23. Sabina
23
Sabina
Leo is called away. Nicole turns to watch him go while my gaze stays fixed on Nikolai as he wends his way through the crowd, each step taking him further away from me.
When we both turn back to face each other, I notice she’s holding a glass of champagne. I snatch it out of her hand.
“You shouldn’t be drinking this in your condition,” I admonish. “Let me help.”
I down it in one gulp, only to find that it’s sparkling grape juice.
She regards my look of repulsion with amusement.
“It’s sparkling grape juice,” she tells me.
“I figured that out already.”
“Due to my conditon,” she adds, and I hear a definite edge of sarcasm there.
“Yeah. Anyway…” I clear my throat.
She raises a brow. “How’s Nikolai doing?”
“I didn’t know he was on the guest list,” I say.
“He was. He is. And he made a very large contribution to the charity.”
“How large?”
“Huge,” she says, her eyes sparkling as much as her stupid grape juice.
“Are we still talking about his contribution,” I say.
“You tell me.”
Oh, she’s in a mood tonight. Sassy repartee and Nicole Milano don’t usually go together.
“Just curious…” she says. “Did you just have hot sex at a black-tie charity gala two hours away from midnight?”
My brows shoot up and my mouth drops open. “You…you…”
Nicole holds her hands up. “Not judging. He’s gorgeous. And you’re gorgeous and…well, you’re going to make beautiful babies together.”
I think she wants me to laugh, but the attempt fails spectacularly. My eyes well with tears. A look of horror comes over her face.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything…”
“It’s okay. It’s just…let’s just say that it’s complicated.”
“I don’t know anything, I was just guessing. Leo hasn’t said—”
“Leo doesn’t know…” My voice trails away as I think of Leo telling me that Nikolai asked for my hand in marriage. He hadn’t seemed to think it was such a terrible idea. I’d thought he was just teasing me… But then Leo and Nikolai worked together to keep me from being kidnapped. And then the look he and Nikolai exchanged just now. None of that means anything. Does it?
“Oh.” She bites her bottom lip, her dark brows drawing together. “It’s none of my business. Truly. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I let out a long, shaky breath. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Love someone like…like my brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…he’s not just a…a Russo, but he’s the head of the family now. He’s in the same position Papa was before he…”
I can’t finish the sentence, it’s still too painful.
“I know,” Nicole says, her voice now gentle. “It’s not easy, I’ll admit it. It would have been harder for me if I was an outsider. I don’t know how Alina has adjusted so well considering that she didn’t grow up in our world.”
“I asked her, actually,” I say. “Same thing I asked you. She said that she’s accepted that life isn’t guaranteed. That protecting yourself, no matter what you do for a living, is a lost cause, so you need to live for today, love who you’re going to love, and not worry about tomorrow.”
“Wise words,” Nicole replies.
“You agree?”
“I do. I mean, for the most part.”
I wait.
Her gaze flicks to mine and her dark eyes have hardened. “Let’s just say, if anyone ever tries to hurt Leo, tries to hurt any of you, I will hunt them down and murder each and every one of them slowly, while they scream for a mercy that never comes.”
I stare at her for several long moments with the festive gathering a muffled background to our conversation.
“You are literally perfect for Leo,” I tell her with a laugh. “You just made the final puzzle piece snap into place for me when it comes to you two.”
The murderous look leaves her eyes and she smiles sheepishly. “Just don’t quote me, okay?”
“I won’t. But your words are now burned into my memory forever.”
Nicole’s attention shifts, her gaze flicking to a point across the room, and she excuses herself. I turn, but my focus isn’t on her anymore. It’s on Nikolai, who is in the process of extricating himself from a handshake with an older gentleman. I watch as he heads toward the exit. His broad shoulders cut through the glittering crowd, his polished form a stark contrast to the chaos of my thoughts.
I should let him go. I should stay here, among the lights and laughter, where it’s safe. But something twists in my chest—a sharp, primal instinct that refuses to be ignored. Something is wrong.
Wariness trickles through me as I set my glass on a nearby table and make my way toward the exit. My brothers will notice my absence soon enough, but right now, I can’t shake the unease crawling up my spine.
