Chapter 39
AbrAM
Rain claws at the windshield in silvery sheets, a sight rarely seen in Vegas.
Inside the Yukon the wipers thud a slow, relaxing rhythm. None of us speak. Mikail drives, shoulders hunched, muscle in his jaw jumping every few seconds as he grinds his teeth. Denis sits shotgun, elbows braced on his knees, thumbs flicking the safety on his pistol on and off.
“Feels like we’re on our way to our own execution,” Denis mutters, gaze fixed on the streaming glass.
“Don’t think about it,” Mikail answers, voice flat. “We’ll walk out. We always walk out.”
I roll the tension from my neck and keep my tone even. “One way or another, we’re getting our audience with Don Agosti. If he’s reasonable, we leave as businessmen. If not, we do things the old way.”
Neither argues. The tension grows heavier.
I picture Jenna the way I left her at home—in bed, dwarfed by my hoodie, still banged up but sporting a warm smile. She appeared confident, yet her eyes tracked every move I made, as if memorizing me in case the universe decided not to return me.
I kissed her forehead, promising I’d be back for dinner. I also promised to bring dessert. She nodded like she believed me, but I could read the terror she was trying to hide.
I tighten my grip on the armrest. I’m bringing her that dessert.
We exit the freeway, slipping into a pocket of old-money suburbia—broad oaks, edged lawns, manicured shrubs, and perfectly hedged flower beds.
Not the ostentatious palazzo most expect from a Mafia patriarch.
Don Agosti prefers camouflage. He resides in a long, two-story Spanish colonial set back behind an iron gate.
White stucco, red-tile roof, shrubs trimmed with military precision.
Cozy enough to lull fools, defensible enough to deny SWAT a clean shot. Clever old bastard.
Mikail slows at the gate. Cameras blink behind rain-spattered glass blocks. A second later, the iron lattice rattles aside. We roll onto a circular driveway paved with dark cobblestone. The house itself is quiet, windows dark, only a single porch sconce burning like a watching eye.
We step out into the drizzle. Rain needles my scalp, sliding beneath the collar of my jacket, the cool bite steadying me. Denis checks the rear while Mikail scans the roofline. No obvious overwatch. For now.
The front door opens, and two guards stride onto the covered portico. One carries an umbrella large enough to shade a small car; the other flashes a thin smile that never reaches his eyes.
Showtime.
The guard with the umbrella shepherds us across a terra-cotta foyer that smells of lemon polish and old incense. Mosaic tiles gleam under the recessed lights, Denis’s muttered warning from earlier still echoing in my skull.
“Remember Goodfellas,” he’d said. “Any plastic tarps on the floor, we bolt.”
We keep our eyes forward, breath steady.
The second guard gestures to an antique console table.
We surrender all pistols, backup blades, spare mags.
Everything disappears into a mahogany drawer that locks with a soft click.
They pat us down—professional, quick—then one man stays to bolt the front door while the other beckons us deeper into the mansion.
The hallway is colored in dark walnut, a color so dark it swallows the light. Somewhere a scratchy gramophone croons “O Sole Mio,” violin warbling under the thunder rolling outside. Crystal sconces tremble with each boom, as if the house itself is nervous.
We pause outside tall, double doors carved from oak. The guard raps twice, listens, then pushes them open.
Inside, firelight casts a golden glow over a well-kept study. Bookcases line the walls, a large desk with a high-backed leather chair sits near the window, and a large portrait of a long-ago don watches over everything from above the mantel.
And there—centered before the hearth—sits Don Mariano Agosti.
He looks ancient—almost spectral—skin parchment-thin, robe loosely fitting over a body that’s run out of muscle but not elegance.
A clear nasal cannula loops over his ears to an oxygen cylinder parked at his side, its regulator hissing a faint heartbeat.
Yet his eyes—black olives under hooded lids—remain sharp as a stiletto.
The flames from the fire cast an eerie backdrop.
We halt three paces from his wingback chair. The guard retreats to a corner after closing the doors. Mikail’s shoulders tense. Denis scans the room top to bottom.
The don lifts two translucent fingers in greeting. His voice is a husky rasp. “Signor Vasiliev, forgive me for remaining seated. Even small gestures cost me more air than I can spare.”
