CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Make me your villain.
Maxsim
The weight of silence fills the study, broken only by the distant hum of the estate. The reports scattered across my desk blur together—shipments delayed, soldiers restless, rumors bleeding through the cracks. We are battling the Cartels, and André’s grip on the Five Families is straining.
What will threaten us next?
I lean back in my chair, staring at the chess set resting on the table near the window. The game is mid-match, pieces are scattered in an uneven battle. Black is winning. Naturally.
A soft knock echoes against the door, and I don’t look up. “Enter.”
The door creaks open, and I sense her before I see her. Ari.
Her steps are measured, but there’s a tension in how she holds herself. Not the brittle defiance I’ve come to expect—but something quieter. Sharper.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” she says, voice even but deliberate.
I set the paper in my hand aside, finally meeting her eyes. “You can have as much as you want.”
Her mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost not. “I want to visit my Nonna.”
Of course. A simple request. Family. Familiar. Harmless.
But nothing with Ari is harmless.
There’s a tilt to her chin, a deliberate boldness in how she stands there, waiting for me to deny her. I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers. “And you think now is the best time to make social visits?”
Her arms cross and the motion pulls the fabric of her sweater tight across her frame. She’s not wearing anything extravagant—nothing meant to draw attention. But I notice anyway.
How could I not?
I let the silence stretch. She doesn’t fidget or look away. “No,” I say flatly, returning my gaze to the reports.
A pause. A flicker of something in her eyes—disappointment or calculation, it’s hard to tell.
“That wasn’t a request.”
I glance up again, slowly.
“No, I suppose it wasn’t.” I lean forward, folding my hands. “You think I’ll let you walk into your family estate when we both know Sal is testing every inch of this alliance?”
“My family isn’t the enemy.”
“Yet.”
Her jaw tightens, but she holds steady. “Sal wouldn’t dare start a war in the Don ’s home.”
“You underestimate how bold, desperate men can be.”
“And you overestimate how safe I am here.”
That pulls me up short. Her tone isn’t combative—it’s matter-of-fact, like she’s stating a truth I haven’t bothered to acknowledge.
Her eyes sweep the room, landing briefly on the chess set before flicking back to me. “We both know that André is balancing the Five Families with a thread. If the Bratva pulls too hard—or too soft—the whole thing snaps. Men like Sal are counting on that.”
I blink, caught off guard.
She continues, voice cool. “Don’t look so surprised, Maxsim. While the men ignore us, we gather information. The kind that can build or break empires.”
I study her. Really study her.
Not the reluctant bride. Not the pawn in this alliance.
A strategist.
The kind of woman who understands how power moves in shadows.
I fold my arms. “And what kind of information have you been gathering?”
Ari’s lips curve—not quite a smile, but close. “The kind that tells me that Sal’s not your only problem. You’ve got cracks in your own house.”
My fingers still.
She’s pressing her advantage, but not recklessly. Testing the waters.
I consider denying it, dismissing her, but what would that serve?
Instead, I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Careful, Ari. You sound like you want a seat at the table.”
“Maybe I do.” Her voice softens. “Or maybe I’m just trying to keep this alliance from burning us all alive.”
Her honesty is disarming. Calculated or not, it works.
I drum my fingers once against the desk. “You can visit your Nonna,” I say finally, voice low. “But you’ll take security. No arguments.”
She tilts her head. “Pasha?”
“No. Nikolai.”
She pauses, then nods once. Acceptance, though not without caution.
Ari turns to leave but stops at the door.
“For what it’s worth,” she says without looking back, “locking me away won’t keep me safe. But letting me in? That might.”
The door closes quietly behind her, and I stare at the space she occupied. Tension coils low in my chest. What would happen if I let her in.
Would she sharpen the blades of this alliance or turn them on me?
Ari
The engine hums low in the courtyard, the black SUV gleaming like a loaded gun beneath the overcast sky.
Nikolai leans against the hood, flicking ash from a cigarette with lazy precision. His expression screams cool detachment, but there’s something else.
Maxsim trusts him. His cousin. Supposedly, that means something in the Bratva.
In my world, blood means nothing without proof. Loyalty is a currency that depreciates fast without it.
