Chapter 17
I pace outside the hotel's private conference room, my mind racing faster than my feet. Fifteen minutes since Lucrezia collapsed in my arms. Fifteen minutes of pure hell.
For one terrible moment, I thought she'd been poisoned too.
The doctor assured us it was just shock. Her vitals are stable. No signs of poisoning. But I won't believe it until I see her conscious with my own eyes.
The conference room door opens, and I snap to attention. Lucrezia emerges, looking pale but steady on her feet. Hazel and Sienna flank her sides while Bella hovers close behind. The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost painful.
"How's Evelyn?" Lucrezia asks immediately, her voice hoarse.
"Noah went with her in the ambulance," I report, keeping my tone professional despite wanting to pull her into my arms. "She was stabilized at the scene. The paramedics administered epinephrine. They're optimistic."
Lucrezia nods, swaying slightly. Hazel catches her elbow.
"You should sit down," Hazel says.
"I'm fine," Lucrezia insists, but allows herself to be guided to a nearby chair.
The hotel ballroom has emptied of guests, the engagement party abruptly concluded after the medical emergency. Only key family members remain. Damiano and Enzo stand with Riccardo and Bruno Sartori near the bar, their faces grim.
Damiano notices Lucrezia and breaks away from the group, heading toward us. His face is carved from stone, but I see the relief in his eyes when he looks at his sister.
"Anything from the cameras?" he asks me.
I shake my head. "We've reviewed the footage. When the waiter approached Evelyn, someone else moved into the frame, blocking our view."
"What exactly happened?" I ask, turning to the women.
Hazel straightens, her expression serious. "We were standing together, just talking. A waiter came directly to us with only one glass of champagne on his tray. He specifically asked if one of us wanted it." She swallows hard. "Evelyn took it."
Damiano's expression darkens. "This is some kind of Russian roulette. They didn't care which one of you got poisoned."
"But why target us specifically?" Sienna asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
"To send a message," I answer. "The women connected to the Feretti family. Our vulnerabilities."
Lucrezia looks up at me, her face pale but her eyes clear. "They could have targeted any of us."
"That's what makes it effective," Damiano says. "Random terror. No one feels safe."
"We need to move," I tell Damiano. "This location is compromised."
He nods, already reaching the same conclusion. "Enzo, get Lucrezia back to the compound. Daniel, coordinate with?—"
"No." Lucrezia's voice cuts through the tension. She stands, steadier now, her spine straightening with determination despite the pallor of her skin. "I need to go to the hospital. To Evelyn."
Damiano shakes his head. "Not safe. We don't know?—"
"She was poisoned" Lucrezia interrupts, her voice breaking. "I need to see her."
I watch her face crumple, the weight of another person hurt because of their connection to her family settling on her shoulders. Her hands tremble slightly, but she clenches them into fists.
"Please," she whispers, turning to Enzo. "Take me to the hospital."
Enzo looks at Damiano, a silent communication passing between them.
"I'll take her," Enzo finally says. "With proper security."
"I'm coming too," I say immediately, not waiting for orders.
"I'll call Noah for an update," Hazel offers, already pulling out her phone.
Lucrezia sways slightly, and I step closer, my hand hovering near her elbow without touching her. Her eyes meet mine, filled with a familiar haunted look I've seen too many times since her trauma.
"Another person hurt because of me," she whispers, so quietly only I can hear.
"This isn't your fault," I tell her firmly. "The Russians are targeting all of us."
She shakes her head, unconvinced. "First Fabio and Anthony. Now Evelyn. Who's next?"
I don't have an answer that will comfort her. The truth is, we're all targets now.
Enzo approaches, car keys in hand. "Let's go. I've got four men meeting us downstairs."
As we move toward the service elevator—avoiding the main lobby where press might still be lingering—I position myself at Lucrezia's back, scanning constantly for threats. The Russians have proven they can get to us anywhere. Even at an engagement party with top-tier security.
In the parking garage, we load into an armored SUV. I take the front passenger seat while Enzo drives and Lucrezia sits in the back, flanked by two armed guards. Two more follow in a separate vehicle.
"Noah says Evelyn is stable," Enzo tells Lucrezia as we pull out. "They're running tests to identify the poison."
Lucrezia nods, staring out the window. Her reflection in the glass shows tears she's fighting to hold back.
"We'll find who did this," I promise, turning to look at her. "The Russians, the leak in our organization, all of them."
"And then what?" she asks, her voice hollow. "More violence? More funerals?"
I don't answer. There's nothing I can say that won't sound like empty platitudes. In our world, violence begets violence. It's an endless cycle.
As we drive through the night toward the hospital, I watch Lucrezia in the rearview mirror. Her face is composed, but I can see the trauma etching itself deeper into her soul with each passing minute. Another attack. Another loved one hurt. Another reason to blame herself.
The Russians knew exactly what they were doing. Physical wounds heal. Psychological ones fester.
