The question doesn’t sting. It’s predictable. I look straight at him. "If I were, you’d already be dead."
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. Accepting it. I turn to Raf. "Are you?"
"Same answer," he replies, cold as steel.
The tension shifts—not gone, but different. Less suspicion. More strategy.
Raf stands, grabs a crystal decanter of Blue Label, and refills glasses as he speaks. "So we agree on the enemy. The Venezuelans through Edoardo and Gustave. And the ones sitting quietly inside all our families. But what about the old ghosts? Donna Margarita. Igor."
Stephano glances at me. Offering the floor. I take it.
"Donna Margarita and Igor were half-siblings," I begin, keeping my voice flat. "Their mothers gave birth and were sent packing. We’ll get to them later. Both were Viktor Voronin’s bastards—along with several others. When they were sixteen, they ran away from the Internat." I shrug. "Nobody runs from Viktor Voronin. Not really."
Marcello interrupts, "Internat?"
"It's a place where the kids were held andeducated," I explain, giving the short version.
"Hold on," Raf interrupts next. "Viktor Voronin—he was the Bratva Pakhan before your father?"
I take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and nod. Arrogant Italian bastards. Wouldn't have hurt them one bit to read up on the Bratva history. I know everything about Cosa Nostra's history; well, I thought I did. But these men are too arrogant for their own good. They have no idea how much they need me.
Stephano looks amused, like he can read my thoughts, and I continue with a bit of annoyance in my voice. "Yes. They stayed close afterward—how, we don’t know. You all know what Donna Margarita became. Igor worked under a different name for the KGB until the USSR fell. After that… he went freelance."
"So Donna Margarita had a beef with Leonardo?" Toni asks. "Why?"
"Because he was married to her mother? Because he dropped her after she was taken by Viktor Voronin?" I retort.
Toni sets his glass down. Slowly. "What?"
"Yeah," I say lightly. "That part was kept very hush-hush. Viktor raised her, so it looked like Donna Margarita simply married into the family. I’m not even convinced Leonardo knew she was his dead wife’s daughter."
I add it casually—too casually—and can’t help the flicker of smug satisfaction at the stunned looks around the table. Even Raf looks caught off guard. Stephano stares at me. Surprised. Annoyed. Proud. He shakes his head. I wink. A girl can’t give upallher secrets at once. That would make any marriage boring.
Truth is, I haven’t been sitting on this long. I had downtime on the plane and finally went through the rest of the files Anita sent me, the full dossier on Donna Margarita I’d been saving forlater. And, surprise, surprise, there it was: The smoking gun.
Donna Margarita’s mother.
Caterine Bellini. Also known as Caterine Zanello.
She was married to Don Leonardo briefly—very briefly—before Viktor abducted her. Raped her. Got her pregnant—his MO, because he had the power and nobody could stop him it must have been one hell of a bad time for La Famiglia, no wonder there is so much bad blood between the Italians and us—he returnedher only after she gave birth to Margarita. Leonardo never forgave her. He shunned her publicly. Declared her damaged goods. She didn’t survive it.
The story was buried deep. Decades deep. I doubt many people left in La Famiglia even remember it, assuming they ever knew. And I’d bet no one remembered the baby’s name. Much less connected the dots.
For a beat, no one speaks. Then the room goes off.
"That’s—" Marcello starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair. "How the hell did we not know this?"
"Because no one wanted to," Enrico snaps. "Jesus Christ."
Toni exhales hard, staring into his glass like it might explain things. "You’re telling us the most dangerous woman in La Famiglia was Don Leonardo’s wife’s daughter—and we all just… missed it?"
I tilt my head, watching it ripple through them. Confusion. Anger. Embarrassment. A little fear. "You didn’t miss it," I say mildly. "It was buried. On purpose."
Raf’s jaw tightens. I glance at him, unable to help myself. "You know," I add, almost kindly, "you have one hell of a parentage."
His eyes snap to mine.
Stephano clears his throat. Sharp. A warning. "Oksana."