Nikolai pushes off the hood and crushes the cigarette under his boot with slow deliberation. Then he smiles. Thin. Off.
The passenger door swings open with an exaggerated flourish. “After you, principessa .”
The title scrapes along my nerves. It’s too smooth, too practiced, and not the least bit respectful.
I hesitate. There’s something else beneath his skin, something running colder than whatever mask he’s wearing. A second narrative, darker than the first. And I have no idea when—or where—it ends.
“Ready to cross enemy lines and deliver me to the Bianchi estate?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
He smirks like we’re sharing a private joke. “We’re all friends now. Haven’t you heard?”
But he doesn’t believe that. Neither do I.
I slide in without another word, eyes forward, every sense on alert. The door shuts with a quiet finality, and the SUV glides down the drive.
The estate vanishes behind us.
The air feels lighter the moment we hit the highway.
But not safer.
An hour later, I see the Bianchi mansion. A towering reminder of everything I grew up with and everything I thought I wanted to outrun.
The familiar faces of Famiglia soldiers at the gate allow me to take a full breath. “You can drop me here, Nikolai.”
“Boss wouldn’t like it.” He rolls down the window and glares at my cousin, Tony. “He wants door-to-door service.”
“How about we settle on gate to gate?” Before he can answer, I slide out and move toward the Famiglia soldiers at the gate. Tony’s in his usual stance, casual but watchful, chatting briefly with Leo as I approach.
“Familiar faces,” Nikolai calls out, gesturing toward Tony and Leo with a casual flick of his chin. “It must be nice to feel at home.”
The words are smooth, but there’s a weight behind them I can’t quite place. Tony moves in front of me and glares at Nikolai.
“I’ll handle it from here,” I say, keeping my tone light. “No need to trouble yourself further.”
“Boss isn’t gonna like that,” Nikolai replies, his voice deceptively neutral.
“Maxsim and I will discuss it later,” I say with finality, meeting his gaze head-on.
His smirk flickers, his eyes narrowing just enough to let me know he’s filing this moment away. “Enjoy your visit, principessa ,” he replies with exaggerated politeness.
Tony leans in slightly. “Your new shadow always this nosy?”
I glance back toward the SUV. Nikolai is still watching—not me, but the soldiers. Like he’s waiting for something.
“He’s thorough,” I say carefully, wondering what game Maxsim’s cousin is playing.
“I’m gonna walk you to the door,” Tony says before nodding to Nikolai.
“Thanks.” We walk toward the mansion, and I let out a breath, feeling relaxed for the first time in days.
The foyer welcomes me with the familiar sounds and smells. My heels click against the terrazzo floors as I fill my lungs with the scent of lemons and furniture polish. I pause under the portrait of my grandfather—his hawk-like gaze just as sharp as I remember. Even in death, he looms, his painted eyes fixed on me with the same unspoken command: Remember who you are. Remember what’s expected.
I force my shoulders to straighten as the housekeeper appears at the edge of my vision, smiling warmly. Her gaze flickers quickly to the ring on my finger, and I know what she’s thinking. I nod politely, murmuring a greeting I don’t mean, and walk past her into the heart of the house.
Memories press in from every corner—my mother’s sharp warnings during family gatherings, my father’s clipped commands to his men, and my own teenage rebellions echoing through the halls like ghosts.
The sound of heels clicking makes me turn. “Luna!” I embrace my cousin tightly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Same.” She smooths out her hair. “Unfortunately, we won’t have time to visit since the plane is waiting for me.”
“Making your great escape?”
“Something like that.” She waves to Tony, who is waiting by the door. “I’ll be ready to go in five minutes.”
“The pilot is up my ass.”
“Sounds uncomfortable,” I reply with a smirk.
Tony ignores me and taps his watch. “Something about the weather and not wanting to be delayed in Rome.”
“Italy?” I ask as my cousin taps out a quick text.
“Yes, I’m going to Sicily and stay with the family for a couple of months.”
There’s a hint of excitement in her eyes, and I know it’s not because Zia Maria is a ball of fun.” “Anything you want to share?”
Luna looks away and shakes her head. “Just need some sunshine and quiet.”
