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Tears shine in Elizabeth's slate-gray eyes, but she blinks them back, her chin lifting with that fierce, unbroken Irish pride that matches my own.

"Thank you, Iris," she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine.

"Now," I smile, turning her toward the bar, "Jamie promised me you would drink a glass of twenty-year-old Irish whiskey with me before the Russians arrive to negotiate the ports."

"That I can definitely do," Elizabeth smirks, letting out a soft, husky laugh that fills the penthouse with warmth.

Jamie walks over to the bar, pouring three heavy tumblers of gold liquid, handing one to Elizabeth, one to me, and keeping the third for himself.

Romeo walks across the room, his heavy steps silent on the rug, his tall frame stopping directly behind me. His large hand comes down over the curve of my hip, his thumb resting possessively on my waist, pulling me back against his warmth. He nods respectfully to Elizabeth, acknowledging the woman who fought alongside his new brother-in-law.

"To the dead," Jamie says, raising his glass into the sunlight. "May their souls rot in hell, and may their gold keep our families rich."

"To the living," Elizabeth adds softly, clinking her glass against his.

"To the family," Romeo rumbles against my ear, his voice sending a delicious shiver down my spine as he raises his scotch.

"Questa nostra cosa," I declare, lifting my glass with a steady, confident hand, drinking the burning, peaty fire down my throat.

A sharp buzz sounds from the security console near the elevator.

Tony's voice crackles over the intercom: "Don Romeo. The Russian convoy just cleared the underground gate. Victor Reznikov and Miss Gemma are in the lift."

Romeo's hand tightens on my hip, his eyes turning cold and sharp as diamonds.

"Set the glasses down, ladies," Romeo commands, the Don taking total control of the room. "The Russian bear has arrived."

The private conference room at the end of the east gallery is built for blood and business.

The walls are soundproofed in dark walnut paneling, the heavy glass table in the center large enough to keep ten armed men outside of striking distance. It’s a room for negotiations, wars, and, if needed, drawing blood from my enemies.

Enzo and Tony stand by the double doors in tailored black suits, their hands folded neatly over their gun holsters, their expressions carved from cold Sicilian stone.

Sofia lies directly between our chairs, her massive black paws crossed, her amber eyes trained on the double doors like twin laser sights.

Romeo sits at the head of the table, facing the open double doors while leaning back in his chair with an air of confidence, one ankle crossed over his knee and his hand holding my thigh. Beside me sits my brother, wearing a dark gray dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat and wearing a lazy smirk. Next to him sits Elizabeth Byrne, watching the doorway with the calculating, watchful stillness of an alley cat that has learned to kill.

The elevator bell chimes outside in the foyer.

Heavy, thunderous footsteps rattle the corridor, accompanied by the sharp, rhythmic click of four-inch stilettos.

The double doors swing open.

Victor Reznikov steps into the room like a blizzard sweeping off the Siberian tundra.

Six foot seven of pure Russian muscle, clad in an immaculate navy pinstripe suit that strains across his massive shoulders. His golden hair is cropped tight, his jaw covered in three days of stubble, his pale blue eyes cold, sharp, and evaluating every exit in the room within half a second.

Beside him, her hand tucked loosely into the crook of his massive elbow, is Gemma.

Romeo's cousin looks like a million dollars in a scarlet silk dress that matches her painted nails. Around both of her slender wrists gleam the custom platinum cuffs with hidden blades that Victor gifted her in Moscow. She takes in the room, spots me sitting beside Romeo, and flashes a wicked grin that tells me she has the Russian bear thoroughly wrapped around her little finger.

"Don Messina," Victor's deep, gravelly baritone rolls across the conference room like distant artillery.

"Pakhan Reznikov," Romeo replies smoothly, gesturing toward the empty chairs across the table. "Take a seat. We have an empire to divide."

Victor pulls out the heavy leather chair opposite of Romeo, sinking his massive frame into the cushions. Gemma takes the seat beside him, crossing her bare legs, resting her chin on her hand as she winks at me.

"You look gorgeous in green, Donna Iris," Gemma purrs. "Much better than the rags Romeo had you wearing in the hospital."