Chapter 030 Viktor
Twelve rifles track my heartbeat.
The sensation is distinct—a heavy, pressurized focus centered on my chest. I’ve been on the other end of the barrel enough times to know the exact weight of the silence before the trigger breaks.
The gravel of the Moretti driveway bites into the soles of my feet, sharp and unforgiving. I dig my toes in, grounding myself against the pain. The Chicago wind cuts through the humid afternoon, stinging my bare shoulders, my chest, my legs. I am stripped of my suits, my Kevlar, my holsters. I am wearing nothing but dark blue boxer shorts and the sweat that’s already turning cold on my skin.
I keep my hands raised. Palms open. Fingers spread.
Look, I tell them without speaking. I am nothing but flesh and bone.
"On your knees!" one of the guards screams. "Get on the fucking ground!"
I don't move. I don't look at them. I look past the wall of black tactical gear to the woman frozen on the wide stone steps of the manor.
Isabella.
She looks shattered. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on when she walked away from me—jeans stiff with dirt, a shirt that hangs too loose on her frame. Her hair is a tangled curtain around a face that has lost all its color. But she is here. She came out.
"I have something to tell you," I pitch my voice to carry over the shouting guards, steady and low. "Something about your father's death that changes the math."
Movement in my periphery. Rocco Moretti steps out from behind her. He doesn’t draw a weapon. His hand settles on her shoulder—heavy, protective, claiming. His hazel eyes sweep over me, taking in the absurdity of the Pakhan of the Sokolov Bratva standing nearly naked in the center of his enemy’s stronghold. He sees the vulnerability. He sees the insanity.
Enzo drifts into the doorway like a ghost. He is still, his hands at his sides, his dark eyes absorbing the scene with a terrifying lack of surprise.
Then the air shifts. Sharp. Violent.
Gianni Moretti pushes past Enzo. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. His eyes are bright, manic, fixed on me with the hunger of a starving wolf.
"Shoot him," Gianni says. The tone is conversational. Bored, almost. "Or hold him down. I’ll carve him like I carved his brother."
The guards shift, fingers tightening on triggers. The chain of command is fraying.
"WAIT."
Isabella’s voice cracks, but the command snaps like a whip.
The guards hesitate. The barrels waver, just an inch.
She starts down the steps.
Every muscle in my body locks. Instinct screams at me to cover up, to fight, to find a weapon, but I force myself to remain open. Exposed. She moves slowly, placing her bare feet carefully on the stone, as if the air around us is made of glass and she’s terrified of shattering it.
The afternoon sun catches the gold in her hair. My chest aches—a physical, bruising pressure. Even wrecked, even hating me, she is the only thing in this world that feels real.
She stops ten feet away.
My body betrays me instantly. The adrenaline spikes, blood rushing south, a heavy, throbbing heat that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the way she’s looking at me. Her gaze travels from my face to my chest, down the line of my stomach, lingering on the scars, the dark hair, the boxers that leave nothing to the imagination.
She sees the goosebumps rising on my arms. She sees the way my ribcage expands with shallow, controlled breaths.
"Why are you here?" she asks. Her voice is devoid of emotion, flat and dead.
"Because you need to hear the truth," I say. "And your family needs to hear it, too."
Her eyes flick back to my face. A tiny, hysterical twitch pulls at the corner of her mouth. "You couldn’t have put on pants?"
Despite the twelve guns, despite the fact that I am seconds away from death, a laugh almost claws its way out of my throat.
"I needed you to know I wasn’t here to fight," I say. "I needed you to see I have nothing to hide."
Alessandro steps out now, moving with the heavy weariness of a man carrying too much. He stands next to Enzo, arms crossed. I know his wife, Emma, is still recovering from the shooting. He shouldn’t even be here; he should be by her bedside. But he’s here for his sister.
"This is insane," Alessandro mutters. It’s not an invitation, but it’s not a kill order.
Then the sound of an engine tears through the tension.
A black sedan screams up the long driveway, tires locked, gravel spraying like shrapnel. It skids to a halt twenty yards out, the door flying open before the chassis even settles.
Matteo.
The Don of the Moretti family storms toward us, radiating a heat so intense it feels like the sun just moved closer to the earth. He takes in the tableau in a single, furious glance: his men hesitating, his brothers watching, his sister standing too close to the enemy.
"What the fuck is he doing here?"
Matteo shoves a guard aside and gets in my face. He is close enough that I can smell the stale smoke and expensive leather on him, close enough to see the red veins in his eyes. He is vibrating with the urge to kill me with his bare hands.
"You have ten seconds," he snarls, spittle hitting my cheek. "Give me one reason why I shouldn’t let my men riddle you with holes right now."
"Because I have the records," I say, holding his gaze. "About your father. The truth. Not the version we’ve all been choking on for eleven years."