Tony taps his foot loudly, and Luna gives me a quick hug. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Sounds good.” I spin around and walk toward Nonna’s wing, wondering exactly what my cousin is up to.
The warm wood floors and simple silk curtains welcome me when I walk into Nonna’s space. The air smells lighter here, touched with lavender and something that is uniquely hers.
Nonna sits at the round table, her posture as perfect as ever. She wears a tailored black dress, her pearls catching the soft light streaming through the stained-glass window behind her. Her dark eyes meet mine as I step into the room, and a smile lifts the edges of her lips. It’s small and enough to loosen the tension in my chest.
“Arianna, cara mia ,” she says, her voice warm and familiar. She stands, her delicate hands reaching for me as I lean down to let her kiss my cheeks. Her touch lingers on my arms as if trying to read me through her fingertips.
“Nonna.” I smile and then slide into the chair she gestures to.
The table is already set—fine china, silver polished to a high shine, and a crystal decanter of red wine that glints in the sunlight. A vase of roses sits in the center, their petals almost too perfect to be real. The smell of garlic and basil drifts from the sideboard, mixing with the warmth of freshly baked bread.
“It smells amazing,” I say, letting my voice rise just enough to sound casual.
Nonna tilts her head, pouring wine into my glass with the steady precision of someone who has all the time in the world. “ Pasta alla Norma ,” she says simply. “It was your favorite as a girl. I thought it might make you happy.”
The words are kind, but her tone isn’t just kind. It’s layered, sharp in the way only Nonna can be. I see you, it says. I know what you’re not saying.
We eat in silence at first. Nonna serves the salad herself, the greens crisp and glistening with olive oil. I focus on my plate, stabbing at a roasted tomato as if it’s the source of all my disquiet.
“You’re quiet today,” she says at last, her voice soft but sharp enough to cut through the quiet. “Marriage keeping you busy, I suppose?”
The fork stills in my hand for half a second. “Something like that.”
Nonna doesn’t react right away. She dabs her mouth slowly with a heavy linen napkin. “Marriage is like tending a garden, cara . Some days, it’s beautiful. Other days, you’re pulling weeds.” She looks up, her gaze steady and piercing. “How is your garden, hmm?”
I grip my fork tighter. “It depends on the hour. One minute, I think it will eventually bloom, and the next, I’m ready to mow the whole thing down.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly. She doesn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch until it feels unbearable. Until the truth slips out.
I sigh, breaking off a piece of bread and tearing it in half without realizing it. “Creating trust with the enemy is difficult…especially when you are married.”
Nonna’s fingers tap lightly against her wineglass, the rhythm slow and deliberate, like she’s calculating something far beyond the room’s confines. Her dark eyes, so much like my father’s, meet mine with a sharpness that makes it impossible to look away.
“Your husband,” she begins, her voice even, “is a man who understands strategy, no?”
I nod, unsure where she’s headed. “He wouldn’t be where he is otherwise.”
“Good,” she replies, leaning back slightly, but her gaze never softens. “Because strategy, cara mia, is the only thing that will keep your alliance intact.”
The air seems to shift, heavier now, and I feel the familiar weight of her words pressing down. Nonna doesn’t waste time on pleasantries when there’s something more important to say.
“Trust,” she says, her fingers wrapping around the base of her glass, “is the foundation of any alliance. But trust is also the easiest thing to break—and the hardest thing to repair.”
Her words settle between us like a stone dropped in still water. “Do you think the alliance is cracking?” I ask, my voice quieter than I’d like.
Nonna’s lips purse, thoughtful. “Cracks are inevitable, Arianna. No family—no matter how strong—remains unbroken forever. It’s how you handle those cracks that determine if the foundation holds or collapses.”
She studies me for a long moment before continuing, her voice softer now. “Your husband is protecting you in his way, but protection is not the same as trust. And without trust, the cracks will only widen.”
I swallow hard, the weight of her words twisting in my chest. “What do you think I should do?”
Nonna’s expression doesn’t waver. “Men like your Maxsim don’t give trust easily. It must be earned—through loyalty, through action. But you, cara mia , you are a Bianchi. And Bianchis don’t wait for trust to be handed to them. They take it.”
