Chapter 31 - Stephano
The next day…
My house feels different with her in it.
Quieter, yes, but also somehow more alive.
Every corridor seems sharper, every shadow more invested.
The air tastes crisper, as if the walls themselves have snapped to attention, no longer daring to slouch or creak under Oksana Conti’s command.
Oksana Arsenyev… She hasn’t legally changed her name yet, but it’s mine in every way that matters.
My wife. The phrase keeps replaying, obsessive and addictive.
Sometimes under my breath, sometimes only in my head. My wife.
Security has doubled since she moved in.
My most trusted men—fully vetted by Dre and long-acquainted with violence and their own ghosts—patrol the perimeter in shifts, while Oksana's people—all hard-eyed, Slavic, silent as winter—rotate in overlapping rings outside. There’s a slow but steady thaw between the two squads, a professional admiration built on mutual paranoia.
Each tests the other with calculated glances, each measuring the other's discipline, the tightening and loosening of grips on sidearms, the way no one ever turns their back on a window.
I let them indulge. If anyone gets through that, they deserve the world.
Inside, the rules are as strict but infinitely simpler. I live for her. She lives for herself and, with luck, for me too.
It’s early: sun slanting pale and golden through windows that face east, dust motes rising and falling in the perfect stillness.
I’m at the dresser, collar unbuttoned, tie hanging like a leash from my fist. She’s at the mirror, fastening a sheath to her thigh.
The sight of her draws me the way gravity draws bodies together.
Oksana’s hair catches fire in the light, a brick-red halo that frames her angular face and the faintest of smiles.
She’s so beautiful it knocks the air from my lungs every time, but I know better than to say so.
Flattery is wasted on her unless it’s edged with something real.
Praise is a dead currency unless you can pay up with blood or truth.
But it’s not just the beauty; it’s the strength. The way her arms flex as she tightens the strap, the gleam of white teeth as she tugs a stubborn lock of hair back into its braid. She does everything with lethal efficiency.
She’s still healing, a row of neat black stitches zigzagging low across her ribs, a shiner under one eye that’s already fading to ugly green. In another week, the bruises will be gone, and the scar will be nothing but a pink whisper under her skin.
She catches me staring. Smirks, as if she expected nothing less. "Enjoying the view, Marito?"
"Always," I say, and it’s true. It will always be true.
She laughs, low and throaty, and finishes her braid.
It’s a war-cry of femininity, a challenge to every bastard who’s ever underestimated her.
I watch her slide the blade into her boot, the motion as delicate as setting a gemstone.
It reminds me of something, and I remember the small case stashed in the back of my sock drawer.
It’s been burning a hole in my consciousness since it arrived.
The ring she bought herself as a wedding band has been a sore in my side ever since she put the damn thing on. I'd love nothing better than to pour acid over it.
"Hold on." I cross to the closet, ignoring her raised eyebrow, and dig out the case. It fits perfectly in my palm, heavier than it should be.
When I return, Oksana is watching me in the mirror. Not at me—at the reflection of me. It’s a subtle difference, but one that matters. She’s measuring my intent, as she always does. She could read my mind if she wanted, but she likes to see me sweat a little first.
I set the case on the vanity and pop it open with my thumb. The ring inside is a blood-red stone set in black gold, the kind of thing you could ransom a country for. I had it custom-cut, the facets shaped to catch light like a blade. I wanted it to be the only one of its kind. Because she is.
Oksana stiffens. Not with surprise—she’s too dangerous for that—but with a kind of reverence. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her hesitate before. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown almost black, and for a second, I wonder if I’ve fucked up. If I’ve overreached.
But then she turns, slowly, and faces me for real. She doesn’t touch the ring. She doesn’t need to. Her hands are trembling, though she tries to hide it by tucking them behind her back.
I go to one knee before she can stop me. Not because I think she needs the gesture, but because I do. Because nothing else would feel right in this moment. The floor is cold against my bare skin. My heart is pounding like the last seconds of a bomb timer.
"I figured," I say, the words rough and unpracticed, "that if the world only makes one of you… It should only make one of these, too."
I lift the ring, holding it up so the fire flickers between us. She closes her eyes for a beat, then opens them again, glassy and bright. I see her—the real her—stripped of all the masks and weapons and strategies. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen her afraid.