I incline my head. “Your home, your rules, Don Agosti. I appreciate the time.”
He nods slowly, eyes settling on the empty space beneath my jacket where a shoulder holster should be. “You killed my son.”
The words hang in the air. How can I respond to that?
“Nico abducted my woman,” I reply. “Put a gun to her head. Assaulted her. She’s the mother of my child. I did what any man would do.”
The old man exhales, a shaky, ominous sound, and for a brief second grief washes over his face. The kind of grief only a father knows. Nico was a piece of shit, but he was still his son.
The flicker of grief fades as quickly as it came, buried beneath decades of practiced composure. He straightens in his chair as best he can, chin lifting.
“So be it,” he says. “Let us not waste time pretending our blood cannot be spilled.” A brittle smile tugs at his lips.
“My son dies, your child lives. Such is the way of things, I suppose. A new life is always a blessing.” He taps the oxygen line and the canister hisses louder, matching the storm raging outside.
Thunder rattles the windowpanes. Mikail relaxes his stance slightly but Denis’s hand still hovers over the phantom of a weapon locked away. Muscle memory and instinct.
The don’s gaze returns to me. “I blame myself. Illness chains me to hospitals, and while I rot, Nico chased shadows of power he never earned. I was not aware.”
A ragged cough tears through him, and he muffles it with a monogrammed handkerchief, spots of red blooming like poppies on the expensive white material.
When the spasm eases, he sinks back in his chair.
“You must believe, Signore Vasiliev, had I known what Nico was up to, this insult to your family would never have happened.”
His sincerity feels real, but sincerity can be weaponized. My expression remains neutral, voice level. “Your ignorance is no excuse for what happened. There’s a score to settle here, Don.”
He studies the reflection of the flames against the window for a moment, as if searching for an answer in the dance of the sparks.
Another wheeze then, “Which is why we must cut away the rot before the city burns. Why we must, together, choose to end the violence before it can continue, regardless of who wronged whom.” The old man lifts a trembling hand toward the doors.
“There is someone I’d like you to meet.”
Thunder cracks again as the study doors open. Every muscle in my body tenses, expecting the flash of a muzzle.
Instead, a woman enters. Early forties I’d guess, though the poise makes age irrelevant.
Long black hair swept into a low twist, strong cheekbones, mouth set in a line that suggests she’s issued orders men had no choice but to obey.
Tailored navy suit, pearls around her neck and in her ears, a silk shawl the color of old wine draped over one shoulder.
Southern-Italian royalty on a funeral errand.
She crosses the room with unhurried confidence and offers me her hand. Her grip is firm, certain. “Isabella Agosti,” she introduces herself. “It’s a pleasure, Signore Vasiliev.” She repeats the ritual with Denis and Mikail, nodding politely to each, assessing us quietly.
The don’s eyes soften. “My daughter,” he tells us. “And soon, my voice.”
Isabella settles into the armchair beside him. Only after confirming his comfort does she turn her attention to the three men invading her father’s study.
The don exhales a shaky breath. “I wish to die under my own roof, not among sterile hospital walls.” A rueful smile. “But I refuse to leave bloodshed as my epitaph.”
Isabella takes over, her tone measured. “You have our deepest regret for Nico’s excesses, Signore Vasiliev.
My brother coveted power he did not earn.
He believed violence equaled strength.” A brief pause, pain flickering in her gaze, but there’s steel underneath it.
“His death ends one problem, yet it presents another.”
I incline my head, unsure if she’s a diplomat or a velvet-gloved threat. “Succession.”
“Precisely.” She folds her hands. “In Sicily, my life is my children, vineyards, art foundations. But I am the last direct Agosti heir.” She glances at her father, who nods. “I return to America to assume stewardship of our holdings—cleanly, respectfully—without a war.”
Denis arches a brow. “Territory lines have already been crossed, Ms. Agosti.”
Isabella accepts the point with a graceful nod. “Lines can be redrawn rationally. Murders invite federal spotlights. Accountants make far better allies than coroners.” She allows herself a small smile. “Besides, America adores brilliant women. Your country will accommodate me.”