His jaw works, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. "My sister already told me the truth."
"She told you what she believed," I say. "She was wrong. We were all wrong."
"You took her," he spits. "You tortured her."
"Yes."
I don't flinch. I don't look away. I own it.
"And now you show up here, in your fucking underwear, expecting what? Forgiveness?"
"I’m not here for forgiveness," I say softly. "I’m here because Isabella is carrying a guilt that was never hers to carry. And I can prove it."
Matteo stares at me. The silence stretches, thin and wire-tight. He looks past me to Isabella. She hasn’t moved. She isn’t defending me, but she isn’t asking him to pull the trigger, either. She is just waiting.
Matteo turns back to me. The murder in his eyes cools into something sharp and calculating.
"You have five minutes," he says. "Inside. One wrong move, and you’re dead."
"Naturally."
He signals his men. "If he twitches, shoot his kneecaps first. I want him alive long enough to scream."
We move inside.
The transition from the blinding sun to the cool, dim interior of the Moretti manor is jarring. My bare feet slap against polished marble, a humiliating sound that echoes off the vaulted ceilings. This place smells like old money and lemon oil—a stark contrast to the steel and antiseptic scent of my own home.
I am flanked by guards. The brothers form a perimeter. I can feel the crosshairs itching between my shoulder blades.
They march me into the family room. It feels less like a home and more like a tribunal. Dark wood, heavy drapes, the air thick with the ghosts of the dead.
Rocco tosses something at me. A cashmere throw blanket.
"Cover up," he says, his voice devoid of heat.
I wrap the blanket around my waist, knotting it tight. It’s a small mercy, but it allows me to stand a little straighter. I reach into the waistband of my boxers and pull out the folded papers. They are damp with sweat, warm against my skin.
Matteo sits at the head of the heavy mahogany table. For the first time in eleven years, the empty chair is filled. He looks natural there. Terrifying.
"Talk," he commands.
I unfold the papers. My hands are steady, though my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"My father knew about Dimitri and Isabella," I say. "From the beginning."
I slide the first document down the table.
Matteo picks it up. It’s a surveillance log, dated eleven years ago. Stamped with the Sokolov seal.
The brothers crowd around him. I watch their faces. Enzo reads fast, his eyes widening. Alessandro leans in, frowning. Gianni stays back, arms crossed, skepticism etched into the hard lines of his mouth.
"Why?" Matteo asks. The word is quiet, deadly.
I slide the second paper. The memo.
"Read it," I say.
Matteo reads aloud. His voice is rough, scraping against the silence.
"'Subject M has become compromised. Emotional attachment to Moretti girl presents operational liability. Options: One. Eliminate the girl. Two. Redirect M's loyalty through traditional methods. Three. Allow situation to resolve naturally.'"
Matteo pauses. His knuckles turn white as he grips the paper.
"'Recommendation: Option Three. Subject M will likely attend meeting to warn the targets. Acceptable collateral for larger operational success.'"
Acceptable collateral.
The words hang in the air, toxic.
Gianni goes still. The restless energy drains out of him, leaving something colder in its wake.
"He knew," I say. "He ordered the perimeter team to stand down. He cleared the path. He made sure no one would stop Dimitri from walking into that warehouse."
I pull out the last piece of paper. The letter.
I don't hand this one over. I read it myself. The ink is blurred slightly from my sweat, but the words are burned into my retinas.
"'Dimitri’s death made you Pakhan. It hardened you into the weapon our family needed. Every great leader is forged in loss. Consider his sacrifice my final gift to you. You’re welcome. V.'"
A sound tears through the room.
It comes from the corner. Isabella. A small, wounded noise, like an animal being kicked.
Enzo’s hands fly up, signing rapidly. Rocco translates, his voice hollow with disbelief. "Your father wrote 'you're welcome' about his son's death?"
"Yes."
The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.
Gianni breaks it. "This doesn't change what she did," he says, his voice sharp, desperate to hold onto the anger. "She still stayed silent. Our father still died."
"Your father died because Viktor Sokolov wanted him dead," I snap, turning on him. "If Isabella had warned you, my father would have simply changed the plan. He would have used a bomb. A sniper. Poison. The massacre was happening regardless."
"You don't know that."
"I know my father," I say. "He had contingencies for his contingencies. Isabella’s silence didn’t kill anyone. Viktor did."
Alessandro exhales, a long, shaky breath. "Oh, Isabella."
"Alex—" Gianni starts.
Alessandro cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. He looks sick.
Rocco crosses the room to Isabella. She is crying silently, tears tracking through the dirt on her face. He takes her hand, pulling her slightly toward him.
"You heard him," Rocco says gently. "It wasn’t your fault."
"I still kept the promise," she whispers. "I still..."
"You were a child," Rocco says. "He was a monster. That is the truth."