I stand in the hallway of the private Feretti clinic, watching through the glass as Evelyn sleeps. The machines monitoring her vitals beep steadily—a reassuring rhythm after last night's chaos.
"How is she?" I ask Noah, who emerges from her room looking exhausted.
"Better." He rubs his bloodshot eyes. "The doctors say she'll make a full recovery."
I nod, relief washing over me. "Good."
We moved Evelyn here at dawn—the Ferettis' private medical facility in Manhattan, unmarked and unknown to the public. The security is impenetrable, the staff handpicked and vetted by me personally. No one gets in without clearance.
"We got him," Noah says, pulling out his phone. He shows me a crystal-clear image of a man in a waiter's uniform. "Facial recognition matched. Dmitri Sokolov, former FSB, now freelance. Known Volkov associate."
I study the face—mid-thirties, unremarkable features, the kind of person you'd pass on the street without a second glance. Perfect for infiltration work.
"How'd he get past security?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"Inside help," Noah confirms. "Someone gave him credentials, uniform, everything he needed."
The leak. The same person who told the Russians about our plans that night at the compound. The same person responsible for Fabio and Anthony's deaths.
"Matteo's close," I say. "He told Enzo he has someone in mind."
"Someone near him constantly," Noah adds, his voice dropping lower. "That narrows it down."
We fall silent, both thinking the same thing. The traitor is someone we know. Someone we work with. Someone we trust.
Noah glances back at Evelyn's room, his face hardening. "If she had died last night..." He doesn't finish the sentence.
"But she didn't," I remind him.
"We got lucky," Noah says, his voice rough with emotion. "The doctor said if the paramedics had been five minutes later..." He shakes his head. "I don't know what I would have done."
I think about Lucrezia, how I felt when she collapsed in my arms last night. The terror that gripped me, the helplessness. I understand Noah better than he knows.
"We'll find Sokolov," I promise. "And whoever helped him."
Noah nods, his expression shifting back to the professional mask we all wear. "Matteo's running down leads. Says he'll have something concrete by tonight."
"Good." I check my watch. "I need to get back to Lucrezia."
"How's she holding up?" Noah asks.
"Blaming herself," I answer. "For Evelyn. For everything."
Noah's eyes meet mine, understanding passing between us. "That's not on her."
"Try telling her that. Whatever happens in this family she just blames herself for fuck's sake."
I check my watch—2:17 AM. The streets are empty, just how we need them.
"There," Noah whispers, pointing to a figure slipping out the back door of a dingy Brighton bar.
Dmitri Sokolov.
We've been tracking him for hours.
Noah and I hang back in the shadows as Sokolov lights a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his unremarkable face. He looks nothing like a killer. Average height, average build, forgettable features. The perfect ghost.
"On your call," Noah murmurs, hand resting on his weapon.
I wait until Sokolov moves toward the alley. "Now."
We move in perfect sync, silent as shadows. I approach from the front while Noah circles behind. Sokolov spots me too late, his hand reaching inside his jacket. I'm faster. My fist connects with his jaw before he can draw his weapon. He staggers back, right into Noah's waiting arms.
Noah locks him in a chokehold while I disarm him. Glock 19, switchblade, garrote wire. Professional kit.
"Dmitri Sokolov," I say, keeping my voice low. "We need to talk."
He spits blood onto the pavement. "I have nothing to say to Feretti dogs."
Noah tightens his grip. "That's not how this works."
I zip-tie his wrists while Noah keeps him subdued. We drag him to our SUV parked at the end of the alley, checking twice to make sure no one's watching. The streets remain deserted. Just another quiet night in Brighton Beach.
We throw him in the back, and I climb in beside him while Noah takes the wheel. Sokolov's eyes dart between us, calculating his chances. There aren't any.
"You made a mistake targeting the women," I tell him as Noah pulls away from the curb.
Sokolov's lips curl into a bloody smile. "Did I? Seemed effective to me."
My fist connects with his ribs before I can stop myself. He grunts, doubling over.
"Easy," Noah warns from the front seat. "Damiano wants him to talk. And I want to kill him."
I take a deep breath, pushing down the rage.
"Who gave you access to the hotel?" I ask.
Sokolov stares back, silent.
"We already know there's a leak," I continue. "Give us a name, and maybe Damiano goes easy on you."
He laughs, a harsh sound in the quiet car. "You think I fear Damiano Feretti? The Volkovs will burn your entire family to the ground."
Noah catches my eye in the rearview mirror.
I pull out my phone and dial Damiano.
"We got him," I say when he answers. "Heading to the warehouse now. Matteo's waiting for us."
"Good," Damiano replies, his voice cold and precise. "Get what you can from him. I want a name."
"Understood."
The call ends. I pocket my phone and look at Sokolov, who's watching me with narrowed eyes.
"You should have stayed in Russia," I tell him.
Noah drives through the empty streets, heading toward the abandoned warehouse district where Matteo is waiting with everything we'll need to make Sokolov talk. The Russian might think he's tough now, but everyone breaks eventually.