Then I see a man, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in a nondescript black tuxedo, moving through the crowd with the kind of practiced ease that makes him unremarkable—until you know what to look for.
He’s following Nikolai, his pace steady, his intent unmistakable.
I can’t see his face. The glimpse I catch of his profile doesn’t let me identify him.
I don’t think. I follow.
The gala fades behind me as I step into the cooler air of the hallway, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The man keeps a careful distance from Nikolai, his movements deliberate, calculated. My pulse quickens as I trail them, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario. Who is he? What does he want?
By the time I reach the parking garage, my breath is shallow, my nerves stretched taut. The silence here is oppressive, the air thick with the scent of oil and concrete. Shadows stretch long and deep, and I fight the instinct to call out Nikolai’s name.
And then I see him.
Nikolai stands near a sleek black car, his posture relaxed but his shoulders taut, his every muscle coiled for action. A predator poised to strike. He doesn’t seem to notice the man following him, but I do. And then another figure steps into the dim light.
Mikhail.
The world narrows, my pulse roaring in my ears.
Nikolai doesn’t hesitate. His gun is in his hand in an instant, its dark barrel pointed directly at his father. The tension between them is a live wire, crackling with years of hatred and resentment. I freeze, my breath caught in my throat, every instinct screaming at me to do something, anything—but I can’t move.
Mikhail steps closer, his face cold and cruel, a smirk twisting his lips. He looks almost relaxed, one hand his pocket, as if this confrontation were nothing more than a casual chat. But in the other, he holds a gun, levelled at Nikolai’s chest.
I shrink back into the shadows.
Mikhail Ivanov is a man carved from weathered granite. His features are sharp and unyielding, his jaw clenched in perpetual disdain. A thick, suffocating aura of malice clings to him like a greasy residue. His pale gray eyes are cold, lifeless. His dark hair, streaked with silver, is slicked back, giving him a calculated, polished appearance, but no amount of grooming can mask the cruelty etched into his features. He exudes power, but it’s a jagged, oppressive kind—like a storm brewing on the horizon.
As I study him, the thought strikes me like a blade: Mikhail Ivanov is the embodiment of everything ruthless and unyielding in this world. He’s not like Nikolai—not even close. Where Nikolai’s strength lies in his complexity, in the fire behind his icy facade, Mikhail is devoid of anything resembling warmth or humanity. There’s no trace of vulnerability, no flicker of compassion. Just cold, calculated evil that seems to seep from his very pores. A chill crawls over my skin as I watch him, my stomach twisting with disgust.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Mikhail says, his voice dripping with mockery. “My prodigal son, standing here like he’s a man. Tell me, Nikolai, is this the moment you finally prove yourself? Or is it just another pathetic attempt to impress me?”
Nikolai’s face is a mask of stone, unreadable. “If you have something to say, say it, Otets .”
“I’ve known about your little plan for weeks,” Mikhail replies, chuckling darkly. “Did you really think you could keep secrets from me, boy? You’re so predictable. So weak.”
Weak.
The word hangs in the air, sharp and cutting. I see Nikolai’s grip tighten on the gun, his knuckles white, but his face remains impassive. His silence only seems to fuel Mikhail’s taunts.
“You think you can take what I’ve built?” Mikhail sneers, stepping closer. “You? The sniveling brat who cried when I killed his dog? The boy who got his mother killed because he sniveled and whined when I gave him a well-deserved slap?”
Nikolai doesn’t flinch, but I feel the words hit him like blows, the subtle tightening of his jaw the only sign of the storm raging beneath the surface.
And I realize, with bone-deep certainty, that Mikhail isn’t just trying to wound him—he’s trying to provoke him. To make him falter. To make him lose control.
Nikolai doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He simply waits, his gun steady, his gaze locked on his father.
But I can’t stay silent. I can’t just watch. My hands tremble as I reach for the phone in my clutch, my finger hovering over Leo’s number, but then I see something that freezes me in place.
Movement.
The man I followed into the garage is there, lingering in the shadows behind Nikolai. My heart lurches. He’s not aiming a gun yet, but he’s close enough to act—and I know, in that instant, that the odds are about to shift in Mikhail’s favor.
