“I’ve had enough of your hospitality, Dario Voss,” he said coolly. “Take your brothers and leave my house.”
The dismissal was deliberate.
Calculated.
I gripped Dario tighter, my nails biting into his sleeve. He glanced down at me briefly—checking, always checking—before lifting his gaze back to Ruslan.
“Let her spend one week with us in New York,” Dario said.
A plea wrapped in steel.
“I’ll bring her back myself. You have my word. It’s a plea, Ruslan—not a command.”
The room held its breath.
Ruslan’s fist tightened slowly until his knuckles blanched white beneath the blood.
“My wife stays with me,” he said.
Wife.
Possession.
“Unless,” he continued calmly, “you want war.”
Luca shifted his weight slightly.
Ethan’s jaw hardened.
Ruslan leaned forward, voice lowering into something colder.
“Unless you want me to summon every battalion I have in Greece. In Europe. Unless you want me to turn New York—and this entire stretch of California—into ash.”
The threat was not loud.
That made it worse.
“No mafia family in the States wants to taste the wrath of Ruslan Baranov,” he added. “I didn’t earn the name Greek Legend by playing nice.”
The title hung there.
A reputation carved in blood and fire.
He let the silence stretch.
Then, softly:
“For the last time... get out of my house. All of you.”
Something inside me snapped.
I broke away from Dario and rushed to Ethan.
“What deal did you make with him?” I signed frantically.
My hands moved too fast, fingers stumbling over each other.
Ethan’s eyes flicked away.
