CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Maxsim
André’s office smells of leather, espresso, and inevitability. All the pieces have fallen into place, and the traitors will soon receive their punishment.
Months and months of skirmishes are finally over, and we have the names of those who want to take us down.
Memories of the Don ’s party fill my mind. Why the hell didn’t I kill Giovanni right then and there? Mercy. It’s something that rarely pays off.
Rolling my shoulders, I feel the weight in the room. It’s oppressive and heavy, with the kind of silence that builds before the first shot is fired.
Carolina sits in a corner with her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop, the faint tap-tap-tap a counterpoint to quiet in the room. André stands behind her, his arms crossed, his sharp gaze fixed on the screen as though sheer focus can force the plan into perfection.
Franco sits across from me, rolling a cigar between his fingers but never lighting it, his version of restraint. Alexey leans against the wall near the window, staring out at the night, the flicker of lights catching the hard lines of his face.
The recording of Giovanni plays for the fifth time. His voice oozes arrogance, the kind that makes my teeth grind. Ari’s voice follows, steady and smooth, a siren’s song that lured the idiot into giving us everything we need to take him and Sal down.
I clench my fists as her voice fades. How dare she put herself in danger like that? If things had gone wrong—if Giovanni had caught even a whisper of a lie—
No. Those are thoughts I can’t afford. Not now.
“You’re growling,” Alexey mutters without turning around.
I exhale sharply, forcing my shoulders to relax. “Focus on the plan, not me.”
Alexey finally turns, his arms crossed. “She forced your hand, little brother. You’d still be circling the problem if she hadn’t acted.”
I shoot him a glare. “Less than thirty-six hours ago, you told me she was a distraction, and now you’re singing her praises.”
“Two things can be true at once.”
“Let’s focus,” Franco cuts in, his voice a calm blade slicing through the tension. “The device Ari dropped into Gio’s pocket shows his location near the warehouse.”
“He just texted someone that he will be there at eight,” Carolina adds, not looking up from her laptop.
“Idiots,” I mutter, knowing they think we haven’t got a clue and they have time to regroup.
André straightens, his eyes cold and calculating. “This ends tonight.”
“It’s time to consolidate,” Alexey says, his voice low but resolute. “Cut the weak links. Keep only the men whose loyalty is beyond question. The rest—” He flicks his hand dismissively, the meaning clear. “Gone.”
André nods, his expression carefully controlled. “Agreed. We’ve been running too wide for too long. Tightening the circle is the only way we survive going forward.”
André glances at Carolina, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Honestly, with her drone army and AI efficiency models, it won’t be long before half of our ranks become unnecessary.”
“We could all become redundant,” I offer with a smirk.
Carolina snorts without missing a keystroke. “Don’t worry, you’ll still be useful—for at least a little while.”
The room lightens for a moment, the tension thinning just slightly as a ripple of amusement flickers through. Even Alexey allows a faint chuckle, though it dies quickly as his expression sharpens once more.
“Useful is all that matters,” André says, his tone clipped. “Anything less, and you’re just dead weight. And in this life, dead weight doesn’t last.”
Carolina looks up from her laptop. “Everything is in place. Giovanni’s arrogance will work in our favor. He’ll expect retaliation, but not this quickly. It looks like he’s only got a couple of soldiers with him.” She looks at André. “Four heat signatures total.”
“Is Sal one of those signatures?” Franco asks as he stands and studies Carolina’s screen.
“He’s got three phones, and I haven’t narrowed down which one is on his person. One shows him at the warehouse, but the other two are pinging all over the city.”
“We’ll start with the warehouse,” I bite out. “Get Gio to talk if Sal’s not there.”
“Works for me,” Franco clips.
Alexey steps toward the door, his phone vibrating in his hand. He answers with a sharp, “What?” His tone softens slightly as he steps into the hallway, his voice lowering.
I already know who’s on the other end of that call. His beloved.
I stare at the polished wood of the desk, letting my mind drift for a moment. To her. To the way her voice sounded when she called me earlier, teasing and defiant as always. “Come back alive, husband.” She said it lightly, but I heard the weight beneath the words.
My beloved. And the fucking bane of my existence. How could she have put herself in danger?
Alexey returns, and I stand, my movements sharp. “Let’s cut the head off the snake now.”
Dealing with my wife will have to wait until later.
***
The warehouse is a crumbling monument to bad decisions, its metal siding streaked with rust and its windows jagged like broken teeth. Shadows stretch across the loading docks as we move into position, the hum of distant traffic the only sound that breaks the silence.
