“Soon,” I say, “but not here. I’ll handle Miami quietly. Once Italy is stable, we expand. And when I do…” I meet their eyes, one after the other. “You’ll both get more than silence and protection. You’ll get a partnership.”
That word lands.
“Partnership,” Matteo echoes. “That’s not something you offer lightly.”
“I’m not offering lightly,” I say. “You back me now, and when I take back what’s mine, I won’t forget who stood beside me.”
Giovanni extends a hand across the desk. “Then we stand beside you.”
I clasp his hand, firm and final. “Good.”
He rises, buttoning his coat. “You’ll have updates within the week. And Benedikt?” I look up. “Don’t let her make you soft.”
Artem scoffs. “He’s never soft. Trust me.”
Giovanni nods as he and Matteo leave the room.
Artem moves first, walking up to the desk. “You handled that well.” I nod once. “They’re with us now.”
“They’re with whoever they think will win,” I correct.
Artem shrugs. “Then you better keep winning.”
I lean back in the chair, rubbing the back of my neck. “We start tomorrow. Quietly. I want Nikolai isolated before he knows what hit him.”
“And Sienna?”
I meet his gaze. “She stays close. I’m not giving my brother a single opening.”
Artem’s jaw tightens. “You know that puts her on the map.” He doesn’t say it in accusation—he’s not soft enough for that—but the weight of it hangs between us anyway.
“I know.” It’s all a flat fact; no pleading or begging. I can feel the room narrowing, and a plan forming in my mind like a blade being sharpened. “Eyes on every exit from her bakery. Two men I trust a block over, rotating shifts. Cameras where they can’t be seen. A car ready to move at a minute’s notice. If Nikolai moves, she moves first.”
Artem grunts. “You think you can protect her by dragging her into this?”
“She’s already in it,” I snap. “Whether she admits it or not. My job is to make sure she doesn’t pay for it.”
He watches me for a second, then nods. “Fine. I’ll have Mirko and Paolo set the teams. Quiet. No fireworks, no headlines. You want surgical, you get surgical.” He taps the desk as if drawing a final line. “And we need to bait Nikolai. Make him show his hand. He’s sloppy when he thinks you’re out of the game.”
I trace a pattern on the wood with my thumb. “Invite a rumor. Leak a shipment. Make him think he’s getting a win.”
Artem’s lips twist. “Risky.”
“Necessary.” I stand, pacing the small space between my desk and the windowless wall. It feels smaller tonight. Closer. Maybe it’s the ache in my shoulder, or the way every thought curves back to her. “I want names, Artem. Buyers, couriers, accounts. If he’s rebuilding in Naples, he’s using someone’s bank.”
“On it.” He straightens, moving to the shelf to scribble notes into a small leather pad he always carries. “You sure you want to head this? You’re not the head right now.”
I stop as the words catch like a burr. The title is gone, yes. The chair is empty. But the hunger that sits under my skin—what I’d built, what he stole—that’s not tied to a name on a payroll.
“I’m the one who built this,” I say quietly. “A title doesn’t take what I earned.”
Artem’s eyes soften. “Then don’t get sentimental. Be brutal and be smart.”
I let out a breath that tastes like iron. “I will be.”
He moves toward the door. “You want me to ride with you tomorrow?”
“No.” I shake my head. “You manage here. Keep the men in line. I don’t need a shadow on my heels for the first strike. I need quiet.”
