Epilogue
The night before the wedding…
The private lounge at the top of the Monarch has been cleared for us. Dim lighting, deep leather chairs, and a private bar stocked with more whiskey than sense. The kind of place where deals get made and bodies get disappeared—just with better upholstery.
Toni's already pouring drinks by the time Enrico and I walk in.
"You're late," Toni says, but he's smirking. "That's twice in one week. Violet's really civilizing you, huh?"
"She's taming me," I deadpan.
Enrico slumps into the nearest chair and tosses his phone on the table. "Steph's not coming. Just texted. Said he and his wife are on their way to Mexico—to break Nico out."
Toni's brows shoot up. "Wife? Since when does Stephano have a wife?"
I lean forward. "Back up. Nico? And did he actually use the word wife?"
"Yep," Enrico confirms, scrolling. "Verbatim: Wife and I are en route. Going after Nico."
"Nico?" Toni repeats, blinking. "I thought he was dead."
"So did I," I mutter.
Enrico chuckles.
"Did he give you a name?" I ask.
"Oksana," Enrico says, looking up.
Toni lets out a low whistle, then slaps his knee with a bark of laughter. "Fuck me. I think that's Grigori's sister. I mean, how many Oksanas do we know?"
I stare at him, bemused. He just shakes his head like he's watching a train speed off a cliff and exchanges grins with Enrico.
"You're not gonna give me more, are you?" I ask.
"Not a chance," Toni replies, amusement still dancing in his eyes. "Let Steph explain it when he gets back. Assuming he survives."
"So let me get this straight," I say slowly. "Stephano is married to a Russian Bratva princess, and now they're going to find his supposedly-dead brother in Mexico?"
Enrico raises his glass. "I knew he was the quiet one for a reason."
Toni chuckles. "Can't wait to see how that plays out."
"You really think his brother is still alive?" I ask, taking a slow sip. "Either that or Steph finally lost it. Anyway, sounds like we'll be hearing more about it soon." Toni grins.
We sit in silence for a beat, letting the thought hang. Stephano's always played things close to the chest, but this? It's a curveball. I file it away for later. Something tells me this won't stay quiet for long.
"Back to business," Toni says, setting his glass down with a low clink. "We need to make a plan to put Edoardo down and make it look clean. No power grab optics."
"Agreed," I say. If we can tie him directly to the Venezuelans—and prove what he's been trading—we'll have what we need."
"Fabrizio's the last holdout," Enrico adds. "I've spoken to him three times now. He's shaken after the attack, but he's old school. Thinks a Don should be respected, even if he's rotting from the inside."
"Fabrizio's a relic," Toni says bluntly. "But the other old guards still look to him. If we flip him, we flip them."
"Which means we need more than hearsay about the Venezuelan connection," I nod. "We need proof—shipments, routes, money trails. Something undeniable."
Enrico leans forward, elbows on his knees. "There's one name that keeps popping up—Teodoro, Teo, Salazar. Supposedly, Edoardo's contact in Caracas. Runs security for a shipping front that's dirty as hell. If we take him out, we collapse the smuggling lane and expose the tie."
Toni agrees. "That would work. Teo's got a rep. Quiet, ruthless, likes to play diplomat, but he's moved weapons, girls, drugs—you name it."
"You take him," I tell Enrico. "Quietly. Don't let it blow back on us."
"Done," Enrico says with a wolfish grin. "Been looking for a new project."
"It needs to be tight," Toni adds. "Controlled. We can't look like we're gutting the family to take control. We're removing a cancer. That's the message."
The elevator dings. I already know who it is before he steps through the door.
Raffael.
He's sharper than I remember. Instead of leather, he's wearing a tailored suit. The cold confidence is still there, and his eyes scan the room like he's already calculating the risks.
I raise my glass, but I don't smile. "Raffael."
"Marcello," he says, stepping into the room like he owns it, not waiting for an invitation before lowering himself into the leather chair across from me. Then he tips his head toward the others. "Toni. Enrico."
"Didn't expect to see you here," Toni says, his tone cool, watchful. "Thought you were keeping a low profile."
"I was," Raffael replies. "But things change."
"Convenient timing," Enrico mutters, swirling the ice in his glass without looking at him.
