Chapter Twenty-five #2
I cross the room and take Serena’s hand. The girls are still laughing, now positioning Serena in the center, all of them touching her belly. She’s glowing. Radiant. Untouchable.
“We’ll go play poker in the boardroom,” I tell her softly. “Christmas tradition.”
She smiles, warm and trusting. “Okay.”
I kiss her gently. Her lips taste like cinnamon and vanilla, and for a moment the world goes quiet.
Then we turn toward the boardroom, and the night begins to sharpen its teeth.
We take our seats around the long table.
Kirill sits at the head, naturally, like the room was built to orient itself around him.
Ice takes the chair closest to the wall, back straight, expression unreadable, already surveying exits and angles.
Andres sits relaxed but alert, fingers drumming once against the polished wood before stilling.
Lev drops into his chair, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his suit.
Julian sits beside him, calm, composed, deceptively casual. And then there’s me.
For a moment, I just observe.
Julian’s presence catches my attention. I had assumed he was here purely because of Lev, because of loyalty, because of blood-adjacent bonds forged through violence and time. But the way Kirill looks at him tells me otherwise. Julian isn’t a guest. He’s an asset.
“Tell me, Julian,” Kirill says, folding his hands on the table, his voice calm but commanding, “how are the matches going?”
Julian leans back slightly, lips curling into a slow, confident smirk. “I’m the champion.”
No arrogance. Just fact.
Kirill’s mouth twitches with approval. “Of course you are,” he says, pride evident. “When are you planning to fight internationally again?”
Julian exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “I’m taking a break,” he says. “Need to focus on family for a while.”
That catches Kirill’s attention.
“Everything alright?” he asks, eyes sharpening just a fraction.
Julian meets his gaze without hesitation. “It will be.”
Kirill studies him for a beat, then nods. “Very well.” He pauses, then adds, “If you’re still in the city, I may need you to accompany Lev on an intervention.”
Lev’s grin turns feral.
Julian’s smile is slower, darker. “Gladly.”
That smile tells me everything. Julian doesn’t fight for sport. He fights because he enjoys what comes after.
Before Kirill can say more, the heavy doors open.
The air shifts instantly.
Paolo steps in first, dressed impeccably, confidence dripping from every movement.
The capo of the Camorra wears his power like a tailored suit.
Right behind him comes Alexandre Machabeli, the Georgian smotryashchiy, eyes sharp, movements economical, a man who measures rooms the way others measure breath. And then Achilles Kyros enters last.
The Greek.
Tall. Imposing. His presence is quiet but crushing, like pressure building before a storm. His gaze sweeps the room once, cataloguing each of us, calculating. No wasted motion. No wasted emotion.
Three men. Three empires. Three reasons this night could end in blood.
Kirill rises slowly, commanding attention without effort. “Gentlemen,” he says evenly, “welcome.”
I lean back slightly in my chair, jaw tight, already running through contingencies.
They take their seats around the table, each of them nodding once in acknowledgment. No pleasantries. No wasted gestures. Respect here is measured in silence, not smiles.
Just as Kirill is about to speak, the door opens again.
Alisa steps into the room.
“Apologies for being late,” she says calmly, as if she hasn’t just disrupted the balance of power in the room.
She doesn’t wait for permission. She moves with quiet confidence and takes the empty seat beside Achilles.
That alone is a statement.
Achilles turns his head slowly, eyes flicking to her with open interest. A smirk curves his mouth.
“So the rumors are true,” he says. “This is interesting.”
Alisa meets his gaze without hesitation, her smile sharp, calculated. Dangerous.
Kirill clears his throat, reclaiming control of the room instantly.
“Let’s begin,” he says. “I’ll start by outlining the agenda for tonight.”
His eyes move deliberately from one man to the next.
“If any information discussed in this room leaves it,” he continues evenly, “you already know the consequences.”
“Not a quick death,” Lev adds lazily, cracking his knuckles.
Across the table, Alexandre leans back in his chair, completely at ease, as if executions are nothing more than background noise.
Kirill doesn’t react. He simply continues.
“First, we’ll discuss the gun trafficking issue with Paolo.” He inclines his head toward him, and Paolo nods once in acknowledgment.
“Then we’ll move on to casino investments with Alexandre.”
Alexandre offers a faint smile, predatory and amused.
“And finally,” Kirill says, turning to Achilles, “we’ll discuss future business opportunities together.”
He pauses, deliberate.
“Thank you for joining us, Achilles. I’m confident this partnership will be. . . productive.”
Achilles inclines his head slightly, eyes still lingering on Alisa before returning to Kirill.
