I grab his finger, "I'm not the one who has broken this family; that's on you. I'm the one who is willing to pick up the pieces and put them back together. The right way."
We stare at each other. From my peripheral vision, I see some of our men pouring into the room. Men I've worked with. Drunk with. Killed with. The indecision on their faces is almost painful to look at. They don’t know whether to obey him or me. For their sakes, I tell Gustave, "I think you’d better leave."
"I see." He nods, straightening his jacket with that elegant disdain he’s perfected over decades. He glares at Oksana one more time—petty, venomous—then walks out.
I should feel triumphant.
I don’t.
I feel tired.
I feel older.
Like something in me has cracked instead of been crowned. I think of Nico on the bed two doors down, alive but fragile as a promise, and owed more than the price we paid. I think of the choices I made last night, the lines I crossed, and the ones I’m going to have to cross again.
And suddenly, the title of capo doesn’t feel like power. It feels like a blade balanced on my palm—sharp, hungry, wanting blood. My blood. My father’s. Someone’s. A weight I once thought I could carry because it sounded like destiny now feels heavy enough to bend bone.
A nurse leans into the doorway. "He should be waking up soon," she says quietly.
I nod. Something in me unclenches, just a fraction. The monitor in my head slows one notch. I close my eyes and feel Oksana’s thumb glide over my knuckles, grounding me, anchoring me in a world that’s suddenly too sharp.
Around us, the hospital hums awake, rotors, carts, murmurs of exhausted staff. The soft, stubborn music of people who refuse to stop working to keep one more life from going dark. And in that sound, in her touch, in the aftermath of turfing my father out of the room like the past no longer owns me, I feel it: The man I was yesterday couldn’t have done this. The man I am now has no choice. A king doesn’t get to hesitate. A king doesn’t get to hope.
A king does whatever it takes.
And God help whoever stands in my way.
"You needto gather the men loyal to you. Not to your father. To you." I advise Stephano as soon as we're alone in Nico's room, where he is still out cold like Sleeping Beauty.
Stephano runs a hand through his hair.
"Your father is going to fight you," I warn. Son or not, I saw the coldness in the old man's eyes. He's one of those men who doesn’t care if the world around them collapses as long as they still stand. He's already shown that he's willing to put his blood in harm's way; I'm sure he won't hesitate to have Stephano killed, and that thought… disturbs me. I'm not ready to be a widow before we even say our vows. Maybe I should be working on becoming his wife first. Just in case…
I don't have all the puzzle pieces yet; some lie scattered around, but I'm positive we'll find them, and when we do,I'm also positive the picture won't be pretty. Not a peaceful landscape, but a bloody abstract. If I were a different person, I would feel sorry for Stephano, but I'm not, so I do what I do best: strategize.
"He knew," Stephano ponders, still fighting disbelief.
"I know a thing or two about figuring out who your father really is," I admit. And add something I've never told anyone; damn, this man is getting under my skin in ways I never thought possible. "When I was a little girl, my Papa was my whole world. He adored me; he called me his Moya devochka. There was nothing he wouldn't do for me. So when I was ten, I told him one day I would be one of his soldiers, maybe even his Silovik—enforcer." I grimace at the memory of a naïve little girl wanting nothing but to please her papa. "You know what he said?" I don't wait for Stephano to reply. "He told me that he loved me, but that my only value to the Bratva lay between my legs. That one day I'd be useful to him as a wife to someone he wanted to make an ally. As far as soldiers were concerned, he had plenty and a son."
Outrage and pain for me war in Stephano’s eyes with an understanding that can only be shared in our worlds, but I wave him off. "That day, I lost all my illusions about my papa. Da, he loved me, but he would still only do what was best for the Bratva; he would marry me to whoever offered the best deal. So I decided to prove him wrong. And I did. He still loved me after, and I still loved him, but it wasn't the same. Never again did I look at him withthe adoring eyes of a daughter, and he never again looked at me as a devoted father."
I shrug. "I understand crossroads, Stephano. And you're at one now. You either become the man you were meant to be, or you stay your father's pawn."
Anger sparks in his eyes. Good. That's what I want. "I've never been his pawn."
I arch an eyebrow, purposefully goading him, "Da?"
He rubs the back of his neck. "I'll find which men are loyal to me, but Oksana, I don’t know if I can fight against my own family. Against loyal men."
I step forward, grab his lapels, and look him in the eye. "I know you can."
Determination sets in. He changes, right in front of my eyes. From the moment I first saw him, I knew he was a force to be reckoned with, that he was his own man, but now he's turning into a capo, ruthless to the bone. He will do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of the rot that has been haunting La Famiglia for decades, and it seems the Bratva too. Neither of us knows who it is, but we have a common enemy, and we're going to fight him or her together. Even if they're only ghosts now.
"I have men; they're yours to use," I offer. An offer I've never made to anybody.
A slight smile tugs at the corners of his lips, "What about Grigori, doesn't he get a say in that?"
I shake my head, "Those aremymen."
