"The one that means we're not going to like whatever comes next."
Pietro takes a bite of frittata, chews slowly, swallows. The man could weaponize silence. "Mamma is coming to stay for a while."
My fork clatters against my plate. "What?"
"She called this morning. Her flight lands Thursday."
Aria Sartori. My mother. The woman who raised six children in a world of blood and bullets, then retreated to Sicily after my brother's death to live with her also widowed sister.
"For how long?" Lorenzo's voice is carefully neutral.
"She didn't specify."
Wonderful.Because what this household needs is more emotional landmines. More secrets to keep. More pretending that everything is fine while the foundation cracks beneath our feet.
My life is a house of cards, and someone just announced a windstorm.
Fantastic.
Dmitri
The monitors beep in a steady rhythm that sounds too much like a countdown.
My father's bedroom smells like a hospital room does. Two nurses hover near the medical equipment that's transformed hismaster suite into a hospital ward. Machines track his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, his slow march toward death.
Alexei Baganov lies propped against silk pillows, his once-powerful frame diminished but his eyes still sharp as broken glass. Cancer doesn't give a shit about power or legacy. It takes what it wants.
"Leave us," he says to the nurses.
They scatter without argument. Even dying, my father commands instant obedience.
I close the door and cross to the chair beside his bed. The leather creaks as I sit. "You wanted to see me."
"Sit." He waves a thin hand. "Don't hover like a vulture."
"Already sitting."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "So you are."
I wait. Patience is a weapon, and my father taught me how to wield it. The monitors continue their mechanical symphony
"The doctors say six months," he says finally. "Maybe less."
I knew. Of course I knew. But hearing him say it makes the countdown real.
"They've been wrong before."
"They're not wrong now." He shifts against the pillows, and I see the effort it costs him. "Which means we need to discuss succession."
"I'm ready."
"You're capable." His eyes fix on mine. "That's not the same thing."
I don't argue. He's right.
"The men respect you. Fear you. That's good." He pauses to catch his breath. The simple act of talking exhausts him now. "But the Bratva needs stability. Continuity. A pakhan without a wife is vulnerable."
There it is. The conversation I've been dodging for three years.
