Chapter 032 Isabella
The main meeting hall of the Sokolov compound was packed with men who had spilled blood for the family name. Captains, lieutenants, every soldier who mattered stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the raised platform where Viktor and I took our places. We had driven straight here from the Langham this morning—his decision, not mine. He wanted this reckoning in the heart of his power, not some neutral ground. I stood at his right, the blade strapped beneath my dress pressing against my thigh like a secret heartbeat.
Whispers slithered through the crowd.
“The Moretti girl.”
“Dimitri’s killer.”
“His whore.”
The words landed, sharp and familiar. I kept my chin high and catalogued every face: who met my gaze, who looked away, who let hatred flicker before hiding it. The Weapon in me never rested. The woman endured.
Kaz knelt in the center, wrists bound, face swollen and crusted with old blood. Behind him, eight traitors stood against the wall, hands tied, waiting for whatever came next. The hall smelled of old stone, gun oil, and the faint metallic promise of fresh violence.
Viktor’s fingers brushed mine—just once—as he stepped forward. Even here, surrounded by judgment, the contact sent heat licking up my arm.
“You know why we’re here,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “Kazimir led a faction against me. He kidnapped a woman under my protection and tried to put a bullet in her head without my consent.”
“She deserved it—” Kaz began.
“SILENCE.”
The single word cracked through the hall. Even on his knees, Kaz shut his mouth.
Viktor lifted the documents—the ones that had shattered everything. “For eleven years we believed Isabella Moretti lured my brother to his death.” A low growl rippled through the men. “We were wrong.”
Dead silence.
He handed the papers to the nearest captain without another word. They began their slow journey through the ranks.
“LIES!” Kaz roared, straining against the zip ties. “He’s covering for his—”
Viktor moved faster than thought. His fist smashed into Kaz’s jaw with a wet crunch. Blood sprayed across the stone floor in a bright arc. Kaz’s head snapped sideways; he spat red and laughed through broken teeth.
“She’s made you weak. Just like Dimitri.”
“Dimitri wasn’t weak,” Viktor said quietly. “He was the best of us. And our father killed him.”
The captains read. Faces changed—shock, disgust, fury. One older man crossed himself. Another swore in Russian. I watched the shift happen in real time: old loyalties cracking, new ones forming.
Viktor walked the line of bound men. “You chose Kazimir over your pakhan. That’s treason.” His pistol appeared as if it had always been there. “The punishment is death.”
The first shot was deafening. The body dropped with a heavy thud. Gunpowder stung my nose, mixing with the sudden flood of copper. I didn’t flinch. The second shot followed, then the third. The third man whimpered right before the bullet took him. The sound lodged somewhere behind my ribs.
Six shots. Six bodies. Blood spread in slow, dark pools across ancient floorboards.
Two men remained standing, shaking.
“You followed orders you thought were mine,” Viktor told them. “That’s not treason. That’s misplaced loyalty.” Their relief was visible, almost obscene. “Swear to me—only me—or join the others.”
They swore. Quickly. Desperately.
Viktor turned back to Kaz. A single spatter of blood decorated his white collar like a macabre boutonniere.
“You should be dead,” he said. “By every law we have, you’ve earned it.”
“Then do it,” Kaz rasped.
“No.” The refusal surprised even me. “You loved Dimitri. Everything you did came from that love. Twisted, wrong—but love. I won’t kill you for it.”
Kaz’s laugh was broken glass. “Then you admit I was right.”
“I admit we were both wrong.” Viktor’s voice carried to every corner. “Exile. Forty-eight hours to leave the country. If I ever see you again, I finish this.”
They cut Kaz’s bonds. He rose slowly, swaying, eyes fixed on me with pure venom.
“She’ll destroy you the way she destroyed Dimitri. Moretti women make us love them, then watch us bleed.”
I spoke for the first time. My voice didn’t shake. “The only one who destroyed Sokolovs was your father. You’re just too blind with grief to see it.”
He walked out without another word, but the promise in his stare lingered like smoke.
Cleanup began immediately. Bodies wrapped in canvas, dragged toward the side entrance where a truck idled. The oldest captain oversaw it all, face carved from granite. I stayed on the platform, Viktor’s hand resting lightly at the small of my back—claiming and steadying at once.
When the last body was gone and the blood mopped away, the hall emptied. Afternoon light slanted through high windows, turning dust motes gold.
Viktor stood at one of the tall windows overlooking the compound grounds. He looked suddenly tired—not the physical exhaustion of a fight, but something deeper. I slipped my hand into his. He closed his fingers around mine instantly, thumb tracing slow circles over my knuckles.
My hand trembled, fine but unmistakable.
“Too much?” he asked quietly.
“No.” I meant it. “Just… recalibrating.”
He waited.
“I’m thinking about them,” I admitted.
He didn’t ask who.
“Rocco held my hand when you showed Matteo the documents,” I said. “Just reached over and took it. No words. He always knows what I need before I do.”
“He loves you.”
“They all do.” My throat tightened. “Matteo used to sit in my doorway after nightmares. Twenty-two years old, carrying seventeen funerals on his shoulders, and he still sat there until I fell back asleep. Never said anything. Just… present.”
Viktor’s arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his side.
“Rocco taught me to shoot. Gianni taught me how to fight dirty. Enzo taught me silence—hours of signed stories until I learned words aren’t everything. Alex used to sneak me gelato after Sunday dinner. Said it was our secret, like I didn’t know he did it for everyone.”
I pressed closer, listening to Viktor’s heartbeat through his shirt—steady, alive.
“I had all of that,” I whispered, “and I walked away.”
“You walked toward something,” he corrected gently.
I didn’t argue. We watched the sun sink lower, painting the compound walls amber.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Now we rebuild.” His voice dropped, intimate. “The family. The business. Everything my father poisoned. I need you beside me, Isabella. Not as a trophy. As a partner.” His thumb brushed over my bare ring finger. “As my wife, if you’ll have me.”
My pulse jumped against his touch. “Are you asking?”
“Not yet.” His pale eyes held mine. “When there’s no blood on the floor and no ghosts in the room, I’ll ask properly. On my knees if you want.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “But only when you’re ready.”
“Ask me someday,” I said. “See what I answer.”
He pulled me fully against him. I rested my cheek over his heart.
“I don’t deserve you,” I murmured into his shirt.
“Probably not.” His chin settled on my head. “I don’t deserve you either. We’ll be undeserving together.”
The sun dipped below the walls, leaving the sky bruised purple. Somewhere out there my brothers were almost certainly planning, grieving, raging. Here, blood still dried on ancient stone, and the man I loved carried fresh deaths on his conscience.
Yet standing in the circle of his arm, I felt something settle into place.
His.
And—finally, impossibly—my own.