"Gianluigi?" Stephano’s voice detonates. Not disbelief, pure betrayal, sharpened into a blade. "You fucking bastard."
Gianluigi tries to skitter across the floor towards the gun. I realign—clean, finishing angle, no hesitation—because traitors don’t get second chances in my world.
"Oksana, no," Stephano snaps, and his palm lands hot on my wrist. "Hold. We need information."
I grind my molars. I want to end this. I want his blood to drench the carpet as it flows out of my husband’s life. ButI lower the barrel a hair, enough to make room for a miracle or a confession.
Gianluigi spits pink, laughs a little, hates a lot. "Your father says you always were sentimental."
"Say another word about him," Stephano says, low and lethal, "and you’ll sing through a hole in your throat."
I pick up Gianluigi's weapon and press a towel hard into his shoulder. He hisses. The stain blooms like a black flower on white.
"Up," I order. "You can walk or be dragged."
He tests the arm, goes gray, and nearly faints. Wimp.
Stephano eyes are fire and ash. I know that look. It’s the moment before the match meets the fuse. The door bursts wide—Ettoro first, gun leveled, Sasha right behind him—thunderclouds in suits.
"What happened?" Ettoro barks.
"A damn traitor," I answer, already moving. "That’s what."
Sasha takes Gianluigi's other side without ceremony. "We go now."
"Jet," Stephano orders. Clipped and commanding. "He’ll tell us what we need to know on the way home."
We don’t bother with explanations or apologies to the hotel. Money talks in all languages. More guards flank us down the hallway, and the elevatorgets too crowded for my taste. Gianluigi tries to smirk through pain and fails. The thought that he could have killed my marito sends a wave of hot anger through me, and I shoulder him hard into his wound. He nearly goes down, but Ettoro catches him. Stephano gives me a questioning look, and I shrug.
In the lobby, people pretend not to see us. Mexico City knows when to look at its shoes. Outside, the Suburban crouches at the curb like a patient animal.
"Load him," Stephano orders. Sasha folds Gianluigi into the back seat like luggage you hate.
Ettoro takes the wheel. I slide in beside Stephano, thigh to thigh, heat to heat. He doesn’t look at me, not yet, but his hand finds my knee and squeezes once, gratitude, apology, promise, all of it in a single press.
I let myself breathe.
"Marito," I murmur, quiet enough for just us.
He nods, jaw tight. "We'll find out what he has to say first, then we'll open the drive," he suggests, meaning Gianluigi, meaning answers.
The Suburban pulls into traffic, and the city pours around us like a river that can’t decide which way is down. I watch our rearview for the next ghost. None appears. Not yet.
Gianluigi glares at the floor mat like it offended him. And my husband—mio marito—is burning cold beside me, ready to turn the sky into a thousand tornadoes.
Love? Yes. I think that’s the name of the thing that makes me reach over, lace my fingers with his, and smile like we haven’t just declared war on a continent.
"Let’s go to work," I say.
"Work," he echoes, and the word sounds like a threat and a vow.
We head for the airport. The day isn’t even half over. Perfect.
Not even half an hour later, we're on the jet. Which, by the way, is ridiculous. Not surprising—it’s Stephano—but still ridiculous. It’s all gleaming chrome, stitched leather, and quiet power. The kind of wealth that doesn’t need to show itself but can’t resist doing it anyway. Everything hums at a frequency that saysmoneyandlegacy,andI own the sky. The aisle carpet is the color of espresso, so thick, my boots leave no sound. The cream seats are wide and buttery, each one with its own control screen that could probably fly a smaller plane. Polished walnut runs along the cabin walls like a river of dark honey, interrupted by brass trim and the occasional flash of glass. There’s a bar at the back—cut crystal, a bottle of Dalmore that probably costs more than my first kill—and a compartment I already found out hides a weapons locker. And the bedroom, of course.
My pussy begins a low throb at the thought of the things Steph and I did in there just twenty-four hours ago. I check the time and wonder if there will be enough of it for a repeat.
Stephano’s taste lives in every inch of this aircraft: elegant, ruthless, and understated until you look closely and realize the details are surgical. No clutter. No sentiments. Precision disguised as comfort.