The don chuckles, a rattling sound. “She has claws, Signore Vasiliev. Sharper than mine ever were.”
Jenna’s face flashes in my mind, still fierce even with a gun at her head. “Our city does appreciate brilliance,” I concede, my voice cool, “but trust has to be built, not forced.”
“Then let’s begin building.” Isabella leans forward.
“Over the next months, you and I will meet often. We’ll settle the border disputes, repair damaged businesses, bury the dead with dignity.
And we will both make a great deal of money.
” Her gaze hardens. “My brother was a fool. No more kidnappings. No threats to women or children. Agosti honor demands it.”
I study her for a long moment. She doesn’t blink.
The storm outside fades to a dull rainfall. The fire pops in the grate, scattering sparks that glow briefly before dying—exactly what this war could become—if we so choose.
I give a single nod. “Then we have the beginning of an understanding.”
Isabella smiles. “That’s all I came to secure tonight. We’ll write the fine print tomorrow.”
Denis exhales. Mikail lowers his shoulders a fraction. The guard in the corner even visibly relaxes, just enough to prove this meeting really was a negotiation, not an execution.
The don’s breathing grows more shallow, each inhale dragging like gravel through a pipe.
He lifts one trembling hand, palm open in farewell.
“There is nothing more to discuss,” he rasps.
“The fate of the family sits in Isabella’s hands now.
The next time we meet, Mr. Vasiliev, will be at my funeral, if you’d honor an old rival with your presence. ”
I nod once. “I will stand to pay my respects, Don. But I expect that day is still a long road off.”
He wheezes out a laugh that turns into a cough. “Ah, that famous Russian sense of humor.”
Isabella rises, gently touching her father’s shoulder, then gestures for us to follow. The guards open the study doors, and she walks us back through the silent, dark corridor.
“At dawn, I’ll arrange a preliminary agenda,” she says. “My advisors will reach out to yours. Let’s give Las Vegas a quarter without gunfire, shall we?”
“We’ll see what we can manage,” I answer.
At the foyer she stops, extending her hand once more. “I look forward to a very profitable relationship, Signore Vasiliev.”
“Likewise, Ms. Agosti.”
The front door swings open. Rain sheets off the portico roof, silvering the drive.
Two guards return our weapons—magazines separate, chambers empty.
Professional courtesy. Denis slides in behind the wheel of the Yukon while Mikail takes shotgun.
I climb into the back and rest my head against the cool leather.
The moment the gate shuts behind us, Denis expels a long breath. “Bozhe moi, I thought we were headed for a mass grave.”
Mikail rubs a hand over his face. “If Isabella’s half as reasonable as she sounds, we might actually get a cease-fire.”
“Reasonable people can play unreasonable games,” I mutter, watching the slow strobe of streetlamps pass over wet pavement. Is this truly peace, or just the calm before a new storm? Hard to tell where Isabella’s ambition ends and her pragmatism begins.
What I do know is Nico’s dead, Jenna is alive, and the city isn’t burning tonight. That’s enough for now.
My phone vibrates.
Everything okay?
A second bubble pops up before I can reply.
Don’t forget—first ultrasound at 9 a.m., Daddy.
A grin breaks before I can help it, the first real smile in a long while.
Meeting wrapped. Still in one piece. Can’t wait to see our little troublemaker on the screen.
Three dots pulse then disappear. She’s probably fallen asleep again; the concussion really zapped her. I picture her curled in our bed, hand resting unconsciously over the slight curve sheltering our child—my family.
Lightning forks over the valley as rain drums the roof. Denis takes a sharp corner slow, tires hissing.
Peace may be temporary, but I’ll fight like hell to make it last long enough for Jenna to bring our baby into a city that’s quiet. Long enough to teach a son—or daughter—how to load a magazine and quote Pushkin in the same breath.
The storm finally begins to break, clouds thinning into gray tatters. Tomorrow morning I’ll be staring at a black-and-white screen while a tiny heart beats, filling the room with its hopeful sound, proof that even men like me can make something better than war.
And if Isabella Agosti or anyone else decides to test that hope, they’ll learn exactly how much blood I’m willing to spill to protect it.