”

Dmitri’s jaw locked at the mention of her name.

Christian raised his hands in defense. “ In fact it seems we had a little intervention at her cousins graduation party. You might need to be careful I think she might have have a think for thing accent.”

“You fuckk go close to her and I send you to meet your dear father.” He grunted.

“Relax, that’s exactly why we need to talk. I just need one thing from you and poof I’ll be gone.”

Dmitri knew better than to believe that. And even if it happened to be the case he’d be damned if he gave as much as lift a finger to help.

“I don’t care what history you or your family carved here. It’s all lost now. The Kalashnikov owned every part of it and you are invading. “ Dmitri’s voice dripped with hate. He stood from the chair readying to leave.

“This conversation is over. And I want you out of my city. Tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. “ Christian mirrored his movements, until he stood right in front of him, their eyes meeting eye to eye.

“I have the Europeans, Italians and sure enough I could win the favors of the Russians because it looks to me like your family isn’t even on your side. All because of one stupid girl.”

That was it.

He pulled out his gun, aiming it directly at Christian’s skull.

“How many bullets do I need to release to finally make my point. I don’t give a fuck what you want neither would I be willing to help.”

The bastard still had a smile on his face. “I won’t do that if I were you. Look around and if you even manage to make it out alive I doubt Lily and her family will.”

He pressed the gun further but this man wasn’t afraid of death. He was a psychopath in suit. And Dmitri could tell despite how calm this man seemed he was just as dangerous as he himself, a predator even and that was exactly why he pulled Lily out of his mind but now it just seemed the mess seemed to pull her in no matter what he did.

He retracted his gun. “What do you want?”

An ugly smile spread across his lips. “I h
ave a proposal and it involved blood.”