Chapter 34 Mikhail
MIKHAIL
The restaurant is closed to the public, its windows covered with heavy curtains that block out the afternoon sun.
I sit at a corner table in the back, my hands folded on the white tablecloth, waiting. Sophia wanted to come with me, but I refused.
This meeting is too dangerous, too unpredictable. She’s home with Tony and enough guards to repel a small army.
The warehouse bombing two days ago destroyed millions in legitimate inventory and killed three workers who had nothing to do with our world.
Clean men with families.
The message was clear: the Sicilians don’t care about collateral damage.
The front door opens, and I tense despite myself.
Five men enter, all wearing expensive suits that can’t quite hide the weapons beneath.
They move with the confidence of soldiers who’ve seen real combat, not just street fights.
These aren’t the usual thugs I deal with in the Bratva world.
The man in the center is older, maybe late sixties, with silver hair slicked back and piercing gray eyes that miss nothing.
Salvatore Torrino.
I’ve seen his photo in the files Tony compiled, but pictures don’t capture the aura of power that surrounds him like a cloak.
He walks to my table with measured steps, his men fanning out to cover the exits.
I remain seated, a calculated show of respect without submission. Standing would make me look eager. Staying seated shows I’m not intimidated.
“Mr. Artyomov.” His English is accented but perfect, each word precisely enunciated. “Thank you for agreeing to meet.”
“Don Torrino.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Please, sit.”
He does, and his men take positions around the room. I notice they’re all armed with more than just handguns.
One has a shotgun barely concealed under his long coat.
Another’s jacket bulges with what’s probably a submachine gun.
They came prepared for war.
A waiter appears from the kitchen, one of my men, dressed for the part. “Can I get you gentlemen anything?”
“Espresso,” Torrino says. “Double.”
“The same,” I add, though my stomach is already churning with acid.
We sit in silence until the coffee arrives. Torrino takes a sip, his gray eyes never leaving my face.
He’s studying me, measuring me, trying to determine what kind of man I am.
“You have a beautiful city,” he says finally. “Very different from Palermo. More…modern.”
“It has its charms.” I match his casual tone, though we both know this isn’t a social call.
“I understand you recently married.” He sets down his cup with deliberate care. “A young woman. Sophia Moretti, yes?”
Ice floods my veins at the mention of her name. “My wife is not part of this discussion.”
“Everything is part of this discussion.” His voice hardens slightly. “When you killed Lorenzo, you made it part of this discussion.”
“I didn’t kill Lorenzo.” The words come out flat, factual. “He died in a warehouse fire during an attack on my property. An attack he initiated.”
Torrino’s expression doesn’t change. “Semantics. He died because of you. Because of your vendetta against him.”
“He orchestrated the rape and murder of my sixteen-year-old sister.” I lean forward, letting him see the rage I usually keep buried. “He framed an innocent man and destroyed multiple families to cover his crimes. He deserved worse than what he got.”
“Perhaps.” Torrino picks up his espresso again. “But he was also my son-in-law. The husband of my beloved daughter, god rest her soul. Family honor demands I avenge his death.”
I force myself to breathe slowly, to think. This is the moment I’ve been dreading since we discovered Lorenzo’s Sicilian connections. The old ways don’t allow for explanations or justifications. Blood demands blood.
“Lorenzo was a monster,” I say carefully. “He betrayed his own family. Me. His nephew. He destroyed innocent lives for power and money. Surely that matters.”
“It matters that he was family.” Torrino’s voice is implacable. “In Sicily, we have a saying: La famiglia è tutto. Family is everything. When family is wronged, we respond. It is the way things have always been done.”
“I’m trying to go legitimate.” The admission costs me, but I need him to understand. “My wife is pregnant. I want to build something clean for our child. Something that doesn’t involve this endless cycle of violence.”
For the first time, something flickers in Torrino’s eyes. Not sympathy exactly, but perhaps understanding. “A noble goal. But the old debts must be paid before new lives can begin.”
“What do you want?” I ask bluntly. “Money? Territory? I have resources. We can work something out.”
“I want blood.” He says it simply, as if discussing the weather. “Lorenzo’s blood cries out for vengeance—for my daughter. The old ways demand it.”
My hands clench into fists under the table. “I won’t let you hurt my wife.”
“I know.” He smiles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Which is why I’m offering you a choice. A very old choice, one that goes back centuries in my homeland.”
I wait, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Trial by combat,” Torrino continues. “You fight my champion. If you win, the debt is paid. Your wife lives, your child is born, and you can pursue your legitimate dreams in peace.”
“And if I lose?”
“Then you die, and I take your wife as payment for Lorenzo’s death.” His gray eyes bore into mine. “She will live, but she will live as my property. A reminder to all who cross the Torrino family that we always collect our debts.”
Rage explodes through me, white-hot and all-consuming. I’m halfway out of my chair before I force myself to sit back down. Torrino’s men have all drawn their weapons, ready to cut me down if I make a move.
“You would enslave a pregnant woman?” My voice shakes with barely controlled fury. “What kind of honor is that?”
“The kind that has kept my family alive for hundreds of years.” He takes another sip of espresso, completely calm. “I am not without mercy, Mr. Artyomov. I could simply kill you both and be done with it. Instead, I’m giving you a chance to save her. To save your child. All you have to do is win.”
I force myself to think past the rage.
This is a trap, obviously. Torrino wouldn’t offer this deal unless he was certain his champion would win.
But what choice do I have?
If I refuse, he’ll come after Sophia anyway. At least this way, I have a chance.
“When?” I ask.
“One week from today. That gives you time to prepare, to say your goodbyes.” He stands, and his men move toward the door.
“The fight will take place at the old steel mill on the waterfront. Neutral ground. You may bring witnesses, but no weapons. This is to be settled the old way—hand to hand, until one man cannot continue.”
“And if I win, this ends? No more attacks? No more vendetta?” I need to make sure. Need to know there aren’t any loopholes.
“If you win, the debt is paid.” Torrino adjusts his cufflinks, a casual gesture that somehow seems threatening. “But Mr. Artyomov, you should know…my champion has never lost a fight. Not once in fifteen years.”
He’s almost to the door when I call out, “Who is your champion?”
He turns and the smile he gives me sends a tingling warning all over my body. Somehow I know I’m not going to like his answer.
“You know him very well.” Torrino grins. “But maybe not so well, eh? Since you didn’t know he was part of our family.”
My mind starts racing, trying to figure out who he’s talking about. I toss about names and just as quickly throw them out.
The only people around me now are the ones I trust completely with my life.
And Sophia’s.
So, when Torrino casually tosses out the name, all the blood in my face drains to my toes.
“Marco.”