Chapter Forty-one
Lorenzo
“You know what I think?” Lev asks, his mouth full of ice cream, like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
I lean back in my chair, unimpressed. “Wow. The brute’s thinking? That’s new.”
He ignores me, licking the spoon with disturbing seriousness. “Why bother stopping the wedding when you could just kidnap her?” His tone is calm, dead serious, like he’s suggesting we go out for drinks. “Kill him. Kill anyone who gets in your way. Take her. Done.”
If I were as fucked in the head as him, I might consider it. But unlike Lev, I still have a thin thread tethering me to the civilized world, legitimate businesses, reputations, the kind of things you can’t scrub clean with bleach and a shovel.
“That’s what I’d do,” he shrugs, already starting on his third ice cream.
We sit in silence for five minutes, the only sound being Lev devouring sugar like a rabid animal. Then the door opens, and Kirill steps in, the weight of authority trailing behind him. We exchange a nod, no words needed. Ice follows, silent as stone, escorting the mafia princess herself.
Alisa.
She glares at me as she enters, all fire and defiance packed into her slim frame.
I nod at Ice, who doesn’t so much as blink, and then my eyes flick back to her.
I still don’t understand why Kirill brings her here.
The Bratva don’t exactly throw chairs at the table for women.
The fact she’s allowed to stand here at all? Impressive. Dangerous.
“Did you eat all the ice cream?” Andres’s voice rumbles as he walks in, his glare immediately locking on Lev.
Lev tilts his head, feigning innocence. “Wasn’t it all for me? Who the fuck eats one ice cream? Takes at least three to quiet the craving.”
Alisa rolls her eyes so hard I almost hear it. “Grown men bickering over ice cream. My grandfather would roll in his grave if he knew who was sitting at this table.”
Kirill throws his head back and laughs, the sound sharp and booming, while Ice stands like a statue in the corner, his face as unreadable as stone.
Lev smirks, eyes flashing with mischief. “Why are you even here, little one?” He leans forward, studying her like prey. “You’re basically a baby. What are you, twelve?”
Her eyes sharpen into blades, her voice laced with venom. “I’m eighteen, idiot.” She lifts her chin with pride. “And I’m the daughter of the Pakhan.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Lev waves her off with mock boredom, digging back into his ice cream. “Go buy some more, then. Pretty sure they do baby discounts.”
Kirill roars with laughter again, clearly entertained by his daughter’s fire. Alisa mutters something sharp in Russian under her breath, too fast for me to catch, but judging by the fire in her eyes, it wasn’t anything polite.
Lev casually flips her the middle finger.
I can’t help it, I laugh. Loud. The whole scene is ridiculous, a twisted family comedy in the middle of blood and war.
Alisa might be young, but she’s no pushover. She’s a little heathen raised by wolves, by Lev, to be exact. He practically raised her, and it shows. They fight like cousins, like siblings, like two sides of the same wicked coin.
“Thank you all for coming. I know this is short notice,” Kirill begins, his deep voice cutting through the room. His hands rest heavy on the polished table, commanding silence. “Lorenzo has two important matters to address.”
Dozens of eyes shift to me. I lean forward, elbows braced, and let the weight of my words land.
“The hit on your youngest daughter, Kirill, was done by Italians.”
The temperature in the room drops. Kirill’s fist tightens against the wood, the muscle in his jaw twitching. His men stiffen. Even Ice, usually carved from stone, tilts his head ever so slightly.
“How so?” Kirill asks, voice deceptively calm, the threat humming beneath it like a blade unsheathed.
“Because of my family ties to the Cosa Nostra, I’ve been carrying a target on my back,” I explain, my tone steady, deliberate.
“That target was extended to those close to me. I dug into the attack, those men, the father and the two sons who tried to kidnap Anastasia, they were working under Italian orders.”
The room shifts, whispers curling in the air.
“I don’t yet know the exact reason,” I continue. “And I don’t believe they did it to spark an all-out war. But it was sanctioned. And sanctioned means they’re testing boundaries.”
Silence. Thick. Heavy. Until Kirill speaks.
“I’ll look into it.” His voice is sharp as broken glass. Then, after a beat: “I’d appreciate it if you dug deeper from the inside.”
He doesn’t need to spell it out. He wants me to call my uncle. To pull favors from the very family I’ve spent years severing ties with. My stomach knots, but I simply nod.
