Chapter Twenty-five
Lorenzo
I spent the last hour laying out my plan in precise detail, stripping it down to facts, timelines, leverage.
By the time I finished, every man in that room knew exactly what would happen next and what role he would play in it.
There would be no improvisation tonight.
No surprises I hadn’t already accounted for.
After Christmas dinner, we would move to the boardroom.
Poker on the surface. Politics underneath.
Paolo, capo of the Camorra, would be there, convinced he was walking into an opportunity for himself.
Alexandre Machabeli, the Georgian smotryashchiy, and Achilles Kyros, head of Greek organized crime, would attend for business, not sentiment.
Paolo was the only variable, and I’d dragged him here under the illusion of advantage.
If I played this right, he would leave aligned with me and not even realize when the shift happened.
Two hours until they arrived.
Two hours in which Serena needed to feel safe. Normal. Happy.
As we step back into the living room, the smell of food hits me hard enough that my stomach betrays me with an unmistakable growl. I scoff quietly at myself. Apparently planning a coup works up an appetite.
“This looks amazing,” I say as I take the seat beside Serena.
She gives me a shy smile, eyes soft. “I just helped with the plates.”
“She did far more than that,” Reina says immediately, not even looking at her as she speaks. “She’s being modest.”
Serena blushes, the faint pink climbing her cheeks, and something in my chest warms in a way that has nothing to do with the fire crackling nearby.
The seating settles naturally. The girls sit together, their energy lighter, softer. Julian takes the seat next to Clara, protective without being obvious. Lev drops into the chair beside him, stretching out like he owns the space. Andres follows, already scanning the room out of habit.
Kirill sits at the head of the table, Reina to his right, Anastasia to his left.
Alisa takes the seat beside her sister, posture straight, eyes sharp.
Ice joins last, settling beside Alisa with deliberate calm.
I clock the tension between them instantly.
The way Alisa’s gaze flicks toward him, the way Ice doesn’t acknowledge it at all. Interesting.
“This is incredible, Reina,” Kirill says, genuine warmth in his voice. “Thank you for preparing all of this.”
Reina blushes like she hasn’t been the spine holding this family together for decades. “I had my little helpers,” she says, winking at the girls.
They all smile, the room filling with something dangerously close to peace.
“Thank you, girls,” Kirill adds, nodding to them.
It feels right. Too right. All the people I care about at one table, laughter mixing with the clink of cutlery, the illusion of normalcy settling over us like a fragile veil.
My mother should be here.
The thought lands heavier than I expect.
I haven’t spoken to her in months. Not since I learned the truth about my father’s death.
I know it wasn’t her fault. I know that.
But knowing doesn’t make it easier. I’ve been buried under Serena’s kidnapping, Luciano’s games, the weight of decisions that end lives.
Somewhere in the chaos, I forgot to call my own mother.
Son of the year, indeed.
I make a mental note to call her after dinner. Merry Christmas, at the very least.
Conversation flows easily as we eat. Laughter, questions, small confessions.
Kirill leans back slightly, surveying the table. “So,” he says, addressing everyone, “are you pleased with how your year went?”
Sienna answers first, confidence rolling off her as naturally as breath. She talks about international campaigns, Dior, YSL, Armani. Runways and shoots, airports and deadlines. Reina listens like every word matters, praising her achievements without envy or dismissal.
Serena speaks next, and the room quiets without anyone asking it to.
She tells them about her book. How she started with fantasy but it never felt right. How the kidnapping changed something in her. How she poured the trauma into a thriller instead. A story about a girl taken, trapped, piecing together the truth.
“I guess something good came out of all that pain,” she says softly. “I’m almost finished. It’s about a girl trying to figure out who was behind her kidnapping.” She grins, a spark of mischief in her eyes. “But you’ll have to read it to find out.”
My chest aches.
This woman took horror and turned it into creation. Took fear and made it art. If the world doesn’t love that book, I’ll buy every copy myself and make sure it still becomes a success.
“That’s impressive, Serena,” Kirill tells her, genuine respect in his tone.
She smiles, proud, and she should be.
Clara speaks next, explaining how she left modeling behind, how dance is where she feels alive. She talks about pole dancing without shame, about wanting to open her own school someday. No one mocks her. No one dismisses her. Reina listens like it’s already decided that Clara will succeed.
Kylie shrugs when it’s her turn, honesty bare. She talks about modeling, about drifting, about not knowing where she belongs right now.
Reina reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. “Don’t rush yourself, honey. There’s no competition. We grow at different speeds, and that’s normal.”
