“What’s happening?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet. But we’re going to that ultrasound appointment, and then I’m finding out exactly what’s going on with my nephew.”
As we leave for the doctor’s office, I slip Dante’s photograph into my jacket pocket. A reminder of my failures, but also of my determination not to repeat them.
Whatever threat is emerging from the shadows, whatever game Marco might be playing, I’ll handle it before it touches my family.
The child in the photograph deserved better than the father I was.
The child growing in Kasimira’s womb will get the father I’m becoming.
37
KASI
The ultrasound showedeverything perfectly normal—a tiny heartbeat fluttering on the monitor like a bird’s wing, ten fingers and ten toes accounted for. But two days later, we’re on a plane to Las Vegas because the Russian threats have escalated beyond what can be handled from New York.
The private conference room at the Bellagio feels like a battlefield before the first shot is fired.
Twelve men in expensive suits sit around the polished mahogany table, their conversations creating a low hum of tension that makes my skin prickle. The air conditioning works overtime against the Vegas heat, but I can still feel sweat gathering at the base of my neck.
This isn’t a business meeting. This is a trial.
“Mrs. Moretti,” Dimitri Petrov’s voice cuts through the murmur as he enters with his entourage. He’s still young, maybe forty, but his pale eyes suggest he’s seen too much violence. “How lovely to see you again.”
“Mr. Petrov.”
Alaric’s hand finds mine under the table, a brief squeeze that grounds me. Boris Petrov follows Dimitri into the room, his massive frame filling the doorway. The resemblance to his dead brother is unmistakable—the same brutal build, the same predatory stare.
“Alaric,” Boris says, his English heavily accented. “You bring wife to business meeting. How…modern.”
“My wife is my partner in all family matters.”
“Even matters involving dead Russians?”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Every conversation stops as the two most dangerous men in Vegas stare at each other across twenty feet of marble flooring.
“Especially those matters,” Alaric replies calmly.
Boris takes his seat at the far end of the table, positioning himself like a king holding court. His men arrange themselves behind him, hands visible but ready. I count at least six weapons just among the Russians I can see clearly.
“Gentlemen,” Tony Benedetti announces from his position near the windows, “let’s begin.”
The next hour is a masterclass in barely controlled violence disguised as negotiation.
Boris starts with accusations about the restaurant attack, claiming Alaric’s security team used excessive force against “innocent businessmen.” Dimitri provides surveillance footage that allegedly shows our men firing first, though the angles are suspicious and the time stamp could be fabricated.
“Six men dead,” Boris announces, spreading crime scene photographs across the table. “Including my nephew Alexei. Barely twenty-five years old.”
“Your nephew was pointing a gun at my wife,” Alaric responds without emotion. “The response was proportional.”
“Proportional?” Dimitri leans forward, his pale eyes fixed on me. “Your wife threw herself in front of bullets. Very dramatic. Very…convenient.”
The implication hits like a slap. He’s suggesting I staged the entire attack, that somehow the restaurant shooting was orchestrated for our benefit.
“Convenient how?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Beautiful woman takes bullet for powerful husband. Creates sympathy, justifies violent response, eliminates business competitors.” Dimitri’s smile is reptilian. “Very efficient.”
