Because I had no proof that Igor acted on Raf’s orders. Igor was a ghost with ten different masters. I wasn’t about to start a war on a rumor.
I thought I could control it. Keep an eye on him since we were working so closely together. Maybe even nudge him away from crossing anylines.
A mistake.
A mistake that somehow turned out all right—but a mistake all the same.
By the time Omertà Infernale became Umbra Arcana, it was too late.
Too organized.
Too powerful.
Too… useful for me to make accusations that might not stick.
So I did my own investigation.
I tracked him to Venezuela when he stopped answering my calls. It didn’t take long to realize he was fighting his own demons. I didn’t know everything, but I knew he cared for Sophia. Enough that the contract on Marcello’s head hadn’t come from him.
And I knew one more thing: If I told the others the truth, they would vote to kill Raf first and ask questions never.
And for some godforsaken reason… that bothered me.
Because somewhere along the line, I started to like the bastard.
Now I'm glad he's alive. He'll actually make a damn good Don. If I weren't convinced of that, I would have fed him to the fishes along with Edoardo. Consequences be damned.
The yacht shudders as it slows, the engines humming slowly down into a low growl. We’re all quiet, spent,wired, and not nearly drunk enough for what’s waiting on land. Raf finishes his whiskey and sets the glass down with a soft click, his expression unreadable but sharper somehow. Marcello checks his phone again, jaw working. Enrico stands, restless, pacing. Toni stares out the window like he can see his house from here and will jump into the ocean if he has to.
I don’t have to ask what they’re all thinking.
I know:We weren’t there.
We weren’t there when our women needed us.
That kind of guilt is something every man in this room understands far too well.
When the yacht finally kisses the pier, we move fast. The cold wind slaps me across the face as I step onto the deck, stinging and bracing. Marcello’s coat whips behind him in the breeze. Enrico mutters a dark curse under his breath. Toni clenches his fists like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will. Raf just breathes, a slow, deep breath, one that sounds like a man balancing on the knife-edge between restraint and violence.
The helicopter Toni ordered is already running at the pier, rotor wash blasting the dock with frigid gusts. No one speaks as we climb in. There’s nothing left to say.
As the helicopter lifts, the wind roars around us. From the air, New York looks small, distant, and almost peaceful. But when Toni’s mansion comes into view, the illusion shatters.
It looks like a war zone.
Charred patches scar the lawn. Smoke lifts in thin, bitter ribbons from the hedges. Several cars are wrecked near the drive, one flipped on its side, the others shot to hell. Windows are shattered, debris scattered across the stone courtyard like a battlefield frozen mid-scene.
"Merda…" Marcello whispers.
Enrico inhales sharply. "Holy—Christ…"
Toni’s face goes gray. He grips the seat so tightly his knuckles turn white. This was his house. Hishome. They dared to invade.
Raf's eyes darken with something lethal. "That's a fucking warzone."
No one breathes for a moment.
My heart pounds once—hard—before anger and dread fuse into something cold and surgical, helped by the fact that I know Oksana wasn't harmed. As if…