It’s time to start the charade.
Every detail has already been calculated. Paolo didn’t arrive alone. Neither did Alexandre. Paolo brought three guards. Alexandre brought one. Achilles arrived without anyone at his back, which tells me everything I need to know about him.
This is our territory. There are snipers positioned on the perimeter, eyes trained on every possible angle, fingers already resting where they need to be. Still, I don’t want blood tonight. Not here. Not with Serena under this roof.
So I lean back in my chair, adopting the posture of a man mildly inconvenienced rather than one about to dismantle an alliance.
“I’m sorry, Paolo,” I say calmly, as if genuinely confused. “I didn’t quite catch what Kirill meant earlier when he mentioned problems with the guns.”
I pause just long enough to bait him.
“Are the guns I sent through Luciano not satisfactory?”
The reaction is immediate.
Paolo’s brow furrows. “The guns you sent?”
Perfect.
“Yes,” I reply evenly. “I’ve been supplying Cosa Nostra over the last few months. Since my father had good relations with Camorra, I instructed Luciano to handle the distribution.” I shrug, casual, unbothered. “I didn’t have direct contact with you.”
Paolo shifts in his seat. His gaze sharpens, reassessing.
“You’re Giovanni’s son?”
Bingo.
I nod once. Controlled. Respectful.
Silence stretches, thick and deliberate.
“Luciano didn’t give us anything,” Paolo says finally, irritation bleeding into his voice. “Not a single crate.”
I let my expression change just enough. Surprise, not outrage. Concern, not accusation.
“He didn’t?” I ask. “That’s. . . odd. Luciano confirmed Camorra received everything. He even mentioned you were pleased with the quality.”
Paolo’s jaw tightens. His hands curl on the table.
“I always knew Luciano was a fucking snake.”
Alisa doesn’t miss her cue.
“I’m not surprised,” she says coolly. “He’s always been greedy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” I say smoothly, lifting a hand like a peacekeeper. “There might be an explanation. Miscommunication happens.”
Paolo scoffs. “There’s no miscommunication. Things between Camorra and Cosa Nostra have been strained for months.”
“Oh?” I murmur, leaning forward slightly. “That’s news to me.”
It isn’t.
“I don’t understand why Luciano would lie to both of us,” I continue, tone edged with disappointment. “It puts me in an uncomfortable position. And it puts you in a compromised one.”
Andres joins in seamlessly.
“He’s been playing both sides,” he says flatly. “Bratva and Camorra.”
Alisa clicks her tongue. “I warned you.” She tilts her head, expression darkening. “He even tried to grab my ass once.”
Ice’s jaw tightens. Kirill massages his temples like this conversation is physically painful.
I turn to Alisa, feigning concern. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
She lowers her gaze, suddenly fragile. “I was scared.”
Ice rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised he doesn’t injure himself.
Achilles lets out a low chuckle. “Sounds like Luciano’s a real piece of shit.” He inclines his head politely. “No offense.”
Paolo turns his attention fully to me now. The shift is subtle but absolute.
“I always supported your father,” he says. “I never trusted Luciano. And now this.” His voice hardens. “He’s betrayed us again.”
I nod slowly, letting the silence do the work.
“My father believed alliances were built on respect,” I say evenly. “Not theft. Not deception.”
I meet Paolo’s eyes, unblinking.
“If you were wronged,” I continue, “then I want to fix it. Properly. Directly.”
The implication hangs heavy in the air.
Luciano is already bleeding influence.
And Paolo doesn’t even realize he’s the one holding the knife now.
“I can speak to Luciano,” I offer, my tone neutral, almost courteous. “See what happened on his side.”
I already know he won’t take it. Men like Paolo don’t want mediation. They want certainty. I just need to give him permission to abandon the sinking ship without feeling like a traitor.
Paolo shakes his head immediately. Too quickly. Emotion always moves faster than logic. “No need,” he says. “We don’t need any supplies from Cosa Nostra. We can work directly with you.”
Then, like a man checking if the floor will hold his weight, he looks to Kirill. “If that’s acceptable.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe deeper. I let Kirill answer, because power always sounds better when it comes from someone else.
“Of course it’s acceptable,” Kirill says calmly. “We would be more than pleased to be partners.” A pause. Just long enough. “But the guns are supplied by Lorenzo alone. He supplies us as well.”
Paolo’s reaction is subtle, but I catch it. A flicker in the eyes. A recalculation. The moment where the puzzle finally aligns.
I keep my face still. This is important. Surprise would cheapen it.