Panic grips me. My mind races through every possible outcome, and none of them end well. Even if Nikolai fires first, even if his aim is true, what if Mikhail also fires? What if they both fall? What if—
No.
I force myself to breathe, to think.
I was born a Russo. I was raised a Russo. My father taught me to protect myself and the people I love. And I’ve tried, for so long, to deny the darker parts of myself. To convince myself that I’m different, that I’m better. But in this moment, I realize something I’ve fought to ignore.
Two things can be true at once: You can be a criminal, a killer, a thief, and still be loving and good in other ways. Just like Papa.
I am Sabina Russo. I am not a Mafia princess hiding behind charity galas and elegant gowns. I am a Mafia queen. And I will act like it.
The man in the shadows hasn’t seen me yet. He’s focused on Nikolai, his hand inching toward the weapon at his side.
My hand moves to the gun in my clutch, and I draw it with trembling fingers. The weight of it is familiar and foreign all at once. Memories crash over me—the night I killed a man in self-defense, the horror, the guilt. For three years, I’ve told myself the gun went off by accident. That I didn’t mean to kill him.
But now, standing here with my hand on the trigger, the truth comes rushing back, running through my thoughts like a slide-show.
Click. He had a knife. Click. He was going to kill me. My training kicked in, and I made a choice. Click. I aimed. I pulled the trigger. It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate. Intentional. And it saved my life.
But this isn’t that night.
This isn’t self-defense. This is war.
I step out of the shadows, raising my gun. My vision narrows, locking onto Mikhail. His head snaps toward me, surprise flashing across his face. But I don’t hesitate. I am a Russo. And I am Nikolai Ivanov’s queen.
The tension is an electric charge, crackling through the parking garage like the moment before a lightning strike. Everything—the cold air, the flicker of a fluorescent light overhead, the distant hum of the city—fades into nothingness. There is only this moment, and my hand doesn’t waver.
My finger tightens on the trigger, and I fire.
One shot.
It hits Mikhail squarely between the eyes, snapping his head back. He sways for an instant, his gun falling from his hand, and then he crumples to the ground.
I take a breath and fire again. This time, the bullet drives into his heart. It’s not just about ensuring he’s dead—it’s about making a statement. The same way he killed my father.
The echo of the shots rings in my ears, and the world seems to hold its breath.
Then chaos erupts.
Figures pour from the shadows, guns drawn. For a moment, I panic, thinking we’re surrounded. But then I recognize them. Leo. Luca. Damian. Cassio. Dante. Their faces are grim, their movements precise as they fan out, covering every angle. And among them, Nikolai’s men emerge, led by the man I saw follow him from the gala. The man I thought was an enemy.
This was a trap .
It was planned. Orchestrated.
They were never going to let Nikolai face Mikhail alone.
But I didn’t know that. And now, Nikolai’s eyes are on me.
He lowers his gun, his expression unreadable as he takes a step toward me. The others are already moving, securing the scene, but I can’t look away from him.
“Nikolai…” My voice is barely a whisper, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper.
Relief crashes over me first, sharp and overwhelming, as though the air in my lungs finally unlocks after years of being held captive. Mikhail is dead, his shadow no longer looming over my family, no longer threatening Nikolai or me. But beneath the relief is something deeper—pride. Not the vain, boastful kind, but a quiet, resolute pride that I stepped into the fire when it mattered most. I acted with purpose, with intent, and I didn’t falter.
For the first time, I see myself clearly—not just as a Russo but as the woman I was always meant to be. I’m not hiding behind charity galas or living in fear of who I might become. I’m Sabina Russo, fierce and unyielding. I feel it now, fully, a profound clarity that brings both peace and power. And in this moment, I know—I am exactly who I need to be.
Nikolai closes the distance between us, his hands coming to cup my face.
His touch is firm but gentle, grounding me, and I realize I’m shaking.
“Sabina,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. “What did you do?”
I open my mouth to answer, but the words catch in my throat. My mind spins, my heart races, but beneath it all, there’s a fierce clarity. I did what had to be done.
“I ended it,” I whisper finally, my voice steadying. “I ended him . For Papa. For you.”