The girls smile at her like she’s already claimed a piece of their hearts.
I watch Serena laugh with them, her hand resting unconsciously over her belly, and I think this is what I’m fighting for. Not power. Not titles.
This moment.
“You haven’t introduced yourself,” Kylie says, tilting her head toward Ice with an amused grin.
I smirk into my glass. If there is one man in this room with absolutely zero social skills, it’s him.
“Don’t mind him,” Alisa cuts in smoothly. “In the cave he lives in, they don’t teach manners.”
Ice’s eyes flick to her, cold and sharp. “Apologies,” he says flatly. “You can call me Ice.”
“Nice to meet you, Ice,” Kylie replies cheerfully. “Are you, like, a super-secret detective who can’t tell us his real name?” she asks, clearly enjoying herself.
“More like an unskilled murderer,” Alisa snaps, venom lacing every word.
Kirill and Reina conveniently disappear toward the kitchen, apparently in search of more wine. Good timing. I’m glad they’re not here to witness this.
Ice turns to Alisa, his face unreadable. “You have a problem with me?”
“You are a problem for me,” she fires back without hesitation.
Kylie’s eyes light up. “Wait, are you guys dating?”
She knows exactly what she’s doing. Serena glances at me and smiles softly, and for a second I wish I could freeze that expression forever.
“Ew. No,” Alisa scoffs. Ice lifts an eyebrow. “I actually have a boyfriend.”
“Since when?” Lev asks sharply, the protective edge in his voice unmistakable.
“Not anymore,” Ice says calmly, eyes never leaving Alisa. “Don’t worry about it.”
The tension thickens instantly.
Kylie, sensing the emotional grenade she’s just thrown, suddenly decides it’s the perfect moment for Christmas selfies.
She drags Clara toward the tree, Sienna following close behind.
Julian and Clara fall into their own quiet conversation, and suddenly it’s just me, Lev, Andres, Serena, and the storm brewing between Ice and Alisa.
Anastasia has slipped away to help her parents.
“Why the fuck did you have to kill him?” Alisa asks, her voice breaking just enough to reveal the pain beneath the anger. “Papa said I could date, as long as it was discreet until I get married.”
“He kissed you,” Ice says, his tone lethal in its calm.
“No shit, Sherlock,” she snaps. “That’s what people who like each other do. They kiss.”
“Language,” Lev mutters.
“You can’t be touched by filthy lips,” Ice says coldly. “You’re the daughter of the Pakhan. No one is worthy of you.”
“Oh, that’s touching,” Alisa replies mockingly. “Next time, I’ll make sure you don’t just see how my boyfriend kisses me. I’ll record it so you can see how he fucks me.”
Lev visibly recoils. “What the fuck?” he groans. “You’re like my younger sister. Excuse me while I go vomit.”
Ice doesn’t laugh. His face darkens, something violent flickering behind his eyes, and for a split second I wonder if he’s about to lose control.
“Should we give them space?” Serena whispers, her fingers tightening slightly around mine.
“Let’s go,” I murmur, guiding her gently away.
She joins the others by the Christmas tree. Clara, Sienna, Anastasia, Kylie, Reina, and Serena cluster together, laughter filling the room. Kirill takes photos, and every time he messes one up, six women glare at him in perfect unison.
“Should we stop them?” Andres asks quietly, nodding toward Ice and Alisa.
I shake my head. “That’s between Kirill, Lev, and him.”
Still, I don’t move far.
“You say that again,” Ice growls, low and dangerous, “and you’ll never leave your room.”
“Fuck you, Ice,” Alisa snaps. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, or who I can or can’t fuck.”
He steps closer. She doesn’t retreat. Chin high. Unafraid. Daughter of the Pakhan indeed.
“I’m here,” he says softly, dangerously, “to protect you from everything, especially your fucking self.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” she says, her fury cracking into pain. “I need protection from you. You don’t guard me. You cage me.”
She storms out of the room.
Ice exhales sharply, then turns to me and Andres. “I need access to her phone.”
“No,” I say immediately. “If she finds out, she’ll make things worse.”
“She’s provoking me,” he says quietly. “And I’m running out of reasons to hold back.”
“You can’t keep her on a leash,” Andres adds. “She’s not the submissive type.”
Ice’s jaw tightens. “If control is the only language she understands,” he says quietly, “then I’ll put a fucking chain around her neck.”
Then he straightens. “Boardroom. See you there.”
I check my watch. Eight PM. Time.