Matteo stands up.
The chair scrapes against the floor, a harsh sound. He walks around the table, coming to stop directly in front of me. We are eye to eye. Don to Pakhan. Two men wearing crowns of bone and blood that we never asked for.
"I don't forgive you," Matteo says. His voice is clear, stripping away any ambiguity. "For what you did to my sister. For what your family has cost mine. I will never forgive you."
"I'm not asking for forgiveness."
"Then what are you asking for?"
I look past him.
Isabella is standing by the window. She’s holding Rocco’s hand, but her eyes are on me. Even now. Even here.
"I’m asking you to stop blaming her for a crime she didn’t commit," I say. "And I’m asking you to let her choose. Without the guilt."
Matteo turns. He looks at his sister. really looks at her, stripping away the years of resentment and silence. He sees the exhaustion. He sees the scars I put there, and the ones her family put there.
"Is this what you want?" he asks her. "Him?"
Isabella doesn't hesitate. She doesn't flinch.
"Yes."
"Even after everything?"
"Because of everything."
The answer hits me in the chest, harder than a bullet. After the basement. After the collar. After the cage. She chooses this. She chooses us.
Matteo lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch.
"You’re still my sister," he says. "That doesn't change."
"Matteo..."
"I need time," he says, cutting her off. "We all do. But you're still family."
It’s not peace. It’s not a truce. But it’s an opening.
Isabella pulls her hand from Rocco’s grip. She stands in the center of the room, looking at the four men who have been her world, her jailers, her protectors. She is memorizing them.
Rocco reaches for her hand again. He squeezes it once, hard, then lifts it to his lips. He kisses her knuckles—a gesture of such reverence it feels like I shouldn’t be watching. He whispers something in Italian, low and soft, and her breath hitches. Then he steps back.
Enzo is next. He doesn't move toward her. He raises his hands. His face is a mask of control, but his eyes are wet. He signs a short, sharp phrase. Isabella’s face crumbles, then reassembles itself. She signs back. Enzo nods once. He touches two fingers to his chest, over his heart, and extends them toward her.
Love.
Alessandro won’t look at her. He’s staring at the floor, arms crossed tight over his chest, protecting himself.
Isabella goes to him. "Alex."
He shakes his head.
"Alex, please."
He looks up. His eyes are rimmed with red. "You’re really leaving."
"I’m choosing myself," she says. Her voice is steady, though her hands are trembling. "For the first time in eleven years, I’m choosing what I want instead of what I think I deserve."
Alessandro’s face twists. He breaks. He pulls her into a hug, fierce and desperate, burying his face in her hair. He holds her like he’s trying to keep her from falling off a cliff. "Be safe," I hear him choke out. Then he lets her go and turns away, covering his face with his hand.
Gianni is the last.
He is leaning against the wall, rigid as stone. Of all of them, he is the only one who still looks like he wants to kill me.
Isabella stops just out of arm's reach.
"Gianni."
"Don't."
"I know you're angry—"
"I'm not angry," he says. His voice is flat, terrifyingly calm. "Angry is what I was when you disappeared. Angry is what I was when we found the note. This?" He gestures vaguely between us. "This is something else."
"What is it?"
He stares at the wall for a long time. "Grief," he says finally. "You’re my sister. And you’re walking out that door with the man who broke you, and I can’t stop you. So yeah. Grief."
Isabella reaches out. She touches his arm. He flinches, his muscles bunching under her fingers, but he doesn't pull away.
"I love you, Gianni," she says. "That doesn’t stop because I’m leaving."
"Yeah." He won't look at her. "It doesn’t stop for me either. That’s the problem."
She rises on her tiptoes. She presses a kiss to his cheek. Gianni stands there, taking it like a blow, his throat working around a hard swallow.
Then she turns.
She walks across the room.
She walks away from the brothers who raised her, the house that haunts her, the legacy that almost crushed her. She walks toward me.
I am standing there in a borrowed blanket and bare feet, surrounded by enemies, but when she reaches me, I feel like a king.
She takes my hand.
Her fingers are ice cold. Mine are burning. When we touch, the circuit closes. The hum of anxiety in my blood quiets instantly.
I grip her hand tight. She squeezes back.
We walk out of the family room. We walk across the marble foyer, past the portraits of dead men. We walk out into the blinding afternoon sun.
The guards are still there. Their rifles are still raised. They track us as we move down the steps, toward the gate. Any one of them could end this. A twitch of a finger. A misunderstanding.
They look to Matteo.
He is standing in the doorway. He watches us go. He doesn't wave. He doesn't smile. But he doesn't give the order.
It is not absolution. It is not forgiveness.
But as I walk down the driveway with Isabella’s hand in mine, the gravel biting into my feet and the sun burning my skin, I know what it is.
It’s permission.
And for now, it is enough.