Chapter 32 - Oksana #2
A deep, vibrating thrum cuts through the chaos. Rotors.
A helicopter sweeps into view over the edge of the garage, gray, gleaming, beautiful.
Machine gun fire erupts from its open door, mowing down the men coming for us.
The chopper dips lower, close enough so I can see Toni leaning out the open frame, hair whipping in the wind, grinning like the devil he is.
He cups a hand around his mouth. "Your husband says hi!" And then, like an afterthought, "Hey, Grigori!" as he fires another burst over our heads.
"Toni," Grigori replies with an equally casual nod, shooting someone in the face. "Nice to see you."
"Likewise!"
Toni reaches out an arm to me. Before I can take it, Grigori puts a hand on my lower back and shoves me toward him.
"Ladies first."
"Asshole," I growl, jumping.
I grip Toni’s forearm as he hauls me in. I pivot, firing past him to cover Grigori. He finishes off the last two men and leaps, landing inside with a grunt.
He’s bleeding too. No one says a word about it.
"I hope your helicopter is bulletproof," I mutter, settling into the seat.
Toni gives us both a look like I'm joking, but I'm not. "You should tell your brother to get you one. He's bought at least five hundred of them already from me."
"Yeah, but he only received ten." I counter.
Grigori and Toni are using his helicopter business as a front.
Each chopper costs a million; nobody asks if Grigori actually receives the choppers.
All that matters to the government is that it collects its taxes.
That's how Toni washes the money Grigori actually pays for Enrico's arms. Cleanly laundered money. Genius.
The chopper rises fast, banking hard as gunfire rains up from below. I glance around the interior and blink.
"This… is a helicopter?" I ask.
It looks like a private jet. Leather seats. Bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. Gleaming wood panels. Soft lighting.
Toni shrugs. "What? I like to fly in comfort."
Grigori whistles low. "Stephano sent you? I might let that husband of yours live."
"You?" Toni scoffs. "You kill people who annoy you."
Grigori stares him dead in the eyes. "You’re very annoying."
Toni chuckles, "Noted."
Grigori smirks again. "So, Stephano knew you’d be here?" he looks at me while pouring drinks like we didn’t just barely escape a shootout with our lives. "He put a tail on you?"
Toni nods. "Yeah. Lucky for you, I was just landing at the office. No biggie."
Grigori looks impressed. Actually impressed. Meanwhile, I'm debating if I should be pissed that Stephano had me trailed and I didn't notice—I did disconnect the tracker on the car. Shit, the car. He's not going to be happy about his Bugatti. Maybe I should let the surveillance tail slide.
"I’m curious how he snuck a tail on you," Grigori won't let it slide.
I glare, fury heating my blood. But beneath the anger—there’s something else.
Warmth.
Appreciation.
A fierce, inconvenient happiness.
"Me too," I mutter, taking the drink Grigori hands me.
We’re alive.
We’re armed.
And the damn Venezuelans just made one big mistake: They didn't finish the job they were sent to do.
Zanello Tower was built to impress. To intimidate. To me, it’s just one of those male things, too pristine, too arrogant, too eager to be admired. Too much glass. Too much light. The kind of place men build when they want to convince themselves they’re legitimate.
Tonight, it feels like a stage. Polished floors. Muted city glow. Too many people pretending they aren’t here to watch someone bleed.
After the shitshow earlier, Grigori demanded a meeting with La Famiglia. Not requested. Demanded. And when the Pakhan of the New York Bratva calls, people show up.
So here we are.
Every capo is present. Their sons. Their seconds. Power lined up in tailored suits and practiced restraint.
Including Edoardo. That alone tells me how badly he’s miscalculated.
Grigori doesn’t wait for anyone to sit. He walks straight into the center of the room like gravity bends toward him, coat still dusted with soot from the garage, blood drying dark on his knuckles. He doesn’t look at Edoardo at first. He doesn’t have to. Everyone already knows who this is for.
"They came after me," Grigori says calmly. Too calmly. He switches from English to Italian without breaking stride. "Your Venezuelan friends fired on my sister. In public. In your city."
