Chapter 41 #2
“You said you wanted to know everything.” My voice remains steady as a surgeon’s hand. “Are you ready for the truth, Toy?”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Bring it on, Lorenzo.”
“I didn’t rise to power, Piper. I built it. Inherited it. Expanded it.” Pausing, I take a deep breath. “The Russo family doesn’t claim territory; we create it.”
She lets out a nervous laugh. “You make it sound like you’re the mafia.” She tilts her head, thinking. “Wait… is that what you are? Your family, I mean.”
“That’s what they call us when they want to simplify what can’t be simplified.” I lean forward. “What we are is infrastructure. We’re the shadow behind every government, the whisper behind every policy. Every empire you admire? We put it there.”
I take a large sip of the wine.
“More specifically, I put it there. Before me, it was my dad, and before him…” Trailing off, I swirl my hand in the air. “You get the picture.”
She rests her fingers lightly against the glass, but her eyes never leave mine. Calculating. Unafraid. “So you really are a kingmaker.”
I chuckle. “I’m not just a kingmaker, Toy. I’m the kingmaker.”
She whispers the word, and I watch her mouth form the word, memorizing the shape of it on her lips. I expected resistance. At least a sliver of fear. But she’s not shrinking—she’s studying me like I’m a thesis she intends to defend.
“Every senator who’s risen in the last decade has done so because I allowed it. Every presidential candidate approved by both parties has my fingerprints on their selection.”
She takes a slow sip of wine. “So the meetings you allowed me to listen to… I mean…” She pauses, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Was that to help me? Or were you feeding me breadcrumbs about who you really are?”
“Both,” I admit. I reach across the table, taking her hand. “Every move I’ve made since the day I saw you has been calculated, Piper. Every door that closed, every opportunity that vanished—that was me clearing your path.”
“Hang on.” She holds her hand up, halting me. “You blacklisted me, didn’t you?” she asks, her eyes narrowed and her tone accusatory.
“I redirected you. To me,” I explain with a shrug. This is something I refuse to apologize for. And still, my chest tightens. It’s not guilt—Russo blood doesn’t do guilt—but from the fucking miracle that she’s still sitting across from me.
The waiter appears with our meal—Ossobuco for me, sea bass for her. Neither of us ordered. Her eyes follow the waiter as he retreats, understanding dawning.
“How far does it go?” she asks, cutting into her fish. “Your control.”
“If I pull my backing, governments fall.” The words are simple, factual. “And they know it.”
“And you’ve been doing this since…”
“Since I was eighteen.” I watch her calculate again. “Though I sat in the room from the time I could understand what was being said.”
She takes another bite, thinking. “Is this why you insisted on the blindfold in the beginning?” Another bite. “And, look, I know you say I never asked about your name, which is true. But you still could have told me and you didn’t. I want to know why.”
“Names are masks.” I set my fork down carefully. “I only ever planned to take mine off for one person.”
Something flickers in her eyes; awareness. “Me.”
“You.” The single syllable carries the weight of years. “I told you I would never lie to you.”
She doesn’t speak for several long moments, just takes small bites of her food. I feel a tightness in my chest, something unfamiliar—the threat of loss. I’ve faced down presidents and entire governments without flinching, but this silence from her scrapes me hollow.
“Why tell me now?” she finally asks.
“Because you’ve earned it.” I meet her eyes across the table. “Because I want you to know exactly what you’re choosing when you choose me.”
“And if I choose to walk away?” Her voice is careful, measured.
“You won’t,” I growl.
“I might,” she insists. “Answer the question.”
“That’s not an option, Toy,” I rasp. “So you might as well stop pretending you want to.”
The minutes stretch as we finish our meal, drinking more wine, exchanging fragments of conversation that dance around the weight of what I’ve confessed.
I watch her process, that brilliant mind of hers turning over each revelation, examining it from every angle.
She asks more questions—about specific elections, about family structure, about how decisions are made.
I answer every one. She looks at me differently.
Not with fear or revulsion, but with a clarity that feels like being seen for the first time.
“You know…” She leans back slowly, eyes unfocused for the first time all night. “… when you study politics long enough, you start to see the patterns—who gets elevated, who gets erased, what stories are spun. And you start wondering.”
Her fingers graze the puzzle pendant.
“Wondering if there’s more to it than what people let on. If someon e’s behind it all. Not just a system or government. But a puppeteer.”
I don’t speak. I let her get there on her own.
“And now you’re telling me it’s you.” She meets my gaze, and the stillness between us sharpens. “You’ve just confirmed every quiet suspicion I’ve ever had about how this country actually works.”
A pause. A breath.
“And somehow,” she murmurs, voice quieter, “that’s not even the most terrifying thing about you.”
“No?”
“The scariest part is that it makes sense. That it fits.” Her lips curve. It’s not quite a smile, but something darker. She leans closer, eyes still fixed on mine. “You’re the only man who could say all that and still make me want to climb into your lap.”
I exhale in relief. My toy’s not scared, and she’s definitely not going to run. I can see it. She’s fucking turned on. By the power, me, or maybe both.
“So you’re not running?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
The waiter arrives to take our plates and asks if we want dessert.
I look at my toy, arching an eyebrow. Instead of answering the unspoken question, she stands, slightly unsteady from the wine.
I rise immediately, ready to catch her if she falls.
But she doesn’t. She steps toward me, close enough that I can smell the wine on her breath.
“Take me back to your home, Lorenzo.” Her voice drops to a whisper that burns. “And then fuck me all night long.”
My blood ignites, a liquid fire that races from chest to groin. She knows everything now—every shadow, every sin—and still she wants me. Still, she says my name like a prayer.