Her words are a challenge, plain and simple. A reminder of who I am and what’s at stake. But there’s something else there, too—an edge of warning. She knows, just as I do, that the cracks in the alliance aren’t just theoretical. They’re real, and they’re growing.
Nonna’s hand rests on mine, light but firm. “If you want this alliance to hold, Arianna, you must find the cracks before they break wide open. And when you find them.” Her eyes narrow slightly, her voice lowering. “You must decide whether to patch them—or shatter the pieces yourself.”
I don’t reply because I’m unsure what choice I will ultimately make.
The sound of boots against polished wood cuts through the room, breaking the quiet that had settled over Nonna’s words. I glance toward the doorway just as Carolina strides in, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a laptop bag in her other hand. She looks like she just came from a fight—or from causing one.
“Sorry I’m late,” she announces, dropping her bag onto a nearby chair without ceremony. “Blocked the Feds from snooping in one of our accounts this morning. Took longer than I expected.”
Nonna shakes her head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Carolina, cara , must you always bring your storms into my dining room? Sit. Eat.”
“I plan to,” Carolina says, grabbing a plate and piling it high with pasta as if she hadn’t just barged into the room.
“Since when did you two become besties?” I ask, looking between Nonna and the family’s cybersecurity expert.
“Carolina is here every day working with André or your brother, and it’s better that she shares my table than the soldiers.”
“She likes to hear all the latest gossip,” Carolina adds, her eyes bright with mischief. “So, what’d I miss? Are you being grilled about married life?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, but my lips twitch despite myself.
Carolina plops into a chair, twirling her fork through the pasta like she has all the time in the world. “Hope you’re surviving. Maxsim seems like he’s got a stick up his ass half the time, but hey, maybe that’s just the Bratva way.”
“Carolina,” Nonna scolds lightly, though her lips curve into a small smile. “Do you always have to be so crude?”
“I’m just saying what Ari’s thinking.”
I roll my eyes but feel the corners of my mouth lift. Carolina has a way of cutting through the heaviness. “How is your brother? Is Fausto ruling Chicago yet?”
“Hardly.” She gives me a curious look. “I thought you two would keep in touch.”
“I haven’t texted him.” I wipe my mouth and look up with a faint smile. “Figured he was busy being the second in command.”
“He calls Mama once a week, and it seems like he’s settling in.”
“That’s good.” Nonna’s hand wraps around mine, and I squeeze it gently. A part of me wishes that spinning back the clock was possible and I could return to more carefree times.
Carolina pulls out her tablet and rests it on the edge of the table. Her fingers fly across the screen, her expression shifting from thoughtful to sharp in an instant.
“The chatter’s been weird lately,” she says, her tone casual but with an edge underneath. “Encrypted messages popping up between Sal’s people and an outside Cartel. And don’t even get me started on the weapons deals.”
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Weapons?”
“Military-grade. Untraceable. Whoever’s buying is smart—they’re routing everything through dummy accounts in three different countries.” She doesn’t look up from the screen, her brow furrowing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s gearing up for a siege.”
Nonna sips her wine, unbothered as ever. “It’s the quiet before the storm,” she murmurs, her voice almost too soft to catch. “They’ll try to break what they don’t understand.”
I glance between them. “You think Sal’s ready to test the alliance?”
“Could be.” Carolina shrugs, but her eyes stay fixed on the tablet. “Or it could be someone working for him. Either way, the timing’s too perfect to be a coincidence.”
Her words land like a stone in my chest. My mind races back to everything Maxsim said about the Cartel and the risks we’re facing.
“And the Bratva?” Nonna asks, her tone casual, but I catch the flicker of steel in her gaze.
“Grigory is still insufferable.” Carolina’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Seems having a stick stuck somewhere runs in the family.”
I picture Maxsim’s genius brother and smile. “You know he’s on the spectrum, don’t you?”
“So am I,” Carolina snaps back. “it doesn’t mean he gets a pass for being an arrogant ass.”
“Have you two been spending a lot of time together?” I sip my wine and notice the color in her cheeks is high. Perhaps the youngest Volkov isn’t completely reprehensible.
