"Say it," I demand. "Tell me."
She spits in my mouth, jade green eyes locked on mine. "I belong to myself," she cries, every syllable shattering. "But you—fuck, you own my goddamn soul."
I come so hard my vision goes black around the edges. Oksana is right there with me, clenching around my cock like an iron vice, then trembling, boneless, beneath me. I collapse on her, nose buried in her tangle of hair, lungs seizing for air.
Minutes pass. Maybe years. When I finally roll off, I’m still half inside her, and her hand never leaves my wrist. She kisses my jaw, gently, a counterpoint to the savagery of just moments ago.
"Promise me you’ll haunt me if you die first," she whispers, voice raw.
"Not a chance," I say. "We go out together."
She laughs, head on my chest, and I swear I could stay in this bed, inside this woman, for the rest of my life. Even if the world ends around us, maybe especially.
The sky outside glows an unreal peach, morning or dusk, impossible to tell at this altitude. Beside me, Oksana purrs, already plotting her next move. I know there’ll be more blood, more betrayals, maybe more pain than either of us can bear. But for right now, it’s only this: her skin stuck to mine, her wild heart caged against my ribs, her breath warm and alive in my ear.
Let the world burn. I’m bringing her with me, wherever we land.
A couple of hours, a shower, and a light dinner later, the jet dips. Mexico City’s dark seam is opening beneath us, oceans of light interrupted by the black teeth of mountains. I watch it come, my pulse holds steady, while my father calls again.
I powered through the last thirty in silence. I intend for number thirty-one to get the same treatment.
"Put it on speaker," Oksana says.
"No."
"Steph." Her voice lands low, steel wrapped in velvet. "Let me hear the enemy."
"He’s my father."
"Exactly."
I set the phone face-up and take the call.
"What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?" Gustave’s voice detonates in the cabin. The old Conti thunder, polished in boardrooms and back rooms, now frayed. "You drag my soldiers out of New York like thieves in the night. You point our guns south. You force Edoardo’s hand. Do you want a war with Caracas? With Edoardo? With me?"
"I'm going to finish what you started three years ago when you put my brother into Don Silvestre's hands like he was nothing." I press out.
There’s a short, stunned quiet, the kind you get when a man misses the obvious step on a staircase.
"What is done is done, let's move on," he grits.
"You keep saying that." I glance at Oksana. She’s watching me, unreadable and very much the reason I’m not breaking the phone right now. "But the ledger in Caracas says otherwise. Your payments say otherwise."
"Careful," Gustave warns, and there’s the other voice, cool and lethal. "You walk a fine line, Ragazzo."
"Then get off the other end of it," I say, and end the call.
The silence afterward isn’t peace. It’s a held breath. Oksana reaches into the seat pocket and takes out a black case.
"My men at the hospital checked in," she says, opening it. Inside, there’s a minimalist pistol, a line of spare mags, two micro radios, a stack of crisp pesos, and paperwork. "They have your brother on a quiet floor. Private guard rotation.
"Two local cops on Valverde’s payroll tried to get past the door. They lost the desire."
"How quiet?"
"Quiet enough for a saint to sleep. Too quiet for me." She tucks one radio into my palm. "We will not go straight to the hotel."
The jet kisses down and rolls. Heat fogs the window when the door opens; the first breath tastes like jet fuel and dust and a city that’s always awake. We move fast—no customs line, no eyes that we can’t buy—down the stairs and into the armored Suburban waiting beyond the wing.
