Page 37 of The Cost of Silence

“The call came from a club in Brighton Beach,” Rossi continues. “One that used to be friendly territory for the old guard. And the landline is registered to Mikhail Orlov.”

Matteo swears softly. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Adi exhales through his nose, slowly. “Orlov has been quiet for years.”

“Too quiet,” Rossi says. “Your father suspected he was waiting for an opportunity.”

I finally look at the paper. Orlov’s name sits there in black ink, neat and ugly. He’s one of the men who never forgave Enzo for turning the docks into condos instead of letting them keep smuggling whatever poison they were running. My father cut him out of three major streams of income. It always sat wrong with Orlov that a Mancini kept his hands mostly clean and still came out on top.

“This is retaliation,” Matteo says. “For Dad. For the docks. For us existing.”

“Partially,” Rossi agrees. “But Orlov isn’t stupid. He doesn’t go this public without cover. Oleg said the orders came with a warning, ‘The family is protected at the top, but the girl is fair game’ and that’s a direct quote.”

The girl.

My fingers tighten until the glass creaks. “Protected at the top by who?”

Rossi hesitates, and that alone makes my stomach drop. The man doesn’t hesitate.

“That’s the second piece,” he says. “Oleg said Orlov bragged about finally having ‘friends in the house again’ meaning the old house. Old alliances.” His gaze meets mine. “He mentioned a name. Not directly connected, but close enough that I’m notsaying it in this apartment without you knowing exactly what it means.”

Adi straightens. Matteo stops spinning the stool.

“Who?” Adi says.

Rossi’s eyes don’t leave mine. “He said the man keeping you busy, the one making sure your name stays muddy in the papers, is someone who knows your family very well. Someone who knew your father before he changed the rules. He called him ‘the uncle’….”

A cold, familiar dread slides into my veins, heavier than any bourbon.

Uncle.

Matteo frowns. “There’s only one person anyone ever called that around us.”

Adi goes very still. “You think it’s really him?”

“Domenico Bellucci.”

The name lands like a blade, sharp enough to cut through the room.

My mother’s brother.

The man who drifted in and out of our childhood like smoke, always around when things were good, always gone when they weren’t. The uncle who used to ruffle my hair when I was a kid and tell me I had “a king’s spine,” and then disappeared for months without a word. The one my father stopped inviting to holidays long before we were old enough to understand why.

Rossi nods once. “We can’t confirm full involvement yet, but the access lines up. So does the timing. And the language used in the message to the Bratva. If Orlov wanted an inside conduit without touching Mancini leadership directly, Domenico would be the logical choice.”

A sour, metallic taste hits the back of my tongue. Domenico wept at our father’s funeral not four days ago. He looked us inthe eye and offered his respects, all while he was driving a knife under our ribs.

Working with Orlov.

And worse, using an innocent woman to get to us. Yes, she wrote the article, but from what I can see, Isabella had been manipulated from the beginning. But why her?

Adi swears under his breath. Matteo’s jaw locks. The three of us absorb the blow like a shared impact, silent but brutal.

Rossi continues, voice low. “If Orlov is using Domenico as a buffer, it gives him enough distance to make moves without exposing himself. And enough confidence to hit you through the girl. Her article destabilizes you, while Orlov does the rest.”

Through Isabella. Through an innocent.

Through someone who had nothing to do with this war.