58. ANTONIO
A few days later…
Once again, we find ourselves in my office, staring at the big screen, watching news coverage of the live reading of Carlos's sentence.
Lambert already told me what it would be, so with no surprises in the offing, I have time to study Carlos as he sits, looking a lot more subdued than last time, next to his lawyer.
Further in the galley, I spy Marcello, very much alive despite his bandaged head, and, from the looks of it, ready to take over the Orsi clan.
I talked to him a couple of days ago, and he mentioned that a steel plate had been added to replace the part of the skull that was damaged.
His expression is unreadable, and his attention is focused on Lambert, not his father.
Since there is no love lost between the two, I doubt he feels anything but triumph at taking over the Orsi empire.
Carlos's expression, however, is easy to read. Fear shows underneath his fury, giving me the satisfaction I've been waiting for.
At the judge's table, Lambert readies himself to read the verdict.
"Carlos Orsi, you have been found guilty by a jury of your peers for the crime of extortion and on the count of racketeering.
I can't convict you for all the crimes you have committed and not been tried for, but by God, I can give you the maximum sentence for the crimes you were found guilty of.
You will serve fifty years in Sing Sing, without the possibility of parole. Guards, take him away."
"I need to make a phone call." I excuse myself and leave my office, feeling Scarlet, Vito, and Igio's eyes on my back.
I need to make sure Grigori is prepared.
Carlos needs to be taken out as soon as possible.
I would enjoy watching him wither in jail for a while, but given the danger he poses to the woman I love, he needs to be neutralized quickly.
Not only that, but the sooner Carlos is gone, the sooner I can continue with plan B. Edoardo.
"Antonio, I figured you'd be calling me," Grigori greets when he picks up. “Everything is booked for our friend."
"Good," I reply.
"Antonio, we're even now," Grigori checks.
We are. We both have leverage over the other.
The scales of power have evened out, just like Grigori wanted.
Nobody will ever find out that it was he who killed Angelo, and nobody will ever find out that I asked him to get rid of Carlos.
Both secrets could get us killed in our world.
Does that mean he's not going to try to kill me or I him? No, at least not yet.
"We're even. Let's discuss our new business deal," I suggest. It's the deal that will financially tie us together, ensuring that neither one of us will try to kill the other unless we're willing to sacrifice power and lose billions of dollars.
"I've got the training facilities all set up on my end," Grigori says. He's sent me images of the training facilities, and they're top-notch.
The first image is a drone shot—a wide view of a hundred acres of fenced land hemmed in by dense woods and hills.
The perimeter is razor-wired, and motion-triggered floodlights monitor every hundred feet.
Reinforced watchtowers stand a mile apart.
The location is remote and isolated. It’s made impenetrable by allowing access only through one gate, guarded by a small army.
The next shot zeroes in on the main structure — a massive, angular complex built of matte-black steel and reinforced concrete, like something out of a Cold War bunker fantasy. No windows and only two exits make it into a fortress.
Inside, it’s all clean lines and brutal function. A central combat training hall with matte gray flooring, retractable walls, and pressure-sensitive tiles that record every step and hit. Punching bags hang like execution targets.
A second image shows an indoor live-fire range and a weapons vault that would rival any special ops armory. Any weapon known to man is represented, no rubber bullets or knives, the real things only. The entire facility is ventilated to military spec, with adjustable lighting for night-ops training.
And then there is the kill house —two stories of configurable rooms with bulletproof glass observation windows for grading and review.
Most impressive is the tech center—rows of screens, servers, AI tracking systems, facial recognition, drone support, live ops simulation—more control than a goddamn military base.
"Good, the registration went through. I know a judge who expedited it.
" I grin to myself. Lambert wasn’t too happy, but he's part of the family now. I finally got him, kicking and screaming, but he’s mine.
He'll be a valuable asset to our organization.
"I've sent the papers for you via email to sign.
We had to settle for Aegis Strategic Protection ; the other names were taken. "
We came up with three names for our new security company; Aegis was the third choice.
Alessio, one of my cousins, will run it here in the States, and Nikolai Mikhailov, one of Grigori's nephews, will run the training facility in Russia.
The men and women coming out of the training will be top-notch rent-a-guards for the rich and elite, at least officially.
Unofficially, they will be a lot more, everything from enforcers to assassins.
I'm certain that within the span of a year, we'll be making good money and have recouped our investments.
Between Grigori's and my family, we’ll have no shortage of clients in need of bodyguards.
Especially the kind who will also know how to deal with a persistent stalker or get rid of a body.
Grigori makes a sound of agreement—half growl, half breath—when suddenly, I hear a softer, feminine voice in the background. His wife, I presume. I can't hear what she's saying, but Grigori's reply is loud and clear, “No, kotyonok . I didn’t forget. I told you, fifteen minutes, and I’m yours.”
I blink. The voice murmurs again, muffled. He chuckles—chuckles—and his tone shifts. “Yes, you can pick the movie. Even the stupid one with the stupid vampires. Just—give me a second, yeah?”
A beat of silence. Then he clears his throat and speaks to me again, voice tighter now. “Apologies. Where were we?”
