"Then I'd kill them first," I said it flat, each word intended to land. "I'm the Don now. I make the decisions. No one can force me."
"You're not invincible, Igor." Her voice shook. "What if the choice is between me and power again?"
"I'd pick you. Every time." My hand trembled as I cupped her face. "Power, money, territory—they're tools. You are my life. Without you, theymean nothing."
"You don't understand." She shook her head. "It's easy to say. But when the moment comes—"
"Listen." I held her face, felt its heat. "Five years ago, I was a bastard, a coward. I put family above you because I thought I could have both. I was wrong. I paid dearly—I lost you for five years."
I pulled her into my arms and held her. She tried to pull away, but I wouldn't loosen. Never again.
"Sorry," I murmured into her hair, again and again. The word felt useless, but it was all I had.
She buried her face in my chest and sobbed. Her tears soaked my shirt; each drop felt like acid on my heart. I didn't know how long I held her—minutes, an eternity. I just stood there and let her cry.
When she finally calmed, my shirt front was soaked.
"I don't know what to do." She spoke honestly. "I want to believe you, Igor. God knows I do. But I'm scared."
"I know." I kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheek. "I know, baby. I'll prove it. No matter how long it takes."
My phone buzzed then—not a normal ringtone, but the emergency alert tone. My body went tight; adrenaline snapped through my veins.
"What is it?" Elena asked.
I grabbed the phone and read the message. Rage hit me like a wave. A New York warehouse had been hit—three men dead, five million dollars' worth of arms destroyed.
"Salvatore." I ground the name out. Anger flared. "That Italian bastard finally moved."
My mind flicked into combat mode—losses to tally, counterattacks to plan, deployments to map—
"You're leaving?" Elena's voice stopped me.
I looked at her and saw fear and disappointment. Goddamn it—I'd just promised not to leave—but if I stayed, more would die. Salvatore would see weakness and hit harder.
"Yes. I have things to handle." My voice was dry. "Listen, baby, I swear I don't want to leave you now, but this is about men's lives."
"Go." She surprised me with steadiness. "You're the Don. Do what you must."
Time was short. I stared at her for a few seconds, leaned down, and kissed her.
"I'll be back," I whispered on her lips. "Wait for me, Elena."
She nodded.
I let go and walked out.
The plane toucheddown at a private airstrip outside New York before dark.
Artyom waited on the tarmac, a new cut on his face, his left arm in a bandage.
"What happened?" I asked as I climbed into the car.
"Worse than the alert." He handed me a tablet. "Not just the warehouse—they blew up two Brooklyn casinos. Seven dead, thirteen wounded."
I swiped through the photos. Blood, fire, bodies. My men lying cold on the ground.
"What do we do?" Artyom asked. "The guys are waiting for your orders."