“Done.” Then, unable to stop myself, I tilt my head toward Andres, lips twitching with amusement. “Oh, and Andres killed the capo’s right-hand man. Shot him straight in the head.”
Kirill’s eyes cut to Andres, sharp, calculating. Lev, on the other hand, beams like a child at Christmas, clapping Andres on the back.
“Well?” Kirill finally asks, one brow raised.
Andres shrugs, leaning back in his chair like it’s nothing. “He wouldn’t shut the fuck up.” His tone is so casual, so indifferent, it’s almost insulting.
Alisa glares daggers across the table. “For fuck’s sake. Do men actually think before they act?”
Lev grins wolfishly, pointing at himself. “Not this one.” He digs into his ice cream with glee. “Personally? I say we just toss a few bombs at the capo’s house. BOOM. Problem solved.” He spreads his arms wide, as if painting the explosion across the air.
Ice, quiet until now, finally speaks, his voice as cold and unyielding as his name. “I can deal with Don Luciano.”
The weight of that statement presses into the room. Kirill meets his gaze, then nods once, decisive.
“We cannot afford a war with the Italians,” Kirill declares. His voice is iron, leaving no room for debate. “But we will remind them of our strength. They need to know power without mistaking it for weakness. Keep me updated.”
Alisa shifts in her seat, her gaze flicking to me and Andres, sharp as knives. “We wouldn’t even be in this mess if your foster kids kept their guns to themselves.” The venom in her tone drips heavy on the word foster. Her favorite weapon when she wants to cut deep.
Andres doesn’t flinch. Neither do I. We’ve heard it before. But it still burns, the way she spits it. Kirill’s foster kids. Strays he picked up, raised into wolves.
Kirill ignores her jab, his face unreadable. “What’s the second thing, Lorenzo?”
The room stills, all eyes on me. My pulse hammers once, hard, before I steady it. How do you tell the Bratva you want the Attorney General of the United States and the Chief of the fucking FBI tied up in your basement?
I lean forward, voice calm, calculated, deadly serious.
“I want to interrogate two people.” My voice is calm, steady, but the silence it creates feels like gunpowder waiting for a spark.
Kirill leans forward, curious. “Who?” His tone is casual, but his eyes are knives. “You wouldn’t ask for help unless they’re more than just made men. You can handle those yourself.”
Before I can answer, Lev slouches back in his chair with a grin. “Long story short, he wants to kill the Attorney General just to eat some pussy.”
Alisa hisses, snapping her glare at him, but his smirk doesn’t fade. My jaw tightens. I pin him with a stare so sharp it could slit his throat. Idiot.
All eyes swing back to me. Alisa mutters under her breath, “For fuck’s sake.”
“I want to interrogate Thomas Beaumont and John Archibald,” I say, enunciating every syllable like a verdict. The room stills. Even Lev shuts up for a moment.
“Thanks to Lucy, Andres’ creation, I found out Beaumont and Archibald are tied to my father’s death.” Confusion flickers across their faces, so I press on. “Turns out they knew each other better than anyone thought. Too well. And I believe they had a hand in killing him.”
Kirill’s eyes darken, but he stays silent. He listens. Always calculating.
“And when I went to Florence,” I continue, my chest tightening, “my mother confirmed it. She told me my father didn’t die of a heart attack. She warned me to stay away from Beaumont and Archibald. Which makes them guilty enough in my book.”
Andres shoots me a look. He hadn’t heard that part. I don’t care. He knows now.
“They’re protected. Layers of security around them twenty-four-seven. I could send my own men, but this has to be done clean. Smooth. No loose ends. And if something goes wrong, I want the kind of firepower behind me that makes sure none of them walk out alive.”
The silence hangs heavy until Alisa breaks it, her voice sharp with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” She looks at her father, incredulous. “They’re the Attorney General and the Chief of the fucking FBI! This isn’t a street war, Papa, this is suicide!”
Kirill’s gaze softens as it settles on her. But his words are ice. “And we are Bratva.”
The weight of it silences even her.
“I’m in!” Lev shouts, almost bouncing in his seat, his grin manic. Andres doesn’t speak, he doesn’t need to. He was in long before this meeting, when we bled and plotted for hours behind closed doors. Ice gives a single, deliberate nod. A vow.
