Chapter 23 Atlas
Atlas
The second we were back in Siena, Gianni vanished into his phone like a man opening a vein in slow motion. He didn’t pace or curse. He just stood there, eyes hard, scrolling, dialing, hanging up, dialing again—number after number until he hit something that we could latch onto.
If anyone in our world could shake loose a ghost, it was him. Siena was his city in ways the rest of Italy wasn’t. Every crooked banker. Every fixer. Every off-book doctor. Every Russian middleman. They all owed Gianni something.
And Russians mattered. Because the corpse in that alley had worn the look of one.
And now we had a photo. Sure, he was dead and cold in it—but it was a start. It was the only start.
I drifted to the window of the penthouse, the glass cold under my palm as rain smeared Siena into a blur of gold and shadow below. Cars crawled through the streets like glowing veins. Somewhere down there, people were eating dinner, arguing, falling in love. Living small, safe lives.
I wasn’t in that world anymore.
Neve’s face kept bleeding into the reflection—those eyes in the alley, bright and wild, the way she hadn’t hesitated when she cut that man open. She had no fear, no doubt, just the pure instinctual will to live.
Gianni’s voice cut through the room, low and tense as he spoke into the phone. I didn’t turn around as he called in a hundred favors for a woman he didn’t even know. For me. This was Gianni opening doors that stayed locked for a reason.
Because somewhere out there, the man Neve killed had people.
And I had a feeling they were the ones who had her.
“That was Martin Volkov,” he explained, coming to stand beside me. “Odessa-born. He runs logistics for three different Bratva factions. I saved his twin brother from a bullet a few years back, so he owes me.”
“Is he discreet?”
“Very.”
“Will he know the face?”
Gianni’s jaw tightened.
“If anyone in Tuscany knows that dead man, it’s him.”
The phone went quiet.
Minutes dragged into hours. Every second felt like a knife pressed against my throat—slow, aching, painful. There was so much we could have been doing, so many doors I could have been kicking down, but Gianni stood in front of me like a gatekeeper.
“You don’t want to stir up the wrong kind of attention,” he said carefully. “Not when we’re dealing with the Russians.”
I turned on him, slow and lethal.
“You want me to be afraid of the Russians… on my own turf?”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.”
“It’s not that, Atlas,” he insisted. “We don’t know who—or what—we’re dealing with here. If we move too fast, too loud, we risk spooking whoever has her. And if that happens…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t have to. The word ‘disposal’ hung in the air like a death sentence.
I stepped closer. He didn’t back up, but he stiffened.
“You’re not thinking clearly right now. You’re emotional—”
I cut him off with a look.
“I am not fucking emotional, Gianni.” Each word was flat and dangerous. “And it would do you well to remember that I am the Don.”
Silence pounded between us.
“I do not panic. I do not spiral. And I do not lose control.”
His eyes flicked over my face like he was measuring the truth of that. He knew better. That’s what made him brave enough to stand there and call me out.
He sighed, long and slow, then gave me that infuriating, soft-eyed look he used when he was about to push me anyway.
“Just let me do the thinking for you tonight. Okay?”
I stared at him.
For a moment, he was the only thing in the room between me and the fire in my chest.
Then I looked away.
Just as his phone rang.
He answered on the first ring.
“Volkov.”
I turned.
Gianni’s face shifted as he listened—neutral, then hard, then tight.
“Send it again. Zoomed.”
A pause. His eyes dropped to the screen.
“Yeah. That’s him.”
He spoke for a few more minutes, then ended the call slowly.
“Well?”
Gianni dragged a hand down his face.
“We have a name.”
My spine went rigid.
“Milan Sokolov.”
The name hit me the wrong way.
“Related?”
“Younger brother.”
Fuck.
Gianni started pacing.
“Viktor Sokolov is the biggest Russian trafficker operating this side of Tuscany. He has full Bratva backing. Runs girls through ports, clubs, auctions. He’s a very nasty bastard.”
I stared at the wall like I could see Viktor’s face burned into it.
“Milan was found late last night,” Gianni continued. “In the same alley you took that photo in. He bled out so badly the locals started whispering about vampires.”
A slow, dark smile curled in my gut. Neve.
“Volkov says Milan handled procurement,” Gianni told me. “Recruitment. Street grabs. Runaways. Girls who wouldn’t be missed.”
“Neve would’ve been perfect,” I said flatly.
Gianni nodded.
“Volkov thinks the likely scenario is that Milan tried to take someone he shouldn’t have. That the man protecting her fought back and killed him.”
The irony burned. Neve hadn’t been protected. She’d protected herself. She hadn’t known who he was. She’d just seen a predator—and cut him open.
“Volkov says our best bet is Viktor,” Gianni added. “He runs auctions. Last Friday of every month. Private parties.”
This Friday.
My blood went cold.
“He’s trying to get us an address and an invite. It’s not a guarantee, but he’ll try.”
“And Milan?” I asked.
“Viktor’s out for blood. If he knew Milan was out that day trying to grab your girl, that’s where he’ll look.”
I didn’t correct him over the reference to ‘my girl’. There would be plenty of time for that later.
“You don’t lose a brother like that without tearing the world apart.”
Gianni nodded his agreement.
“And Milan was his.”
Silence fell. The truth lined up in a brutal, simple row. Neve killed the wrong man. Which meant Viktor Sokolov had her.
I turned from the window.
“Then Viktor is our next stop.”
Gianni met my eyes. My jaw clenched.
“That man sent his brother to drag girls off the street. He stepped into my territory. And now he’s got something I’m invested in.”
Neve Trimboli wasn’t a loose end. She was a fuse. And Viktor Sokolov had just lit it.
“Find the auction. I want his world in my hands before he even knows I’m in it.”
Gianni nodded once.
And somewhere in Tuscany, a Russian kingpin was about to learn what happened when you tried to take something from a Cavalho.