I look at him, all innocence. "What?"
He gives me a look.Next time, a heads-up.
I smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"
A few of them bark out short, disbelieving laughs—more release than humor—but the tension doesn’t lift. If anything, it sharpens.
The table feels too small now. Like we’ve all realized we’ve been sitting on a fault line.
"Okay," Marcello says finally. "So… what else don’t we know?"
"Donna Margarita targeted Leonardo," I let the last pieces click together, meeting their eyes one by one. "That’s what the Internat was—a breeding ground for loyalty. Blood loyalty. So deep that even Viktor’s death didn’t stop it. They’re still carrying out whatever he started."
"But they must all be…" Marcello thinks aloud. "Around Donna Margarita’s age? This happened in… what, the early sixties?"
He’s right, but he forgot something. "They didn’t stay celibate. Your Donna Margarita had what? Four children? None of whom are very cunning, if rumors are true.”
"So you think I’ve got cousins I don’t know about running around?" Raf ignores the barb.
"It’s possible," Stephano answers.
"Well fuck—we’re caught in a decades-old vendetta?" Enrico downs his whiskey and pours another, topping off Toni’s too.
"There’s more. We just haven’t found the missing link yet."
I lean back. "But I know where we’ll get answers."
"Caracas," Raf spits.
"Valverde," Stephano agrees, jaw tight.
Raf rises. "He’s mine."
"Oh?" I give him a sharp, amused look. "Do tell."
The way Raf’s jaw works tells me it’s personal. Stephano and I exchange a glance. My marito burns for revenge just as much as Raf.
The next day…
My house feelsdifferent with her in it. Quieter, yes, but also somehow more alive. Every corridor seems sharper, every shadow more invested. The air tastes crisper, as if the walls themselves have snapped to attention, no longer daring to slouch or creak under Oksana Conti’s command. Oksana Arsenyev… She hasn’t legally changed her name yet, but it’s mine in every way that matters. My wife. The phrase keeps replaying, obsessive and addictive. Sometimes under my breath, sometimes only in my head. My wife.
Security has doubled since she moved in. My most trusted men—fully vetted by Dre and long-acquainted with violence and their own ghosts—patrol the perimeter in shifts, while Oksana's people—all hard-eyed, Slavic,silent as winter—rotate in overlapping rings outside. There’s a slow but steady thaw between the two squads, a professional admiration built on mutual paranoia. Each tests the other with calculated glances, each measuring the other's discipline, the tightening and loosening of grips on sidearms, the way no one ever turns their back on a window. I let them indulge. If anyone gets through that, they deserve the world.
Inside, the rules are as strict but infinitely simpler. I live for her. She lives for herself and, with luck, for me too.
It’s early: sun slanting pale and golden through windows that face east, dust motes rising and falling in the perfect stillness. I’m at the dresser, collar unbuttoned, tie hanging like a leash from my fist. She’s at the mirror, fastening a sheath to her thigh. The sight of her draws me the way gravity draws bodies together. Oksana’s hair catches fire in the light, a brick-red halo that frames her angular face and the faintest of smiles. She’s so beautiful it knocks the air from my lungs every time, but I know better than to say so. Flattery is wasted on her unless it’s edged with something real. Praise is a dead currency unless you can pay up with blood or truth.
But it’s not just the beauty; it’s the strength. The way her arms flex as she tightens the strap, the gleam of white teeth as she tugs a stubborn lock of hair back into its braid. She does everything with lethal efficiency.
She’s still healing, a row of neat black stitches zigzagging low across her ribs, a shiner under one eye that’s alreadyfading to ugly green. In another week, the bruises will be gone, and the scar will be nothing but a pink whisper under her skin.
She catches me staring. Smirks, as if she expected nothing less. "Enjoying the view, Marito?"
"Always," I say, and it’s true. It will always be true.
She laughs, low and throaty, and finishes her braid. It’s a war-cry of femininity, a challenge to every bastard who’s ever underestimated her. I watch her slide the blade into her boot, the motion as delicate as setting a gemstone. It reminds me of something, and I remember the small case stashed in the back of my sock drawer. It’s been burning a hole in my consciousness since it arrived.
The ring she bought herself as a wedding band has been a sore in my side ever since she put the damn thing on. I'd love nothing better than to pour acid over it.
