I don’t waste time with diplomacy. I take a first inhale of the acid smoke and fill Stephano in. "Camilla is a Voronin; she's Donna Margarita's granddaughter. If Grigori finds and eliminates Alexei… the surviving Cells, the Venezuelans, any of Viktor’s old loyalists, they will gather around her. Willing or not. She will be the heir."
Stephano freezes as my words sink in. He goes completely still. "Holy shit."
"Yes," I whisper. "Holy shit."
"We need to talk to the others," he says immediately.
I shake my head. "No. This is a threat against my brother."
Stephano turns, brows narrowing. "Oksana… you’re La Famiglia now."
"And Grigori is still my brother," I fire back. "By blood. By oath. By everything that made me."
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration thick in every movement.
My voice drops. "There is only one way. Camilla must be eliminated."
His head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. "Fuck no."
"She’s a threat."
"She’s innocent," he snarls. "She doesn’t even know what she is."
I shrug. "Threats don’t need to understand themselves to be dangerous."
He swears under his breath. "We don’t kill women. Italians don’t kill women." He gives me a sideward glance, thinking himself clever, "Neither does Grigori if I recall correctly."
"This wouldn't be any of Grigori's business," I state, before arching an eyebrow. Two can play the game of challenge, buster. "What about Donna Margarita?"
He grimaces. "She… was an exception."
"Oh, now you grow scruples?" I mutter. "Perfect timing, Marito."
His jaw works. "We’re not keeping this from the others."
I sigh. "Fine. But remember, this isn’t just a political issue. This is family."
He softens just enough to kiss my forehead. "And you’re mine."
"And I’m also an Arsenyev," I remind him.
He curses again.
Beautiful.
The men look up as we re-enter the conference room. No one is relaxed, not really. They're too attuned to danger not to read it on our expressions.
Stephano nods to Raf. "There’s something we need to discuss."
The room tightens. Chairs scrape. Attention shifts.
"Camilla," I drop her name into the room, but nobody makes the connection, not yet, so I spell it out, "is a Voronin."
Silence.
Then—
Enrico leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin. "Well. Shit."
