With the old man dead, the Valverde organization will collapse the way these things always do, slowly at first, then all at once. Lieutenants turning on each other. Brothers killing brothers. Everyone scrambling to be the king of a corpse. Caracas will drown in its own ambition. Unless Alexei steps forward, ignoring his Russian inheritance and claiming Venezuela as his birthright with the last of the Valverde blood in his veins.
As I move through the house one last time, something catches my eye. It’s nothing obvious. That’s what bothers me. A photograph left face down on a side table. I flip it without thinking. It's a picture of Nico, smiling, relaxed, arm slung around Aurelio’s shoulder like they’re cousins at a wedding. Two women with them, one laughing mid-motion. Champagne flutes. Night lights.
I tuck the photo back where it was, pulse steady, mind not. Nico said enough. He told us plenty. And yet?—
In a corridor upstairs, I pass a room I’ve seen before. Nico’s room, I realize. Spacious. Tasteful. Too tasteful. Books in Italian, English, Spanish, and Russian. A boxing bag with fresh tape. A jacket folded on the chair like someone intended to come back for it.
Not a cell.
A suite.
It means nothing. It means everything. I don’t know yet. But the thought settles under my ribs and refuses to move.
The next afternoon…
Grigori’s palacelooks like a Tsar got bored, robbed half of Moscow, and built a fortress on the ruins. Gold. Marble. Velvet. And underneath it all: weapons, paranoia, and ghosts.
Oksana walks beside me, perfectly at ease among the excess. Of course she is; this is how she grew up. Raised in opulence sharp enough to cut a man’s fingers. A childhood built on crystal chandeliers and blood-soaked expectations. A girl pampered like a Tsarina while learning to slit throats before she learned to ride a bike. It makes who she became even more remarkable.
I think of Mexico, the dirt, the heat, the broken-down safehouses. How she’d sat cross-legged on a crate, eating tamales with her bare hands and laughing like she’d been doing it her whole life. This woman could dine offimperial gold at an emperor’s table or eat street food on a roadside curb with the same unbothered grace and not appear like a diva or a snob. She wasn't shaped by the luxury she was raised in. She adapted. Her untamed spirit survived the oppressive expectations of her father, and she became a legend.
She dominates regardless of the setting. She is the most astounding person I’ve ever met. And somehow… she’s mine.
I keep my expression neutral, but my senses are razor-sharp. This is enemy territory—family territory—but enemy until proven otherwise.
Grigori stops at the foot of the staircase, crosses his arms, and looks me over with slow, deliberate amusement.
"Well," he says in heavily accented English, "you owe me."
I raise a brow. "I do?"
He nods like it’s obvious. "In Bratva tradition, the brother receives a bride price. Compensation for losing a valuable asset."
Oksana groans under her breath. I tell myself not to smile. Grigori gestures to her with an open palm. "She is my only sister. My best soldier. My headache. You pay."
I give him a slow smirk. "Bride price isn’t Italian."
He shrugs. "You are married to a Russian now. You will adapt."
I take a step forward, enjoyingthe spark of irritation tightening his jaw.
"How much is it worth to you," I ask, "for me taking her off your hands?"
Oksana freezes. "Stephano?—"
But Grigori taps his chin thoughtfully.
"She is valuable," he muses. "Efficient. Clever. Good with knives. Requires supervision?—"
"I do not require supervision," Oksana snaps.
I shrug. "You do."
"Unbelievable," she mutters.
Grigori continues, ignoring her. "Also homicidal when angry. Maybe double the price."
I chuckle. "You drive a hard bargain."
