Chapter 30 OKSANA
The room is expensively decorated and looks like Raf's taste. Steel, partnered with soft leather, all angles and modern accents. I stay quiet while they look between Stephano and me, measuring whether we’re an interruption or an answer.
Stephano’s still, that perfect Conti control draped over a storm.
He lets them come to him, lets silence do what force can’t.
Raf moves first. He studies the thumb drive on the table like it’s a relic. "Your brother gave you this?"
"He’s alive," Stephano confirms. "Nico was held captive in Caracas for three years, but he got solid intel from them. Oksana and I added to it."
Raf doesn’t look my way, but I can feel his respect. "Bottom line? The Venezuelans have infiltrated us with internal Cells."
Enrico leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Inside your house?"
Stephano meets his gaze and corrects, "Ours. Yours. Everyone’s."
A muscle jumps in his jaw, small but telling.
"Gustave was paying Valverde’s people directly.
We have transfers. Accounts. I didn’t want to believe it, but I saw his signature in the ledger.
He’s not just compromised; he’s the Venezuelans’ puppet.
So I’m done pretending blood makes loyalty.
Edoardo goes down first, but Gustave follows. "
He doesn't mention that Gustave tried to kill both of his sons. Some things aren’t meant for public consumption. Still, his words land like a gunshot.
Toni whistles low, a grim smile on his face. "You’re planning to burn your own father."
Stephano meets his gaze evenly. "I’m planning to clean my house."
Raf breaks the tension, tipping back his glass with a half-grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. "So that’s why you came home married and breathing fire."
When neither Stephano nor I respond, Toni tilts his head. "And what exactly are you doing here, Signora Conti? The Bratva doesn’t usually play counselor for our family problems."
I smile, polite and cold. "I’m not here to play anything. I’m here because the infection in your house has spread into mine. The Venezuelans don’t just have cells inside La Famiglia—they’ve infiltrated the Bratva as well. So whether you like me here or not, we’re in the same war."
His expression tightens, but he doesn’t look away. "Bratva as in here in the city, or has this crossed the ocean?"
"Oh, it crossed the ocean decades ago, in the form of your Donna Margarita. So, considering your business with Grigori, you might want to make sure you’re not exporting the problem along with the product."
He bristles. Good. I want him sharp, not complacent.
"Grigori’s no fool," he states flatly.
"Nobody would ever accuse him of that," I agree. "In fact, he’s known to kill first and not ask questions later. So you might want to consider yourself lucky that I’m here and not him."
Grigori wouldn’t hesitate to kill anybody, friend or not—and Toni knows it.
My brother believes in preemptive strikes.
Steph’s hand finds mine under the table, a small anchor.
His thumb brushes once against my skin—enough.
He’s right. Toni and Grigori have their own business together.
Threatening him isn’t in Grigori’s best interest.
Stephano turns to the others, diffusing the static in the air. "We found some of the connection points. The Caracas accounts go through churches like Cappella del Corvo and St. Vladimir, and several satellite Cells feed data up the chain. Each Cell leader knows only a piece of the structure."
Enrico frowns. "You’re saying the Venezuelans have turned La Famiglia into a network of blind couriers?"
"Exactly. And they’ve been sending information back to Caracas."
"Why?" Toni asks, leaning back in his chair.
Stephano doesn’t hesitate. "What we found is actually a two-way assault—on the Bratva and us. We just don’t know yet how it connects."
Toni waves his hand impatiently, like he expects a presentation. It makes me bristle. But Stephano squeezes my hand again.
"So on one side, we have Donna Margarita and Igor Pavlov. On the other side, the Venezuelans. The Venezuelans have been trying to get their foot in New York for decades."
"Through Donna Margarita and her lover Silvestre," Raf specifies.
It’s Enrico who answers. "That, and we also know our boy here"—he pats Raf’s shoulder; Raf looks like he’d rather remove the hand—"has impressive parentage: Leonardo Zanello and Donna Margarita."
Stephano whistles through his teeth, and I raise an eyebrow. That, I did not see coming—and there’s not much in this world I miss.
"Impressive," Stephano nods at Raf, who raises his glass in a mock cheer. He doesn’t look eager to claim the lineage. Good.
The next hour is spent exchanging information. Looks like the others weren’t idle while Stephano and I risked our lives in Mexico. Once all the pieces are on the table, you’d think it would be easier to see the puzzle. It’s not.
Silence reigns until Marcello shifts forward, suspicion tempered but not gone. "So you’re not just talking about removing Edoardo. You’re talking about restructuring the entire chain of command of La Famiglia."
"Yes," Stephano returns simply. "We purge them all. Edoardo. Gustave. Every underboss with Venezuelan money in his pocket. Then we rebuild."
Toni snorts. "You make it sound so easy."
Stephano’s eyes cut to him. "It’s not easy. It’s necessary."
He’s calm when he says it, but I can feel what’s underneath—anger sharpened into purpose. He’s already gone to war. The others just haven’t caught up.
Raf watches him, then me. There’s quiet understanding there.
We’ve worked together multiple times over the years—starting back when I was a whisper in Moscow’s darker corners, and he was a low-level soldier, cleaning blood off New York’s pavement.
He hides recognition well, but I don’t bother pretending.
"You already know me," I say, turning to him.
He doesn’t flinch. "As much as you’d allow anyone to."
I chuckle. "Fair enough. So tell them."
He sighs. "Oksana’s not just Bratva royalty. She’s… efficient."
Marcello bites. "Efficient?"
"She kills efficiently," Stephano clarifies.
No one laughs. They’ve heard rumors. Raf is only confirming them. Confirming me and my place at this table.