Word just came in that Sal isn’t here, but that doesn’t mean that taking care of Giovanni won’t hold its own reward.
Franco and I move in silence, our men fanning out with the precision of a well-honed blade. Vincenzo flanks Franco, and Anton takes the rear, his sharp eyes sweeping every shadow.
We breach the side entrance in a coordinated sweep, silenced weapons cutting through the dim, oil-slicked corridors. The first guard drops before he can react, his body crumpling soundlessly to the concrete.
The main room is lit by harsh fluorescent lights, a glaring contrast to the darkness outside. Giovanni stands at the center, flanked by two of Sal’s men, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks up as we enter, his smirk faltering when he recognizes me.
“Maxsim,” he says, recovering quickly. “This is unexpected.”
The room erupts in gunfire before I can respond. Franco and Vincenzo move with ruthless efficiency, each shot precise and clean, taking down Sal’s soldiers like it’s second nature. I close the distance between Giovanni and me.
His smirk returns, though it’s weaker now, his arrogance cracking beneath the surface. “You don’t want to do this,” he says, his voice laced with false bravado.
I grab him by the collar, slamming him against the nearest wall. The whiskey glass shatters on the floor, its sharp tang mixing with the acrid smell of gunpowder. “You should’ve stayed in your lane, Giovanni.”
He sneers, but I can see the flicker of fear in his eyes. “It wasn’t personal, Maxsim—it was survival!”
“That’s the problem,” I say, my voice low and steady. “You think survival justifies everything.”
Giovanni’s lip curls. “And what justifies you, Volkov? Your alliances? Your blood-soaked empire? Don’t act like you’re any better than me.”
I shove him harder against the wall, my grip tightening. “The difference is, I don’t pretend loyalty means nothing.”
He lets out a sharp laugh, bitter and mocking. “Loyalty? That’s rich coming from you. Tell me, Maxsim—how much loyalty do you think your precious alliance has? Do you think Franco isn’t biding his time? That André doesn’t resent having to share power with a Bratva Pakhan ? Your world is built on shifting sand, and you’re too blind to see it.”
I press the barrel of my gun against his temple. “Keep talking, Giovanni. Every word just confirms why you’re about to die.”
But he doesn’t stop. Desperation fuels his tongue now, the arrogance giving way to survival. “Killing me won’t solve your problems! Sal has plans, Maxsim—plans you can’t even imagine. You’ll burn before you see him coming.”
My jaw tightens. “Sal’s next. Don’t worry. You won’t be lonely in hell.”
Giovanni’s smirk returns, weaker but no less infuriating. “And what about your wife? She’s a smart one, isn’t she? Maybe too smart. Sal’s been watching her, you know. Watching and waiting.”
The words hit like a blow, but I control my expression. “You won’t get another chance to say her name.”
“Oh, but she’ll remember mine,” Giovanni says, his voice dripping with venom. “Because when Sal’s done, there won’t be a Volkov dynasty left for her to mourn.”
I sweep his legs out from under him and bend down, pressing the barrel of my gun against his forehead. “This is mercy,” I say, my voice a deadly whisper.
His eyes widen, and for the first time, the mask of arrogance slips entirely. “Maxsim—wait—”
The shot echoes through the room, silencing him forever.
For a moment, everything is still.
I rise, stepping over his body as I holster my gun. The echoes of his threats linger, but they’re already dissolving into the chaos of what’s to come. I glance at the shattered whiskey glass, the amber liquid pooling on the floor like spilled blood.
No one covets my wife and lives to tell about it.
Breathing through my nose, I refocus. There’s still a threat that needs my attention.
***
The rhythmic thrum of the helicopter blades drowns out everything as its relentless beat echoes in my chest. The cabin is dark, lit only by the faint green glow of the console. I sit across from Franco, the weight of my gun resting against my thigh. Vincenzo and Anton are silent, their eyes trained on the dark expanse of the city stretching out beneath us.
The air smells of oil and metal, and there’s a tension hanging over us, sharp and taut like a live wire. None of us speak. There’s nothing left to say.
Sal thinks he’s untouchable and that his jet waiting at the airstrip is his ticket to freedom. He doesn’t know we’ve got a surprise and tonight his treachery ends.
Not only are we coming by air, but Grigory and Carolina have drones circling Sal’s progress to the airport.
Franco leans forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice low enough to cut through the sound of the rotors. “Carolina just confirmed that Sal’s got four men on the ground and two with him in the car. We hit fast, no hesitation.”