Alisa shakes her head, disgust rolling off her in waves, but her disapproval doesn’t matter. She’s not part of this play. She’s still too young to understand what it means to have blood debts that cross oceans.
Kirill scans the table, his voice low, final. “When do you want this done?”
My pulse spikes, but my voice stays calm. Controlled. “As soon as possible.”
The truth? I want it now. I want them in my basement tonight, their screams echoing off the walls until they confess everything. But this has to be planned. It has to be perfect.
Kirill nods once. “Anything else you want to add?”
I shake my head. The others do the same.
“Good. Then let’s get it over with,” he says, pushing back from the table. His decision is law. The room begins to shift, chairs scraping against the floor.
But of course, Lev can’t shut his mouth.
“Wait!” He slams his palms against the table. “What about the girl?”
My glare could burn him alive. Kirill’s eyes sharpen, flicking to me.
“She has nothing to do with this,” I growl, my voice low, dangerous. God help him if he says another word about her.
Lev blinks, then smirks. “Aren’t we going to kill him?”
Kirill arches a brow. “Kill who?”
“Archibald’s son,” Lev says, like it’s obvious. “He’s marrying Lorenzo’s girl.”
Every head turns to me.
Alisa explodes. “You have got to be kidding me.” She storms closer, fury radiating off her. “Tell me we’re not doing all of this because you can’t keep your dick out of Beaumont’s princess!”
“Language,” Lev mutters with a grin. “You’re still a baby. And yeah, we’re absolutely going to war for pussy. Isn’t that how all wars start?” He winks at her, unfazed by her rage.
Alisa’s nostrils flare, ready to tear into him, but Kirill’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade.
“I know about Lorenzo and Serena.” His tone is calm, steady, but absolute. “And I support their relationship.”
The shock in Alisa’s face is almost satisfying. Almost.
Lev slams his hand against the table, grinning like a lunatic. “To war then!”
“No war, idiot,” Andres growls, exasperated.
Ice hasn’t moved once. He just stares, bored, like all of this is beneath him. But I know better. He’s calculating. Waiting. Always waiting.
And me?
I sit back in my chair, calm on the outside, but inside, my veins are burning with a single truth.
This isn’t about politics.
It isn’t about Beaumont or the FBI.
This is about blood. About my father. About Serena.
And I’ll tear the world apart before I let anyone take her away from me.
The room empties, chairs scraping against the marble floor as one by one they leave, Kirill, Ice, Lev, even Alisa with her disgust still clinging to the air.
And then it’s just me and Andres.
Silence. Heavy. The kind that presses down on your shoulders like a loaded gun.
I drag my hands over my face, feel the sting in my knuckles from earlier, the dull ache in my temples. Fuck. It’s been a long day. Too long. My body’s begging for rest, but my mind? My mind won’t stop.
All I can think about is her.
Her tears.
Her voice breaking when she said she loved me.
I hate her. God, I hate her for what she did, for what she didn’t tell me. But even in this rage, even in this spiral, I want her. No, I need her. If not out of love, then out of spite. If she betrayed me, I’ll chain her so tight she’ll never betray me again.
But this, this war I’m about to start, this isn’t just for her. This is for my father.
For the truth.
For the closure I’ve been denied for years.
For my mother, who’s too afraid to set foot in New York because of the shadows Beaumont and Archibald cast.
They think they can bury my father’s memory under lies and power? No. I’ll dig it out of their fucking bones if I have to. I’ll burn their names from history.
Andres steps forward, breaking me out of my storm. He doesn’t need words; he just pulls me into a brother’s hug, brief, solid, the kind that says I’ve got you, even if we both go down for this.
“Ready?” he asks quietly. He knows what’s at stake. We both do. This isn’t just another job. This isn’t just blood on the streets.
We’re about to strike at men who move the pieces of this country like gods. One wrong step and we’re finished. Not just us, Andres, Kirill, Lev, Ice, the whole Bratva. We could rot in prison, or we could die in a hail of bullets.
But if it comes to that?
We’ll kill every last one of them and make it look like a fucking accident.
“Always,” I say, my voice flat, final. My pulse is steady now, calm in the way only death and revenge can make it.
I prepare myself, because war is coming.
They should’ve never touched my father.
They should’ve never tried to take her from me.
Because now?
I’ll take everything from them.