Page 41 of A Bride for the Mafia King

Right on schedule.

“Here we go,” I say, turning back to our gathered soldiers. “We catch him red-handed. No whispers, no cover stories. Witnesses carry the story back to the families. Truth becomes gospel.”

Nico motions to a tall man behind him who steps forward, camera already recording.

“I want every second of it,” he says. “From the first crate to the last breath he takes.”

There’s a finality in his voice. A promise of execution.

“This isn’t about symbolism anymore,” he adds. “This is the future of our house.”

Yaro watches him, brow furrowed—but even he doesn’t argue.

I nod once. “Then let’s put the past to rest shall we?”

The wind from the docks kicks up, cold and gritty. Somewhere inside those fences, girls wait to be dragged from metal boxes. Sold. Used. Forgotten.

Not tonight. I adjust my jacket, feel the weight of the pistol under my arm.

“Nico,” I say quietly.

He lifts his eyes to mine.

“You better be ready to lead when this is done. Because after tonight—there’s no going back.”

He smiles. Cold and sharp. “Wasn’t planning to.”

I nod, but something shifts. A flicker in my chest that wasn’t there a moment ago. I glance at Nico again and the thought hits me again hard and cold.

He had to have known De Mello was pursuing Eva. Maybe not the full extent. Maybe not the details. But enough. Enough to trade her to me in marriage. Not just for peace. Not just for alliance. But for protection.

Was that what she was to him? A queen placed on the opposite side of the board so the king wouldn’t fall? Did he know what that bastard was doing? The pressure, the threats, the eyes that followed her like a fucking predator?

“When this is over,” I say quietly, not looking at him, “you and I need to have a conversation.”

Nico’s head tilts curiously. “About?”

“Just a matter that needs to be brought to the table, brother to brother.”

There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. A beat of silence. But he doesn’t ask anything further. He just nods. “Alright.”

I looked around at the men gathered, raising my voice just so that everyone gathered could hear either through their ear pieces or directly.

“The Don is my life to take. No one is to touch him besides me,” I announce. Looking at Nico, my gaze bores into him. “Give me your word.”

One of the Italians steps forward immediately. Santino I think his name is, tall and arrogant, his hand on the butt of his pistol.

“With all due respect, Tolya,” he said, voice too loud, “you’re not one of us. This is our house, our matter to deal with. It should be Nico who ends him. Blood for blood.”

A few others murmured agreement. I counted seven who openly protested. Even Luca spoke up, his voice low but firm. “They’ll expect it. The men—if they see a Russian pull the trigger, they might not follow him afterward.”

I didn’t blink. I took one step forward, facing them all, ice in my veins. Growling. “He’s mine.”

Another murmur. Then Nico moved. He stepped between us, casual but commanding. “Enough.”

His eyes swept his crew, each one falling quiet beneath his gaze.

“You want to talk blood?” Nico said. “The Don’s not family. Not anymore. He sold that title when he refused to stop trading girls like cattle. When he took bribes from foreign crews and continued this work under the radar right beneath our noses.”