I nod, my jaw tight. “He doesn’t leave that airstrip.”
Franco meets my gaze, his expression grim but resolute. “Agreed.”
I glance out the window. The city lights blur beneath us, the sprawl of concrete and steel giving way to open fields and dark stretches of nothing. The airstrip is just beyond the horizon, its faint lights barely visible against the black sky.
Vincenzo shifts beside me, his grip tightening on the barrel of his rifle. “We’ll be on the ground in three minutes,” he says, his voice calm, almost detached.
The helicopter dips slightly as we begin our descent. The lights of the airstrip grow brighter, cutting through the darkness like a blade. I roll my shoulders, the tension settling in my muscles as we near the endgame.
Sal wanted to play king. Tonight, we remind him who rules this city.
The airstrip stretches out like a graveyard beneath the night sky, the jet sitting on the tarmac like a lone soldier. The pilot makes a low pass, and I see a black SUV barreling down a side road. “Sal’s last mistake.”
The chopper lands between the plane and the oncoming SUV. I step out quickly, the roar of the blades fading behind me as Franco and I move in tandem toward the aircraft.
Anton and Vincenzo move ahead, taking out Sal’s men one by one as they step out of the plane. “Four down, one to go,” I mutter quietly.
The SUV skids to a stop a few feet away. “Mine,” Franco bites out as he takes out the driver.
“You think he’s gonna cower inside the car?”
Franco shakes his head. “His ego won’t allow it.”
The back door opens slowly, and Sal steps out. Buttoning his coat slowly, he smiles. “Franco. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble just for me.” His smirk widens, but there’s a tightness around his eyes he can’t entirely hide. “I could’ve sent an invitation.”
Sal has always been a man who thrives on control—on pulling the strings from the shadows, making others dance to his tune. But now, standing beneath the floodlights of the airstrip, with nowhere left to run, I watch as the illusion fractures.
The smirk is still there, but it’s strained now, the corners twitching like he’s barely holding it together. His hands are steady at his sides, but there’s a tell—subtle but undeniable. His fingers twitch against his coat as if debating whether to go for a weapon or raise them in surrender. He doesn’t know which move will keep him alive.
“You’re making a mistake, Franco,” he says, but the confidence is thinning, unraveling with each second that passes. “Kill me, and the Famiglia falls apart. You’ll have war on your hands before the blood even dries.”
Franco doesn’t respond and lets the silence press down on him like a loaded gun.
Sal swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. A bead of sweat rolls from his temple, cutting through the smooth arrogance he’s so carefully maintained.
His foot shifts slightly, a near-invisible step back.
He knows.
For the first time, Salvatore Santoro understands what it feels like to be powerless.
Franco steps forward, his gun unwavering. “War’s already here.”
Sal exhales sharply like he’s been punched. His gaze flickers between us, searching for a way out, for an angle he can work. But there’s nothing left. No deals to be made. No threats to issue.
His breath turns shallow, too fast. His fingers curl into fists. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, but now there’s something else behind it—something raw, something I haven’t heard from him before.
Fear.
He starts to turn, like he might make a run for the jet. It’s a pathetic move, the reflex of a man who’s always assumed he’d be the last one standing.
Franco doesn’t let him take a second step.
The gunshot rings out, clean and final. Sal jerks violently, his body snapping forward before collapsing onto the tarmac. He gasps, blood blooming across his chest, fingers clawing at the wound as if he can hold himself together. His mouth moves, but no words come out—only a wet, choking sound.
His body twitches once, then stills.
Franco looks down at him, his expression void of emotion. “Guess you weren’t as untouchable as you thought.”
I exhale slowly, the weight of inevitability settling in. The last play has been made. The final piece removed from the board.
But as I stare down at Sal’s lifeless form, I realize something.
This isn’t the end.
It’s just the beginning.
“Burn it,” Franco says, his voice flat. “The jet. The body. All of it.”
Anton and Vincenzo nod, and ten minutes later, a fireball erupts, lighting up the night sky.
We slowly walk back to the waiting chopper and I pull out my phone. Ari’s message is already waiting: Are you alive, husband?
I type back: It’s done.
The wind howls louder as the chopper lifts off, the flames shrinking into the distance. Sal is dead. Giovanni is dead. The alliance will survive.
But I know the real battle is just beginning. Not with the Famiglia , or Sal’s remaining allies, but with her—with us.
I told myself I didn’t need her—didn’t need anyone. But I’ve never been more wrong. Because as much as I hate to admit it, control isn’t the most important thing, she is.