I notice this with detached curiosity, like I'm observing someone else's body. The tremors start at my fingertips and work their way up, subtle but undeniable.
The lighter flame wavers in the wind. I cup my hand around it, and the first drag of smoke fills my lungs like coming home to a place I hate.
He was crying. Calling for Mama.
In thirty-eight years, I've never seen my father cry.
But tonight, alone in the dark, he wept for his dead wife.
For one insane moment, I want to call Vittoria. I want to hear her voice, sharp and challenging, cutting through this darkness like she cuts through everything else. I want her here, even though she shouldn't be, even though this isn't her burden to carry.
I want to not be alone.
The cigarette burns down to my fingers. I let it, welcoming the small pain, the reminder that I'm still here, still breathing, still the son who has to hold everything together when it falls apart.
Behind me, car doors slam.
My family is here.
I take one more breath of cold air, stub out the cigarette on the stone railing, and compose my face into the mask Papa taught me to wear.
Time to be the pakhan.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Vittoria
Amanda's apartment feels as familiar as my own bedroom. Maybe more familiar, actually. I've spent countless nights here since college, curled up on her ridiculous velvet couch, eating takeout and pretending the outside world doesn't exist.
Tonight, I need that pretense more than usual.
"He just... cancelled?" Amanda hands me a glass of wine. "No explanation?"
"Something came up." I take a long sip, the Pinot Grigio cool against my tongue. "That's literally all he said."
I sink into her couch—deep purple velvet, because Amanda doesn't do anything subtle—and tuck my feet under me. Her living room is a shrine to maximalism. Gold-framed mirrors, throw pillows in jewel tones piled so high you could drown in them. The complete opposite of my tech-filled, minimalist space at the compound.
That's probably why I love it here.
"Something came up," Amanda repeats, settling beside me. She's in silk pajamas, her platinum hair piled in a messy bunthat somehow looks editorial. "That's so... vague. Suspiciously vague."
Tell me about it.
Something came up. Rain check.
No explanation. No apology. No indication of when we'd reschedule.
"Maybe someone died," I mutter.
"Vittoria!"
"What? He's Bratva. People die around them all the time."
Amanda swats my arm. "That's dark even for you."
She's not wrong. But something in his message felt... off. Dmitri Baganov doesn't cancel. He manipulates, orchestrates, controls every variable until the outcome matches his vision. The man literally sabotaged my dinner with James Rogers just to take his spot.
So why cancel tonight?
