Chapter 32 - Oksana
The café sits at the edge of the waterfront, open enough to see threats approach, crowded enough to blend in, quiet enough that a massacre would be inconvenient but not impossible.
Warm sunlight glints off the glass tables, tourists chatter in the distance, and a violin street performer plays something mournful near the fountain.
I see Grigori before he sees me. He’s hard to miss. Six feet of violence contained in a tailored coat, hair slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut marble.
My brother, the Pakhan of the Bratva. My mirror in ruthlessness. His gaze sweeps the perimeter. Cataloging faces.
Threat.
No threat.
Threat.
Same game I play.
I approach, my blonde wig swaying. His eyes narrow.
"I don’t like you as a blonde," he says in Russian, keeping his voice low, deadly, and annoyingly affectionate.
"Well," I reply, "I don’t like your nose. At least I can change the wig."
"Why did we have to change the time?" He asks, but then seems to think better of it. "Wait, don't tell me."
I wink and grin. His lips twitch, the closest Grigori gets to laughter. He steps forward, wraps me in a crushing hug, and kisses both cheeks the Russian way. I feel the strength in him, coiled, simmering, always one insult away from violence.
"You look good," he murmurs. "Marriage becomes you."
Before I can reply to the compliment, he smirks. "Let’s see if widowhood suits you better."
I snort, and he releases me. "Play nice. I happen to like my husband."
"Well, he’s not your husband until he formally asks me for my sister's hand in marriage."
He gestures to the table like he owns the entire street. "Sit."
I drop into the chair, taking in the clean sea air while my eyes scan the area: People strolling along the promenade. A couple arguing over gelato flavors. A mother coaxing her toddler into a stroller.
I mark every face, every hand, every potential threat. One man’s jacket is too heavy for the weather—knife? Gun? Or just fashionably stupid?
I can’t help it. Paranoia is oxygen.
"So," I ask, "how’s Nico?"
Grigori exhales through his nose. "Restless. He wants revenge."
I nod slowly. I know that itch, that hunger that lives under the skin. "Of course he does."
"And Solnyshko misses you."
My chest warms at the mention of my sister-in-law. She's way too soft for him. Too good. Too gentle. Too everything.
"I miss her too," I admit. "I bet she’s fussing over Nico."
A flicker of madness crosses his features. His eyes ice over. "For as long as he survives," he states flatly.
I roll my eyes. "You can’t kill every man who talks to your wife."
He raises a brow, calm as a glacier. "Watch me."
I huff out a laugh. "Psychopath."
He inclines his head proudly. "Family trait."
"So," I say, leaning back, "what do you know?"
"Rumors," he drops his voice. "We think Viktor had a son."
"He had a lot of sons… and daughters," I interrupt with a chuckle.
He turns those glacial blue eyes on me, sharp, controlled, terrifying.
A death promise. People claim he’s emotionless. They’re wrong. His emotions are just… weaponized.
"This son is different," he continues. "Viktor had a wife. A Venezuelan wife."
I go still. Completely. "Fuck."
"Yeah," Grigori agrees. "Blyad."
"So the son is in Venezuela?"
"Allegedly."
He reaches for his coffee. I notice his finger tapping against the cup—exactly twice every five seconds. His tell. He’s ready to kill something. "I’ll send—"
"No." I stop him immediately. "Stephano and I are going. We have loose ends there anyway. We’ll find Viktor’s son."
Before he can argue, sunlight flashes off something metallic behind him.
A gun.
Years of training snap into place. My chair slams backward as I stand, gun already in my hand. I launch over the table—over Grigori—shouting, "Gun!"
We hit the pavement together, him rolling instantly to shield me even though I’m already firing.
Screaming erupts. Chairs topple. People run.
Five men appear from behind planters and lampposts. All armed. Moving with precision.
"Friends of yours?" I call out over the gunfire.
"I don’t socialize with Venezuelans," Grigori spits, shooting the first man in the throat.
"Good," I mutter, dropping another with a bullet to the knee, then the head. "I’d be concerned."
Bystanders scatter in every direction. A stroller rolls into the fountain. Someone cries. Someone prays. Someone records with their phone—idiot.
Three shots whistle past my ear. I duck behind an overturned table. We kill four in under fifteen seconds. The fifth lies on the pavement, bleeding from his shoulder. Not dead enough, apparently.
Grigori stalks toward him like a wolf. Calm. Certain. Terrifying.
He grinds his boot onto the man’s throat. "Who sent you?"
"Fuck you," the man spits in Venezuelan-accented Spanish.
I shoot him in the opposite shoulder. "Wrong answer, asshole."
Grigori snarls at me. "I’ve got this."
"Sorry," I say sweetly, scanning the perimeter.
Three large SUVs turn the corner, speeding toward us. Tinted windows. Reinforced bumpers.
