"The hell you will." Stephano is on his feet in an instant, chair scraping back hard enough to scream. His voice cracks through the room, iron and fury. "Silvestre is mine. He shot atmywife."
The temperature drops. Raf straightens too, stepping into the space like he owns it. Because in many ways, he does. "And Aurelio belongs to me."
The three of them square off—Italian steel, Russian winter, old blood and new—measuring distance, intent, consequence. Power lines drawn so tight they hum.
Great,I think.This is so not how I wanted my brother and my husband to meet.
For a split second, it feels like the room might tear itself apart on ego alone.
Then Grigori smiles. Not friendly. Not amused. Interested.
"So," he says lightly, eyes flicking between them. "You’ve finally decided to act."
He turns his attention back to Edoardo, like the others aren’t even there. "Now," he says, "we clean it up. Together. Or you stay out of the fucking way while competent people do."
Edoardo looks at me for help.
I meet his gaze, unblinking. "You don’t want another incident like this," I tell him quietly. "Trust me."
He nods. Once. Sharp. Submissive—whether he understands it or not.
And just like that, the hierarchy settles.
For now.
As we file out, Grigori falls into step beside me.
"You handled that well," he murmurs.
"Someone had to," I reply.
He smirks. "You always were the reasonable one."
I don’t correct him. Because reason looks an awful lot like control tonight.
The next day…
If I hadn’t already been seton exterminating the Venezuelan cartel, I would be now after the stunt they pulled on Oksana and Grigori yesterday. Not that I care if something happens to the Russian Pakhan.
But Oksana?
She’s my wife.
My life.
The reason I keep moving forward instead of drowning in the rage my father left behind. Nobody—nobody—puts her into their crosshairs without paying a price for it.
A steep one.
I wish I hadn’t promised Raffael he could have Aurelio. Because right now? I want to rip the bastard’s heart outwith my bare hands. It took the act of a saint—a role I would have never suspected Oksana capable of—to talk Grigori into staying back. She did it without pleading or theatrics. Just cold math and a promise whispered in Russian that involved time, knives, and pieces of flesh carved slowly from both Valverde men. Grigori accepted it the way he accepts most things: with a smile that meansyou owe me.
The jet hums beneath my feet as we cut south. The flight to Caracas is quiet but tense, vibrating with the kind of anticipation that feels like a fuse burning toward dynamite. No one speaks. No one needs to.
Raf sits across from me, arms folded, eyes locked on the dark beyond the window. He’s gone very still, the way a snake does when it’s decided where to strike and is just waiting for the moment its prey stops paying attention.
I’ve seen him like this before. Focused. Deadly. Planning who to kill first.
At the front of the plane are our soldiers. Raf assured us it would be better to keep a low profile, so there are only six of them with us.
