Chapter 27
Morning sunlight cuts through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes, washing over my massive mahogany desk. The air in the office is cool, sterile, and still—the typical quiet after a bloody cleanup.
The phone buzzes once—a harsh, immediate sound. The name flashing across the screen— Viktor Volkov—freezes the air in my lungs.
I stare at it for a beat, letting the implications sink in. The head of the Volkov organization. The man whose peripheral shadow led to Isabella's kidnapping. I answer only when I've hardened my voice into its most precise, unyielding tone.
"Volkov."
"Moretti." The voice on the other end is deep, accented, and smooth as oil, lacking any hint of the chaos his organization just caused. "I trust your woman has recovered."
My jaw flexes, a reflexive clench of control. The directness of the reference is both a threat and a confirmation of his awareness. "She's alive. Her brother isn't walking free, if that's what you're asking. He'll pay every debt he accrued."
"I'm not," he says, calm, deliberate. "I called because there are…
misunderstandings between us. It seems our former associate—your woman's brother—was operating entirely on his own.
He went rogue. His actions against you were not sanctioned by me or mine.
His chaos was his own foolish undertaking. "
I lean back slowly in the leather chair, letting the expensive hide creak in the silence.
My fingers drum once against the polished wood of the desk, the sound loud in the quiet room.
"You expect me to believe that? That he acted alone while doing business in your territory with your money?
That he wasn't a useful lever to push into my own house? "
A short, dry laugh slides through the receiver.
"You've been at this as long as I have, Dante.
You know there's always one fool who thinks he's smarter than the men who own him.
The fool pays. The rest keep their peace.
We have no interest in upsetting the balance of the North-Eastern territories over a pathetic, compromised debt-dodger. "
He was making a show of disowning Danny, a public execution of his usefulness. It was plausible, but it didn't lessen the damage. I let the silence stretch long enough for the distance and the danger to press against him.
"You want peace?" I finally ask, my voice rough.
"I want the war between us to end before it costs us both more blood, Dante. I have other fronts to worry about. You are an unnecessary expenditure."
"Peace doesn't come cheap," I say. The implication is clear: I want payment for the blood spilled, the time wasted, and the risk to my family.
"Then name your price."
I hum, low and thoughtful, eyes fixed on the panoramic view of the skyline through the window.
The city sprawls beneath me, vulnerable and vast. I think of Isabella, bruised but sleeping peacefully in my bed.
I think of Sofia, whose eyes are still watching the shadows.
I needed an insurance policy that couldn't be bought or killed.
"There's only one thing that buries bad blood for good," I state, my voice dropping in temperature. "Something that makes our interests irrevocably linked."
He waits. The pause is heavy, Volkov calculating the financial or territorial demand.
"A marriage."
There's a pause. Not of anger, but of surprise. Then a quiet chuckle, deep in his chest. "You surprise me, Moretti. I didn't think you believed in alliances sealed with flesh anymore. That's the old, romantic way."
"I believe in leverage," I reply. "A shared liability. If one of your children is in my house, I know your hand. If one of my people is in yours, you know mine. It's the only language that binds two organizations this size. No money, no land. Just a name."
He laughs again, this time lighter, almost pleased. He appreciated the cold, clean logic of the move. "Send me the name of your man. I'll send my daughter's."
"Later today."
"Good."
The line clicks dead.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the phone, the word marriage echoing in my head.
A pact. A forced, personal union that would tether our two worlds together.
It makes my stomach twist with distaste for the inherent brutality of the transaction.
Still, it's the only way to keep Sofia and Bella safe without another prolonged, devastating war that could flare up at any moment. Sacrifice for security.
I hit the contact on my phone, pressing the button hard with my thumb. "Alessandro. My office. Now."
He comes in a minute later, moving with his usual lean efficiency. His sleeves are rolled to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms, and his eyes are still sharp despite the exhaustion that's been riding us both for days. He is the rock, the constant in the escalating chaos.
"You wanted me?"
"Close the door, Sandro."
He does, the heavy wood latching shut with a solid thud.
"The Russians called," I say, watching his face closely. "Volkov wants to talk peace. He claims Danny acted alone, and he wants to end the war immediately."
Alessandro snorts, moving to the small bar to pour himself a glass of water. "You believe that lie?"
"I don't believe in coincidence. But I believe in opportunity when it's handed to me. We're going to end this the old way—by marriage. One of ours for one of theirs."
He's quiet for a long time, sipping the water, processing the cold finality of the decision. He knew the cost of war; he also knew the cost of peace. "You've already got someone in mind."
"I've got a few," I admit. "Men, I trust. Men who are strong enough to carry the weight of this alliance and who won't snap under the pressure. But I won't force it. Whoever it is will have to know exactly what they're walking into."
He's still silent, and when I finally look up, he's watching me with something unreadable in his expression—not judgment, but a deep, profound understanding of the necessary cruelty involved.
Then, he sets the glass down, his eyes fixed on mine. "I'll do it."
It takes a second for the words to cut through the planning storm in my head. "What?"
"I'll marry her. The Russian girl."
"Alessandro, you don't have to—" I started the protest automatically. He was my brother in everything but blood. I wouldn't condemn him to this.
"It makes the most sense," he states, cutting me off, stepping closer, and leaning his knuckles on the edge of the desk.
"They know I'm your underboss. I'm your heir apparent.
If I marry her, it sends a clear, powerful message—we're serious about peace, but the Morettis still hold the central power.
I am your most trusted lieutenant. And Volkov will know I will never betray you for a woman. My loyalty is absolute."
He says it like it's the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. But I know what it costs—a lifetime tied to someone he doesn't know, someone he might have to use or destroy for the family. He's sacrificing any future chance at a quiet life, a chosen love. He's sacrificing himself for my peace.
I study him for a long moment, taking in the steady refusal in his eyes. "You're sure, Sandro?"
He nods once, hard, unblinking. "For the family. For her."
He doesn't have to specify which "her" he means. I know it's Sofia who needs stability. Knowing he can give that to her would have him do anything. I lean back in the chair, running a hand over my face, the faintest hint of reluctant pride—and a burning sense of debt—tugging at my chest.
"Then it's settled," I say, the finality of the decision heavy. "I'll send the name before sundown. We start making preparations immediately. No fanfare. No leaks. Rafe will vet everything about this girl—her habits, her friends, her favorite brand of vodka."
He nods, turns to leave, and pauses at the door, his hand on the knob.
"When Volkov's daughter arrives," he says quietly, his voice a low, lethal hum, "we'll show them that peace doesn't mean weakness. It means we own a piece of their foundation now."
The door closes behind him, leaving me alone again. The silence is profound.
I glance at the framed photo on my desk—Sofia in her play costume, her face lit with pure, innocent joy, Isabella's bruised but loving hand brushing her cheek in the aftermath. Two reasons I can't afford another war.
And one promise, made at an immense personal cost, that might just save us all.