I stroll forward, and the weight of the thumb drive in my pocket feels like a pulse. I pull it out and toss it onto the table. It lands with a softclack, but the sound cuts through the tension like a blade. "Here’s the ammunition to shut Edoardo down for good," I explain. "Courtesy of my brother, who, by the way, isn’t dead."
The silence after that sentence is the kind you can build an empire on. Raf’s jaw tightens, just slightly. Toni’s fingers curl around his glass. Enrico glances at Marcello like he’s waiting to see who draws first.
I take the seat nearest the end of the table, one arm draped across the backrest, like none of this weighs anything. "All his dealings with the Venezuelans—emails, bank records, coded drops. Even earlyties through Donna Margarita and our good buddy Ledyanoy Prizrak."
That name drops like a curse. I see Raf’s eyes sharpen at it. I don’t flinch. I wait for them to connect the dots. I came here to hand them the detonator.
"I know, I know…" I gesture vaguely with one hand, smirking. "I’m the groom. I should be getting the gifts."
My thumb grazes the edge of my ring. "But Oksana here—" I tilt my head toward her "—convinced me it was time I got generous."
She smiles, soft and dangerous, resting her hand on the table beside mine. The rings catch the light together, twin promises made during the storm of the century.
I look around the table. "What can I say? Marriage changes a man."
Raf doesn’t speak. No one does. The silence stretches long enough to feel like a challenge.
Fine. Let them stare.
They can wonder what happened in Mexico. They can guess how far I’ve fallen or how much I’ve built since. They can look into my eyes and see exactly how little of the old Stephano Conti is left.
I smile anyway; it's time to cut the tension. "What?" I deadpan. "What did I miss?"
The room exhales. Just barely. I can feel Oksana’s pulsesteady under her skin beside me. It beats in sync with mine—two storms, one war.
Whatever’s about to happen next, we’re here for it. Together.
And I have a feeling by the time this meeting ends, none of them will ever underestimate our husband-and-wife act again.
The room is expensively decoratedand looks like Raf's taste. Steel, partnered with soft leather, all angles and modern accents. I stay quiet while they look between Stephano and me, measuring whether we’re an interruption or an answer. Stephano’s still, that perfect Conti control draped over a storm. He lets them come to him, lets silence do what force can’t.
Raf moves first. He studies the thumb drive on the table like it’s a relic. "Your brother gave you this?"
"He’s alive," Stephano confirms. "Nico was held captive in Caracas for three years, but he got solid intel from them. Oksana and I added to it."
Raf doesn’t look my way, but I can feel his respect. "Bottom line? The Venezuelans have infiltrated us with internal Cells."
Enrico leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Inside your house?"
Stephano meets his gaze and corrects, "Ours. Yours. Everyone’s."
A muscle jumps in his jaw, small but telling. "Gustave was paying Valverde’s people directly. We have transfers. Accounts. I didn’t want to believe it, but I saw his signature in the ledger. He’s not just compromised; he’s the Venezuelans’ puppet. So I’m done pretending blood makes loyalty. Edoardo goes down first, but Gustave follows."
He doesn't mention that Gustave tried to kill both of his sons. Some things aren’t meant for public consumption. Still, his words land like a gunshot.
Toni whistles low, a grim smile on his face. "You’re planning to burn your own father."
Stephano meets his gaze evenly. "I’m planning to clean my house."
Raf breaks the tension, tipping back his glass with a half-grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "So that’s why you came home married and breathing fire."
When neither Stephano nor I respond, Toni tilts his head. "And what exactly areyoudoing here,Signora Conti? The Bratva doesn’t usually play counselor for our family problems."
I smile, polite and cold. "I’m not here to play anything. I’m here because the infection in your house has spreadinto mine. The Venezuelans don’t just have cells inside La Famiglia—they’ve infiltrated the Bratva as well. So whether you like me here or not, we’re in the same war."
His expression tightens, but he doesn’t look away. "Bratva as in here in the city, or has this crossed the ocean?"
"Oh, it crossed the ocean decades ago, in the form of your Donna Margarita. So, considering your business with Grigori, you might want to make sure you’re not exporting the problem along with the product."