I pause; this is too good to let go. “Will the facility open in time, or does the vampire movie take priority?”
His reply is quick and sharp, back to the Grigori I know. “Fuck off, she’s the only one who gets to interrupt my business and live.”
“That’s how you know it’s real,” I mutter, fully understanding.
“Careful, DeLuna. That sounded dangerously close to sentimental.”
“Don’t worry,” I smirk. “I’ll burn something later to balance it out.”
After we hang up, I return to the bedroom, where Scarlet is waiting for me. My heart hitches at the sight of her, like always.
"Antonio? Everything alright?" Scarlet turns toward the door, and I step further into the room.
"Now it is love. Now it is." I assure her.
"Grigori?" She asks. She is the only person in this world who knows everything about me and my plans.
The only one I trust. I hesitated to to pull her fully into my dark world, but like always, Scarlet is full of surprises.
She wants to be part of it. Not the nitty gritty, bloody parts, but for overall planning, I've learned to value her input.
"It's all set. Carlos will be dead by tomorrow morning. Call your friends and tell them to be ready. We're getting married next week."
Later that night, my phone dings with an incoming message.
Having expected it, I pick it up and carefully extricate myself from Miss Octopus next to me.
Her arms and legs are wrapped around me, just as unwilling to let go of me as I am to let go of her.
Funny, when we fell asleep, I was the one octopus-ing her.
She grunts quietly in her sleep, and I place a possessive kiss on top of her forehead. Fuck, I love this woman.
Even now, knowing exactly what’s waiting for me on that phone, I hesitate and debate staying in bed and watching the show in the morning. But my body moves on its own. Rolling out of bed with the fluid precision of a SEAL team operator, I land in a crouch before rising silently to my feet.
The cold air hits my bare skin, but I don’t feel it.
My focus is already on what’s coming. Unsurprisingly, the bathroom is in chaos, just like our bedroom.
A smile escapes me when I notice all of Scarlet's toiletries strewn around the large countertop space, glad now that I have another, smaller vanity area installed where I keep my stuff.
Scarlet's hair dryer still lies in one spot, the cap of a hairspray bottle next to it.
The hairspray is nowhere to be seen. Her hairbrush, with some brown strands sticking to it, beckons me to touch them.
Scarlet has a lot of redeeming qualities; neatness is not one of them, at least not in the bathroom.
I fucking love it; her presence is everywhere.
A forgotten bra in my office. A shoe under the living room table.
A pair of earrings tossed on the nightstand.
Mine. She is all mine!
"Ouch," I nearly drop my phone as I step on one of her hairclips.
Those things hurt like hell. I'm considering their use in my next interrogation.
I pick it up and place it next to her hair dryer.
Then I take a seat on her vanity chair after removing yet another hairclip—fuck, how many does she need? —and open my phone.
The text message is only one word: Enjoy
A slow, dark grin curls my lips. I click on the attachment, turn the volume up, and maximize the screen. Carlos has no idea that he is about to die. He’s showering, scrubbing away whatever filth coats his soul—not that there’s any soap strong enough for that.
The first shank hits his side. Satisfied, I watch his body jerk, note how his eyes widen in shock and disbelief. Then the first wave of pain hits him, dropping him to his knees, and he screams in agony for his bodyguard.
Who stands by the entrance, unruffled, and… watching? Lutz, Carlos’s only ally in prison. I don’t know what Grigori has on him, but it must be enough, because he doesn’t move or even flinch.
Carlos yells again, his voice raw with panic. He's begging Lutz to help him instead of trying to fight back like a man. What a disgusting piece of shit he is.
A chuckle escapes men when I watch Lutz lift his hand, extend his middle finger, and then turn, walking away.
The next cut is shallow; it's just a warning or a tease. Grigori's men are ready to play. Carlos tries to bargain with them, offering money and power, but his attackers aren't fazed.
The second shank slices his arm open. Blood sprays over the cold tile floor.
I have no clue what Grigori's men are saying; they're speaking Russian, but I don’t fucking care.
My focus is entirely on Carlos. I bathe in his fear and agony; his realization that he's about to die is like a hit of coke.
That's for you, Dad , I think, satisfied.
It takes ten minutes. I wish it had been longer, but I understand that for a hit in prison, this is a long time.
By the time it’s over, his blood is pooling at the drain, and his body is still twitching.
The bastard is not quite dead. Not until one of Grigori’s men grips his hair, tilts his head toward the camera, and slashes his throat wide open.
The final proof.
Carlos Orsi is dead.
And with that, my father can finally rest in peace. It doesn’t make up for his loss. Nothing ever fucking will. But knowing that the man who killed him no longer breathes?
That’s a start.
I exhale slowly. My body finally unwinds, and the tension seeps from my muscles. I drop my phone on the counter and glance at the mirror, my reflection more relaxed than it’s been in months.
A grin tugs at my lips.
"One less enemy for you, Jellybean."
Now, I can finally focus on Edoardo. That bastard will be mine. I still have a bone to pick with Margarita, but since I'm in a generous mood, I'll leave that to Marcello.