“Lately, we’ve been communicating almost non-stop. I discovered chatter coming from a Bratva IP address. At first, I thought someone was being sloppy or feeding Sal info from the inside, but we dug deep enough and found that it was all a setup.”
“Does the Bratva have a mole, or do we?” Nonna asks quietly.
“That’s the million-dollar question, Zia .” Carolina shakes her head. “Likely we both do.”
“The alliance is shakier than I thought.”
“Blood is the only thing that makes people loyal,” Nonna comments.
I push my plate away, realizing the jackals are closer to the gate than I imagined.
Carolina leans back, tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. “Whoever it is, they’re good. And close. But not close enough to know that Grigory and I are working together.”
Nonna’s eyes narrow, the faintest frown pulling at her mouth. “In our world, cara , betrayal doesn’t announce itself. It waits in the shadows, like a wolf in the forest. You must always be vigilant.”
“Trust me, we are.” Carolina leans back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she spins her fork idly through the remnants of her pasta. “Grigory may be a pain, but he is brilliant,” she says, her tone light but laced with something sharper, “He’s kind of like a Rubik’s Cube. Complicated, occasionally infuriating, but… oddly satisfying when you figure him out.”
Nonna lifts an eyebrow, her expression faintly amused. “A compliment, Carolina? From you?”
She shrugs, tapping the edge of her fork against her plate casually. “It’s not a compliment. It’s an observation. The man is brilliant, I’ll give him that, but he doesn’t know how to turn it off. Every conversation feels like he’s running five algorithms in his head at once.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I remark, watching her carefully. “And yet, you don’t seem to mind.”
She meets my gaze, her smirk deepening. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”
Nonna chuckles softly, shaking her head as she pours more wine into her glass. “Challenges, cara , have a way of becoming entanglements if you’re not careful.”
“Entanglements?” Carolina snorts, waving the idea off with a flick of her hand. “Please. Grigory and I are strictly professional. He’s always correcting me. It’s like he’s allergic to being wrong.”
“And yet,” Nonna cuts in smoothly, her tone pointed, “you seem to enjoy his company. Or is that just the thrill of the argument?”
Carolina hesitates, her fingers stilling on the fork for a moment—a crack in her otherwise impenetrable armor. “Let’s just say... he respects my skills. And that’s more than I can say for most men in our world.”
I tilt my head, studying her. “And do you respect his?”
Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and quick, before returning to her plate. “He’s earned it,” she says, almost grudgingly. “But don’t get any ideas. The only thing we have in common is a shared love of telling everyone else they’re wrong.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” I tease, earning an exaggerated eye roll.
Nonna’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she sips her wine. “Respect, Carolina, is a powerful thing. It can build bridges—or burn them, depending on how you handle it.”
Carolina leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as her smirk softens into something more thoughtful. “Trust me, Zia , if Grigory ever tries to build a bridge, I’ll be the first to set it on fire.”
But there’s something in her voice—just a hint of vulnerability buried beneath the bravado. Something that suggests she’s not as indifferent as she wants us to believe.
Nonna clears her throat, sitting straighter in her chair. “Carolina, finish your food. André will be calling you into his office any minute.”
She frowns. “Which is always so much fun.”
“You’re the one who wanted a real job, so don’t complain when it becomes uncomfortable.”
“Discussing traitors with the Don is more than uncomfortable. It’s like standing inside a Tsunami.” Carolina winks at me, twirling her fork through her pasta. “Speaking of storms, Ari, when are you going to tell Maxsim to pull the stick out of his—”
“Carolina!” Nonna interrupts, her voice sharp but amused.
“What?” Carolina throws up her hands. “I’m just saying, if anyone can handle him, it’s Ari. She’s got the fire for it.”
A sharp laugh escapes from my mouth, and I feel lighter for a moment. Nonna pours the last of the wine, and I stare out the stained-glass window, watching the late afternoon sun shift the colors on the table—blue, green, gold. They’re beautiful, but the shadows between them seem deeper somehow. Darker.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. The alliance. Maxsim. Our marriage. It’s all tangled together, and I don’t know if we have a prayer of surviving.