"We’ve got company," I announce.
I step down hard on the wounded man’s testicles. He screams so loudly that birds scatter into the air.
"?El León!" he wails. "?El León! El—"
Grigori shoots him between the eyes, grabs my wrist, and yanks me into a run.
"Let’s go," he orders as the SUVs screech to a halt, doors flying open.
"My car is in that garage," I point at the multi-story parking garage where I left Stephano's Bugatti, and we sprint down a side alley, boots slapping pavement, my adrenaline spiking so hard it’s almost pleasurable.
Stephano flashes into my mind, his eyes on me this morning, dark with want and worry. God, the way he looked at me.
Maybe when I get back…
Maybe I’ll wait for him naked.
Blonde wig.
Weapons strapped to my skin.
Let him devour me.
Let him worship me.
Let him—
Heat curls low in my spine.
"Focus," Grigori growls beside me, yanking me out of my very good thoughts.
I smirk. "You have no idea what I was focusing on."
He grunts. "If it was murder, fine. If it was sex, keep it to yourself."
I laugh breathlessly as we reach a service ramp leading to an underground loading bay. "Both," I answer.
He mutters something in Russian that sounds like a prayer and a curse. "Come on," he snaps. "We need to hurry."
We crash through a door, alarms are blaring, and the moment we duck behind a pile of crates, bullets smash into the concrete overhead. Grigori looks at me, eyes bright with the thrill of violence.
"You married an Italian," he says. "Weird choice."
I grin viciously. "He’s mine."
He bares his teeth. "Good. Then make sure you stay alive long enough for me to meet him properly."
"We’ll see," I tease.
Another hail of bullets. We move.
Side by side.
Brother and sister.
Blood and war.
Funny, I always considered Grigori a psychopath. Now I'm wondering how much of that is in me, too, because I'm enjoying the hell out of this. It's been a long time since Grigori and I fought side by side.
We burst out from behind the crates, through another door, and out into an alley, then into the lower level of the parking garage, which echoes with alarms and the distant screech of tires. The air tastes like exhaust and gunpowder. Perfect.
Grigori is already scanning rows of cars, eyes bright with that murderous sparkle he gets when life turns interesting. "Where's your car?"
I point at the Bugatti, parked in a Reserved for employee of the month spot. He raises an eyebrow. "An Italian car?"
I shrug and pull the handle. "I'll drive. It's Stephano's; I don't want to get it scratched."
He yanks open the door of the sports car. "Fine!"
"Fine," I say, stepping back, gun up. "You keep our fan club entertained."
Footsteps slam against the concrete behind us. Then shouting. Then the unmistakable roar of heavy guns.
"Oh, wonderful," I mutter as bullets chew chunks off cement pillars. "They brought bigger toys."
Machine gun fire lights up the floor like fireworks. I drop into a crouch, lean over the hood, and start returning fire in careful, tight bursts. My shoulder aches—burns, actually—and something warm trickles down my arm.
Fuck.
One of the stitches must have ripped. Again.
Stephano is not going to like this.
A bullet whizzes past my cheek, tugging a strand of my wig. I shoot the bastard who fired it.
Maybe… I won’t tell him.
A chuckle escapes me. My wound reopens, and my first thought is:
Stephano will be pissed.
Second thought: He’ll insist on a conversation before we have sex.
Absolutely not.
I hurry behind the steering wheel, and with a push of a button, the engine purrs to life. As soon as Grigori is in, I put it in drive. Tires squeal. The Venezuelans advance.
The first bullets hit the hood.
Shit.
I grind my teeth. This is my husband's car.
Then—
POP POP POP.
The tires blow before we even clear the aisle.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake," I snap.
"Run," Grigori orders simply.
We’re out of the car and sprinting back up the ramp. My shoulder throbs harder. Shit. Definitely bleeding.
"You’re hurt," Grigori growls.
"I’m fine," I lie.
"You’re dripping."
"So what? You’ve shot people while half-dead."
"Exactly," he snaps. "You’re not me."
I roll my eyes and shoot the man aiming at Grigori’s back. "Focus. And I'm at least seventy percent you."
"That’s the problem," he mutters.
We reach the top level, the open roof. Wind slaps at my face. Sunlight glints off rows of parked cars. And down on the street level? Dark SUVs.
So many of them.
"Fuck," I breathe. "That’s a whole goddamn army."
"Da," Grigori says, like it’s mildly interesting trivia. He’s already firing one-handed while speaking low Russian into his phone.
"Backup?" I ask, swapping mags.
"Ten minutes out."
"We don’t have a minute."
He doesn’t argue that.
The Venezuelans behind us fan out, pushing us toward the far end of the roof, cornering us. Smart. Annoying.
Grigori flicks me a sideways look. "Make it count."
I snort. "You’re so dramatic."
Then the wind shifts.