Ricci’s eyes narrowed, flicking to Dmitri with open scorn. “Your husband’s own son was taken five years ago,” he shot back. “By his father-in-law, no less. And he never found the boy.” His lip curled. “Yet I’m supposed to believe he can find my wife? This is an insult. A mockery. You want to drag me into your war and salt your failure into my wounds.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush bone.
Dmitri didn’t deny it.
He straightened slowly, gaze unwavering. “You’re right,” he said. “I failed once.”
Ricci blinked, clearly not expecting that.
“I trusted the wrong people,” Dmitri continued. “I played by rules that never existed. And I paid for it.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “I will never make that mistake again.”
He stepped closer, invading Ricci’s space. “The Albanians don’t hide well. They move product. They leave trails—money, ships, names. I already have eyes where you don’t.” His tone sharpened. “You want your wife back alive? Then you don’t stay neutral. You don’t wait for others to bleed.”
Ricci’s breathing slowed, fury warring with hope. “And if you’re lying?” he asked hoarsely. “If this is just leverage?”
Dmitri sat back down as if nothing had happened, the night air settling around him like a cloak. Not a trace of agitation lingered in his posture—only cold intent.
“I once had a discreet business arrangement,” he said calmly, “with the Albanian boss’s wife.”
Ricci went rigid. “That’s forbidden,” he snapped. “Dealing with Albanians violates the old codes. Men have been executed for less.”
Dmitri didn’t blink. “And yet the Ferraros still move weapons through Montenegro when it benefits them.” His tone was mild, almost bored. “Let’s not insult each other by pretending we live by rules instead of convenience.”
The accusation struck cleanly. Ricci’s mouth opened, then closed. His outrage faltered, replaced by calculation. After a moment, he gave a stiff nod—acknowledgment without surrender.
Dmitri rose, retrieved the stool Ricci had thrown, and set it neatly back at the table. The scrape of metal against stone sounded deliberate. Commanding.
“Sit, Ricci.”
The order wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.
After a long beat, Ricci complied, lowering himself into the chair and leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. Gonewas the swaggering heir. What remained was a husband clawing for hope.
“You truly have contact with her?” Ricci asked, voice stripped to a whisper. “With the woman who controls them?”
“Yes.”
Dmitri pulled out his phone. He didn’t hesitate. No dramatic pause. He dialed, switched to speaker, and set the device on the marble table between us like an offering.
The terrace fell into absolute silence.
The line clicked once. Twice.
A woman answered in rapid Albanian—sharp, guarded, her voice carrying authority honed by survival.
Dmitri replied fluently, his pronunciation flawless, his cadence respectful but unyielding. He listened, nodded once, then shifted seamlessly into English.
“I want you to release Ricci Ferraro’s wife,” he said evenly. “Alive. Unharmed. Name your price.”
The pause that followed felt endless.
Then her English came through the speaker—thickly accented, edged with suspicion.
“Since when does Dmitri Volkov bargain on behalf of Ferraros?”
Dmitri didn’t miss a beat. “Since I need a war,” he said, voice smooth as glass, “that reshapes Lake Como.”
Ricci sucked in a sharp breath.
