"She is," Damien confirms, no apology in his tone. "The threat was against me and my family. My justice, my methods, my timeline."
Bulldog leans forward, elbows on the table. "What about the file? The one with dirt on all of us? Marzena spent decades collecting leverage. Where is it now?"
A slow smile spreads across Damien's face. "Glad you brought that up."
Behind me, I hear footsteps. Casimir strides past me toward the Council table, and the USB drive hits the wood with a sharp crack that makes half the men flinch.
Six foot five of solid muscle, and that's a conservative estimate. Roman, Damien, Maksim, Vasili, even Marco tower over most men, but Cas makes them all look average. He's built like violence personified, and the way he stands behind Damien now, arms crossed, makes it clear whose side he's on.
"Safe with me," Cas says, his voice rumbling from his chest.
"Gentlemen," Damien continues, leaning back in his chair like he doesn't have a care in the world, "meet the newest Council member."
Low murmurs ripple through the room like a wave. Someone curses under their breath. Another man's hand clenches into a fist on the table. No one wants to speak up directly, though. Not with thirty years of secrets, affairs, murders, and financial crimes trapped in that tiny device currently under Cas's protection.
One of Damien's supporters, an older man with kind eyes, clears his throat. "Council's always had twelve seats. That's tradition."
"Here's how this works." Damien's voice drops, going casual in that way that makes my spine straighten. Because I know that tone. It's the one that comes right before violence. "We vote him in willingly, or I pull my gun out and someone gets a funeral. My wife throws a hell of a wake, by the way."
A fist slams down on the table hard enough to make glasses jump.
"You can't threaten Council members, Kaminski." It's Tank Guy, face red with indignation. "There are rules. Procedures. You don't just—"
Damien's grin spreads wide across his face, all teeth and no warmth.
"Actually, I can. Let me explain something to you, Darov. Your accounts are fat because of deals I brokered. Your secrets are buried because of networks I maintain. You're expanding into new territory—my fucking doing, my connections, my strategy. I'm respecting the vote because I choose to, because Sarin built something worth preserving. Don't mistake that courtesy for weakness."
The silence that follows is absolute. You could hear a pin drop. Council members exchange glances, having entire conversations with raised eyebrows and slight head movements.
An older man with white hair finally breaks it, the same one who mentioned tradition. "Sarin trusted you. He was my brother in everything but blood, and I watched him train you for this role. He'd want you leading, and if your order as head is a thirteenth seat, you've got my support."
His hand rises slowly. One by one, the others follow. Even Bulldog and Tank Guy, after a long moment, raise their hands.
The message is clear: they don't have a choice, but they're smart enough to know it.
My heart kicks against my ribs, relief and pride mixing into something that makes me want to laugh. When I find Damien's eyes across the room, they're lit with that dangerous gleam I know too well. Triumph mixed with barely restrained violence. His dimples crater deeply with his smile, the one that's just for me.
I wink. Blow him a kiss.
He catches it, presses his fist to his chest. The gesture is so out of place in this room full of hardened criminals that several men look away uncomfortably.
"Welcome to the Polish mafia, Cas." Damien stands and pulls our nephew into a rough embrace, slapping his back hard enough to echo.
Cas returns it, and for just a moment, I see the family resemblance. The same dangerous edge, the same lethal grace.
Tonight we have reasons to celebrate.
Chapter 61
Damien
The door's creak echoes through the empty warehouse, and it takes me all of two seconds to spot Marzena Kaminski.
Or what's left of her. After weeks of torture, of peeling back layer after layer, she looks more like a corpse than a person, and judging by the smell, she's not far off.
Casimir moved her from that hangar and brought in a small mobile unit to keep her breathing, but I think we're both sick of making the drive out here.
Her eyes struggle open when she hears my footsteps, and even though I should be savoring this, seeing her broken, skin pale as bone, bandaged in some places and raw meat in others, I can't.