Enrico’s gaze sharpens. "Then tell me something, Oksana. Are you one of these Venezuelan Cells?"
The question doesn’t sting. It’s predictable. I look straight at him. "If I were, you’d already be dead."
He studies me for a moment, then nods once. Accepting it. I turn to Raf. "Are you?"
"Same answer," he replies, cold as steel.
The tension shifts—not gone, but different. Less suspicion. More strategy.
Raf stands, grabs a crystal decanter of Blue Label, and refills glasses as he speaks. "So we agree on the enemy. The Venezuelans through Edoardo and Gustave. And the ones sitting quietly inside all our families. But what about the old ghosts? Donna Margarita. Igor."
Stephano glances at me. Offering the floor. I take it.
"Donna Margarita and Igor were half-siblings," I begin, keeping my voice flat. "Their mothers gave birth and were sent packing. We’ll get to them later. Both were Viktor Voronin’s bastards—along with several others.
When they were sixteen, they ran away from the Internat.
" I shrug. "Nobody runs from Viktor Voronin. Not really."
Marcello interrupts, "Internat?"
"It's a place where the kids were held and educated," I explain, giving the short version.
"Hold on," Raf interrupts next. "Viktor Voronin—he was the Bratva Pakhan before your father?"
I take a deep breath, roll my eyes, and nod. Arrogant Italian bastards. Wouldn't have hurt them one bit to read up on the Bratva history. I know everything about Cosa Nostra's history; well, I thought I did. But these men are too arrogant for their own good. They have no idea how much they need me.
Stephano looks amused, like he can read my thoughts, and I continue with a bit of annoyance in my voice.
"Yes. They stayed close afterward—how, we don’t know.
You all know what Donna Margarita became.
Igor worked under a different name for the KGB until the USSR fell. After that… he went freelance."
"So Donna Margarita had a beef with Leonardo?" Toni asks. "Why?"
"Because he was married to her mother? Because he dropped her after she was taken by Viktor Voronin?" I retort.
Toni sets his glass down. Slowly. "What?"
"Yeah," I say lightly. "That part was kept very hush-hush. Viktor raised her, so it looked like Donna Margarita simply married into the family. I’m not even convinced Leonardo knew she was his dead wife’s daughter."
I add it casually—too casually—and can’t help the flicker of smug satisfaction at the stunned looks around the table.
Even Raf looks caught off guard. Stephano stares at me.
Surprised. Annoyed. Proud. He shakes his head.
I wink. A girl can’t give up all her secrets at once. That would make any marriage boring.
Truth is, I haven’t been sitting on this long. I had downtime on the plane and finally went through the rest of the files Anita sent me, the full dossier on Donna Margarita I’d been saving for later. And, surprise, surprise, there it was: The smoking gun.
Donna Margarita’s mother.
Caterine Bellini. Also known as Caterine Zanello.
She was married to Don Leonardo briefly—very briefly—before Viktor abducted her.
Raped her. Got her pregnant—his MO, because he had the power and nobody could stop him it must have been one hell of a bad time for La Famiglia, no wonder there is so much bad blood between the Italians and us—he returned her only after she gave birth to Margarita.
Leonardo never forgave her. He shunned her publicly.
Declared her damaged goods. She didn’t survive it.
The story was buried deep. Decades deep. I doubt many people left in La Famiglia even remember it, assuming they ever knew. And I’d bet no one remembered the baby’s name. Much less connected the dots.
For a beat, no one speaks. Then the room goes off.
"That’s—" Marcello starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair. "How the hell did we not know this?"
"Because no one wanted to," Enrico snaps. "Jesus Christ."
Toni exhales hard, staring into his glass like it might explain things. "You’re telling us the most dangerous woman in La Famiglia was Don Leonardo’s wife’s daughter—and we all just… missed it?"
I tilt my head, watching it ripple through them. Confusion. Anger. Embarrassment. A little fear. "You didn’t miss it," I say mildly. "It was buried. On purpose."
Raf’s jaw tightens. I glance at him, unable to help myself. "You know," I add, almost kindly, "you have one hell of a parentage."
His eyes snap to mine.
Stephano clears his throat. Sharp. A warning. "Oksana."
I look at him, all innocence. "What?"
He gives me a look. Next time, a heads-up.
I smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"
A few of them bark out short, disbelieving laughs—more release than humor—but the tension doesn’t lift. If anything, it sharpens.
The table feels too small now. Like we’ve all realized we’ve been sitting on a fault line.
"Okay," Marcello says finally. "So… what else don’t we know?"
"Donna Margarita targeted Leonardo," I let the last pieces click together, meeting their eyes one by one. "That’s what the Internat was—a breeding ground for loyalty. Blood loyalty. So deep that even Viktor’s death didn’t stop it. They’re still carrying out whatever he started."
"But they must all be…" Marcello thinks aloud. "Around Donna Margarita’s age? This happened in… what, the early sixties?"
He’s right, but he forgot something. "They didn’t stay celibate. Your Donna Margarita had what? Four children? None of whom are very cunning, if rumors are true.”
"So you think I’ve got cousins I don’t know about running around?" Raf ignores the barb.
"It’s possible," Stephano answers.
"Well fuck—we’re caught in a decades-old vendetta?" Enrico downs his whiskey and pours another, topping off Toni’s too.
"There’s more. We just haven’t found the missing link yet."
I lean back. "But I know where we’ll get answers."
"Caracas," Raf spits.
"Valverde," Stephano agrees, jaw tight.
Raf rises. "He’s mine."
"Oh?" I give him a sharp, amused look. "Do tell."
The way Raf’s jaw works tells me it’s personal. Stephano and I exchange a glance. My marito burns for revenge just as much as Raf.