Raffael doesn't take the bait. He meets Enrico's eyes and shrugs, calm as ever. Too calm. Like he knows we're circling him but isn't worried about the bite. I study him for a moment. "You're a capo now. That makes you one of us. Which means you play by the rules. Our rules."
"Of course," Raffael says without hesitation. His tone is smooth, respectful, but not submissive.
Toni leans forward, clasping his hands. "We're cleaning house. Anyone with ties to the Venezuelans is on borrowed time."
Raffael lifts a brow. "Anyone in particular?"
"Edoardo's name keeps coming up," Enrico says, too casually.
There's a pause. A beat too long. But Raffael doesn't blink. "He's a snake. Always has been. Just not many people brave enough to say it."
Good answer. Clean. Public. But we're not just listening to the words; every man in this room is watching how he says them. Looking for a tell.
I lean back slightly in my chair. "What about Donna Margarita?"
That's the real test.
Something shifts behind his eyes. It's barely there, but I see it. Like a spark behind glass—there, then gone. "I guess you know that she is my… mother." He pronounces mother the way one might say cancer.
"That's the rumor," Toni states carefully.
"She's missing." Raffael looks from one of us to the other. Unafraid, unflinching, and just as unreadable.
"Not a big loss in my book," Enrico baits.
We let the silence stretch, like a wire pulled tight between us. Raffael meets it head-on, still, unbothered. Either he's got nerves of steel, or he's been playing a long game in a much darker room than we realized.
I tap my glass against the table once, just enough to break the quiet.
No one speaks.
Then Raffael leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. "You're all focused on cleaning house," he says in a low voice. "I'm wondering who built the tunnel they crawled through in the first place."
Interesting question. I study him for another long beat. Calculating where he stands. He doesn't seem to be here for vengeance. Nor does he seem concerned that his mother is missing.
He's here to position himself.
I nod once. "Excellent point."
We don't tell him yet about what Margarita said.
Not about Leonardo or his bloodline. I'm sure he already knows.
If Donna Margarita told him she was his mother, she would have told him the rest of the sordid story too, but I think we said enough for now, until we know for sure if he's the kind of man who builds walls, or one who digs tunnels.
The conversation shifts, turns to business, territory, and logistics. The usual. There's still plenty of blood to wash away, but for tonight, we're keeping it civil.
Later, we move down to the casino level, where Enzo has reserved a private poker room. It's the usual crew, New York men in tailored suits, trying not to look like killers. Whiskey flows. Cards snap against felt. There's laughter, stories, and a few insults traded like chips. Then the air shifts.
Enzo walks in with a tall, dark-haired man in a slate gray suit. The room doesn't go silent, but it stutters.
Enzo introduces him. "This is Massimo Manetti."
The Vegas boss.
"Gentlemen." He nods at us. "I've heard a lot about New York," Massimo says, in a deep, gravel-smooth voice. "Looking forward to seeing if the legends live up to the hype."
Toni leans back, smiling coolly. "Depends which stories you heard. Some are true. Some are just good press."
Enrico deals the next hand. "Either way, we brought cash. Hope you brought your poker face."
"Oh, I brought my poker face," Massimo grins dangerously, stacking his chips like a man who's already decided how this night ends. "But I didn't come for the cards. I came to see who flinches first."
Enrico chuckles low, unimpressed. "Careful, Massimo. New York doesn't play by Vegas rules."
Massimo leans forward slightly, eyes cold. "Good. I'm tired of playing by rules I didn't write."
The table goes quiet for a beat, then the game unfolds, bluffs, tension, shots poured like peace offerings. Beneath the surface, alliances stretch and shift. The Vegas family is powerful, but they play a different game. One we're only starting to understand.
But tonight isn't about power plays.
Tonight is about legacy. Loyalty. Brotherhood.
Because soon, the cards won't just decide the game—
They'll decide who lives and who dies.
And when the final hand is dealt, we'll all find out who was bluffing.
For now, we drink.
We play.
We wait.
But war is coming.
And we won't be playing for territory—
We'll be playing for thrones. And blood will crown the winner.
Carlos is dead.
Ledyanoy Prizrak is dead.
Margarita is dead.
But their ghosts? They're still very much alive.
Their shadows stretch long and wide across this city, across all of us.
And Raffael?
He's still standing in the doorway between past and power.
We don't know which side he's chosen, or if he's already building one of his own.
THE END