I grip Toni’s forearm as he hauls me in. I pivot, firing past him to cover Grigori. He finishes off the last two men and leaps, landing inside with a grunt.
He’s bleeding too. No one says a word about it.
"I hope your helicopter is bulletproof," I mutter, settling into the seat.
Toni gives us both a look like I'm joking, but I'm not. "You should tell your brother to get you one. He's bought at least five hundred of them already from me."
"Yeah, but he only received ten." I counter.
Grigori and Toni are using his helicopter business as a front. Each chopper costs a million; nobody asks if Grigori actually receives the choppers. All that matters to the government is that it collects its taxes. That's howToni washes the money Grigori actually pays for Enrico's arms. Cleanly laundered money. Genius.
The chopper rises fast, banking hard as gunfire rains up from below. I glance around the interior and blink.
"This… is a helicopter?" I ask.
It looks like a private jet. Leather seats. Bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. Gleaming wood panels. Soft lighting.
Toni shrugs. "What? I like to fly in comfort."
Grigori whistles low. "Stephano sent you? I might let that husband of yours live."
"You?" Toni scoffs. "You kill people who annoy you."
Grigori stares him dead in the eyes. "You’re very annoying."
Toni chuckles, "Noted."
Grigori smirks again. "So, Stephano knew you’d be here?" he looks at me while pouring drinks like we didn’t just barely escape a shootout with our lives. "He put a tail on you?"
Toni nods. "Yeah. Lucky for you, I was just landing at theoffice. No biggie."
Grigori looks impressed. Actually impressed. Meanwhile, I'm debating if I should be pissed that Stephano had me trailed and I didn't notice—I did disconnect the tracker on the car. Shit, the car. He's not going to be happy about his Bugatti. Maybe I should let the surveillance tail slide.
"I’m curious how he snuck a tail on you," Grigori won't let it slide.
I glare, fury heating my blood. But beneath the anger—there’s something else.
Warmth.
Appreciation.
A fierce, inconvenient happiness.
"Me too," I mutter, taking the drink Grigori hands me.
We’re alive.
We’re armed.
And the damn Venezuelans just made one big mistake: They didn't finish the job they weresent to do.
Zanello Tower was builtto impress. To intimidate. To me, it’s just one of those male things, too pristine, too arrogant, too eager to be admired. Too much glass. Too much light. The kind of place men build when they want to convince themselves they’re legitimate.
Tonight, it feels like a stage. Polished floors. Muted city glow. Too many people pretending they aren’t here to watch someone bleed.
After the shitshow earlier, Grigori demanded a meeting with La Famiglia. Not requested. Demanded. And when the Pakhan of the New York Bratva calls, people show up.
So here we are.
