Afterwards, he collapses beside me. There’s sweat and spit and maybe a little blood smeared between us. I’m still panting, but he draws circles on my shoulder, soft and tender, as if to apologize for the utter hell he just put me through. I’d punch him if I could feel my arms.
"Slow enough?" He teases.
"Next time, you’re the one begging," I rasp, but there’s no venom in it.
He laughs, and it’s warm, real, nothing like the facade he wears for everyone else. "I look forward to it."
We lay there, bodies tangled, not talking, not moving, just… alive.
The next day…
The conference roomat Zanello Tower feels different. Not because of a change in furnishings—Raf kept everything exactly as it was, like he wanted Edoardo’s ghost to sit here and watch what real leadership looks like—but because the air itself is charged. Sharper. Cleaner. More dangerous, yes, but in a purposeful way.
For the first time in a long time, La Famiglia feels… aligned. Not perfect. But pointed in the right direction.
Raf sits at the head of the table, unapologetically comfortable in the seat Edoardo abused for years. The weight suits him. He looks like a man born for the throne, even if he never intended to take it.
Enrico sits to his right, next to Fabrizio. Marcello to his left. Toni across. And me, with Oksana beside me.
A first.
A woman at this table.
And not a single man has objected.
Not after what she did.
Not after she saved their wives.
No one even blinks when she pulls out her laptop and starts connecting to Raf’s encrypted network, legs crossed, unbothered, sharp as a blade.
Good.
She belongs here more than half the men who ever sat at this table before her. And yet… I know what this means. Grigori will test her loyalty. He’d be a fool not to, and he’s the furthest thing from a fool. He’ll want to know if his sister serves him or me first.
And Oksana?
She’ll meet that test head-on. She’ll carve her own answer out of whoever he sends. But I’d be lying if I said the thought doesn’t sit in my chest like a cold stone.
The wedding will come soon, Russians and Italians under one roof. Vodka and wine. Tradition and chaos. Old grudges and new alliances.
God help us. God help them even more.
Raf clears his throat, and the room falls silent. "Gentlemen. And Oksana," he adds, with a faint smile he doesn’tbother hiding. "Welcome to the first official council meeting of the new regime."
Marcello chuckles. "Regime. Sounds dramatic."
"You have met me, sì?" Raf deadpans.
The room relaxes a fraction.
He looks around the table. "Before we get into restructuring, a note. Fabrizio has formally retired and put Enrico in charge of the Sartori interests."
There’s no shock. Everyone nods. Enrico squeezes his father’s shoulder, pride and sadness mixing on his face.
"And," Raf continues, "Oksana Arsenyev-Conti joins us officially as head of cyber operations and covert intelligence."
No murmurs.