Edoardo straightens. "I didn’t invite anyone to shoot at—"
Grigori finally looks at him. It’s not rage. Rage would be kinder.
"If you had done your job," Grigori cuts in, keeping his voice soft as falling snow, which anybody who knows him knows is a last warning, "after they murdered your bookkeeper, we would not be having this conversation."
The room stills.
Edoardo bristles. "You don’t get to lecture me on how I handle my territory—"
"I do," Grigori says, stepping closer, invading his space with surgical precision, "when your inaction spills into mine."
Toni shifts slightly beside me—not intervening, just watching. Raf has gone utterly still. Stephano’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing. He doesn’t need to. This isn’t his kill.
"You let them walk," Grigori continues. "No retaliation. No pressure. No message. You taught them they could test you."
Edoardo’s face reddens. "I was containing the situation."
"No," Grigori corrects. "You were hiding."
That lands harder than a slap.
"You wanted to keep your hands clean," Grigori goes on. "So you let the dirt pile up until it exploded in my face. That makes you weak. And weakness invites predators."
"I am the Don of La Famiglia," Edoardo snaps, a little too loudly. "You will not speak to me like—"
"Like what?" Grigori interrupts, tilting his head. "Like a man who has lost control of his house?"
Silence. Dead, suffocating silence.
Edoardo opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks around the room, searching for support. He doesn’t find it.
I step in then, before this turns irreversible.
"This isn’t about humiliation," I state evenly, sending a warning glare at Grigori, telling him to tone it down. "It’s about consequence."
Grigori glances at me, the barest flicker of approval in his eyes.
This is how we usually play things. He antagonizes until something has to be done, and I play the peacemaker if we are inclined to let our prey live.
With all the powerful members of La Famiglia here, it would be a mistake to antagonize them too much. Just yet.
"You wanted peace," I continue, turning to Edoardo. "You mistook silence for safety. The Venezuelans didn’t. They heard permission."
Stephano finally speaks. "You left a vacuum."
Raffael nods once. "And someone filled it."
Edoardo swallows. The glass tower suddenly feels very tall. Very exposed.
Grigori steps back half a pace, just enough to let him breathe again. A calculated mercy. The kind that costs interest later.
"I’m done waiting," Grigori says, voice calm and lethal, hands loose at his sides. "This mess grew because you let it. Because you mistook silence for control and called it diplomacy." His gaze cuts through Edoardo like a blade. "I’m going to Venezuela. I’ll put a bullet between Silvestre’s eyes, then Aurelio’s. I’ll burn the rot out myself."
Edoardo opens his mouth—panic, protest, pride, who knows—but he never gets the words out.
"The hell you will." Stephano is on his feet in an instant, chair scraping back hard enough to scream. His voice cracks through the room, iron and fury. "Silvestre is mine. He shot at my wife."
The temperature drops. Raf straightens too, stepping into the space like he owns it. Because in many ways, he does. "And Aurelio belongs to me."
The three of them square off—Italian steel, Russian winter, old blood and new—measuring distance, intent, consequence. Power lines drawn so tight they hum.
Great, I think. This is so not how I wanted my brother and my husband to meet.
For a split second, it feels like the room might tear itself apart on ego alone.
Then Grigori smiles. Not friendly. Not amused. Interested.
"So," he says lightly, eyes flicking between them. "You’ve finally decided to act."
He turns his attention back to Edoardo, like the others aren’t even there. "Now," he says, "we clean it up. Together. Or you stay out of the fucking way while competent people do."
Edoardo looks at me for help.
I meet his gaze, unblinking. "You don’t want another incident like this," I tell him quietly. "Trust me."
He nods. Once. Sharp. Submissive—whether he understands it or not.
And just like that, the hierarchy settles.
For now.
As we file out, Grigori falls into step beside me.
"You handled that well," he murmurs.
"Someone had to," I reply.
He smirks. "You always were the reasonable one."
I don’t correct him. Because reason looks an awful lot like control tonight.