He bristles. Good. I want him sharp, not complacent.
"Grigori’s no fool," he states flatly.
"Nobody would ever accuse him of that," I agree. "In fact, he’s known to kill first and not ask questions later. So you might want to consider yourself lucky that I’m here and not him."
Grigori wouldn’t hesitate to kill anybody, friend or not—and Toni knows it. My brother believes in preemptive strikes. Steph’s hand finds mine under the table, a small anchor. His thumb brushes once against my skin—enough. He’s right. Toni and Grigori have their own business together. Threatening him isn’t in Grigori’s best interest.
Stephano turns to the others, diffusing the static in the air. "We found some of the connection points. The Caracas accounts go through churches like Cappella del Corvo and St. Vladimir, and several satellite Cells feeddata up the chain. Each Cell leader knows only a piece of the structure."
Enrico frowns. "You’re saying the Venezuelans have turned La Famiglia into a network of blind couriers?"
"Exactly. And they’ve been sending information back to Caracas."
"Why?" Toni asks, leaning back in his chair.
Stephano doesn’t hesitate. "What we found is actually a two-way assault—on the Bratva and us. We just don’t know yet how it connects."
Toni waves his hand impatiently, like he expects a presentation. It makes me bristle. But Stephano squeezes my hand again.
"So on one side, we have Donna Margarita and Igor Pavlov. On the other side, the Venezuelans. The Venezuelans have been trying to get their foot in New York for decades."
"Through Donna Margarita and her lover Silvestre," Raf specifies.
It’s Enrico who answers. "That, and we also know our boy here"—he pats Raf’s shoulder; Raf looks like he’d rather remove the hand—"has impressive parentage: Leonardo Zanello and Donna Margarita."
Stephano whistles through his teeth, and I raise an eyebrow. That, I did not see coming—and there’s not much in this world I miss.
"Impressive," Stephano nods at Raf, who raises his glass in a mock cheer. He doesn’t look eager to claim the lineage. Good.
The next hour is spent exchanging information. Looks like the others weren’t idle while Stephano and I risked our lives in Mexico. Once all the pieces are on the table, you’d think it would be easier to see the puzzle. It’s not.
Silence reigns until Marcello shifts forward, suspicion tempered but not gone. "So you’re not just talking about removing Edoardo. You’re talking about restructuring the entire chain of command of La Famiglia."
"Yes," Stephano returns simply. "We purge them all. Edoardo. Gustave. Every underboss with Venezuelan money in his pocket. Then we rebuild."
Toni snorts. "You make it sound so easy."
Stephano’s eyes cut to him. "It’s not easy. It’s necessary."
He’s calm when he says it, but I can feel what’s underneath—anger sharpened into purpose. He’s already gone to war. The others just haven’t caught up.
Raf watches him, then me. There’s quiet understanding there. We’ve worked together multiple times over the years—starting back when I was a whisper in Moscow’s darker corners, and he was a low-level soldier, cleaning blood off New York’s pavement. He hides recognition well, but I don’t bother pretending.
"You already know me," I say, turning to him.
He doesn’t flinch. "As much as you’d allow anyone to."
I chuckle. "Fair enough. So tell them."
He sighs. "Oksana’s not just Bratva royalty. She’s… efficient."
Marcello bites. "Efficient?"
"She kills efficiently," Stephano clarifies.
No one laughs. They’ve heard rumors. Raf is only confirming them. Confirming me and my place at this table.
Enrico’s gaze sharpens. "Then tell me something, Oksana. Are you one of these Venezuelan Cells?"