"You’re not replaceable," I tell her. "Not by anyone. You don’t come in versions." She’s breathing hard, almost gasping. "You’re singular, Oksana. Unique. And you’re mine."
She sinks down to the floor beside me, movement smooth and deliberate. She takes my face in both hands, fingers cool and certain. I think she might snap my neck, but instead she pulls me forward until our foreheads touch. Her breath washes over my lips, mint and something sweeter.
She picks up the ring, cradling it like it might detonate if she’s too rough. Turns it once, twice, reading the inscription inside the band: contro tutti
"Forever, against everyone," I whisper, the words an oath.
She slides the ring onto her finger; the fit is perfect. She kisses me, soft at first, then all teeth and hunger. Her body pressed against mine, she whispers it back, "Always."
We stay like that, kneeling together in the pale morning sun, and I know that nothing—not blood, not history, not the endless fuckery of our world—will ever break us apart.
I think of the future, the wars we’ll wage and the monsters we’ll have to outlast. I think of children, maybe, and the empire we’ll build between us.
Mostly, I think of her as she is now, strong and beautiful and alive in my arms.
It’s the only thing that matters.
"I would like nothing more than to stay and show you my gratitude, Marito," she says, glancing at her slim Rolex. "But Grigori hates it when I’m late."
"Fuck him," I reply easily, already smiling.
The look she gives me—slow, sharp, complicit—tells me she’s considering exactly how much she wants to make good on that almost-promise. She lifts her phone anyway, thumbs flying.
Oksana:
We need to move the time by an hour…
"Make it two," I say, unapologetic. Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Every second.
She pauses, deletes, and types again.
Oksana:
We need to move the time by a couple of hours.
I hum in approval.
She doesn’t look back at me—but I know she’s smiling.
Exactly two hours later, I watch as she's getting dressed, again. All business and all Oksana. "Before I go," she says, "you need to check on Alan."
My brows lift. "Alan?" Is she talking about Alan Rosso? One of my lieutenants?
"He’s having an affair." A small revolver goes on her thigh, held by a garter that makes my mouth water in anticipation of removing it with my teeth later.
It takes me a moment to realize she's talking again; focusing is so goddamn hard when my dick demands all my blood.
"Nothing dangerous yet, but affairs become leverage.
" Ah, yes, Alan's affair. "Leverage becomes weakness.
" She pulls a wide skirt up and adjusts the belt around her slim waist. "Fix it before someone else notices. "
A laugh cracks out of me when I realize. "You’re vetting my men?"
She doesn’t even blink. "I’m vetting everyone."
She turns toward me, her expression unreadable and entirely hers. I step behind her, gather her braid, and tug lightly so she faces me. "It must get lonely in that paranoid head of yours," I tease.
"It’s the best company," she says, running a fingertip along my collar. "Besides you, Marito."
Something warm settles under my ribs at that—dangerous, unwise, real. Before I can follow the urge to nuzzle her neck, my phone buzzes. I glance down and sigh, "Raf wants to meet."
She doesn’t pause. "Good. That’ll keep you occupied." Then, with all the softness of a blade sliding between ribs, "Don’t trust him."
I stare at her. "How do you two know each other?"
Her answering grin is pure trouble. "Ah. See? Paranoia. Very healthy. It keeps you on your toes."
"Oksana."
"Maybe I’ll tell you on our next anniversary."
I laugh, shaking my head. "We haven’t even had a honeymoon yet."
She tilts her head, considering. "We haven’t? I thought Mexico—"
"Only you would call Mexico a honeymoon," I deadpan.
She shrugs, amused and unrepentant. "We survived. We killed people. We had sex. Sounds romantic to me."
She moves past me, and I catch her wrist gently, turning her back. "When this is over," I murmur, "I’ll take you to Italy."
She lights up, sharp, hungry, alive. "Will you have gladiators fight for me?"
I stare at her, struck stupid for a second. That’s the thing about Oksana, she’s smiling, but she means every word.
"Such bloodthirst," I murmur.
She leans in, brushing her lips against mine, a kiss that tastes like danger and commitment in equal measure. "You married it."
My hand finds the small of her back, careful of her stitches. Soon they’ll be gone. Soon she’ll pretend she was never injured at all. Soon she’ll be unstoppable again. God help anyone who stands between us and what we’re about to tear down.
I watch her move toward the suitcase she insisted on packing at her place yesterday, pulling it open.