“Maybe. But it doesn’t have to punish it either.”
A knock on the door interrupts our conversation. Marco enters with flowers and his usual easy smile, though I notice the tension around his eyes.
“Jesus, Kasi. I thought…” He sets the flowers on her bedside table. “How are you feeling?”
“Sore. But alive.”
“Thank God for that.” He glances at me. “Uncle, can I speak with you privately?”
I don’t want to leave her alone, but the look on Marco’s face suggests this is important. “Five minutes.”
In the hallway, Marco’s casual demeanor disappears completely.
“This was a message,” he says without preamble.
“From who?”
“Boris Petrov. The attack was too sloppy to be about killing you. Too public, too many witnesses. This was about proving he can reach you anywhere.”
“Then he proved it. And now he’s going to learn what that costs.”
“Uncle, wait. Before you start a war, hear me out.”
Something in his tone makes me stop. Marco is usually the voice of moderation in family meetings, the one who argues for negotiation over violence. But right now he looks genuinely worried.
“I’ve been hearing things. Rumors from the West Coast operations. Boris isn’t just angry about Viktor’s death. He’s desperate. The Petrov organization is fracturing. Internal power struggles, territory disputes, cash flow problems.”
“So?”
“So desperate men make unpredictable choices. If we push him too hard, too fast, he might do something really crazy. Like targeting civilians. Like going after the women from Dante’s files.”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but it makes sick sense. Boris knows we’re protecting those women. If he wanted maximum leverage, maximum pain, hitting them would be the logical move.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Let me reach out to my contacts in LA. See if we can find a way to end this without more bloodshed. Maybe offer Boris something he needs more than revenge.”
“Like what?”
“Territory. Cash. Safe passage out of the country. Whatever it takes to make him disappear without taking any more shots at our family.”
The practical part of my brain recognizes the wisdom in this approach. But the part that’s been sitting in a hospital waiting room for three hours wants Boris Petrov’s head on a spike.
“Twenty-four hours,” I tell him. “You have twenty-four hours to find a peaceful solution. After that, we do this my way.”
“Fair enough.” Marco hesitates. “Uncle? She really saved your life in there.”
“I know.”
“You realize what that means, right? About how she feels?”
“Marco—”
“I’m just saying. Women don’t take bullets for men they don’t love. Even wives married for protection.”
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me alone with the truth I’ve been trying to avoid.
Kasimira loves me. Not because she has to, not because it’s safe or convenient, but because somewhere in the chaos of our forced arrangement, genuine feeling took root.
