Chapter 36 STEPHANO
The next afternoon…
Grigori’s palace looks like a Tsar got bored, robbed half of Moscow, and built a fortress on the ruins. Gold. Marble. Velvet. And underneath it all: weapons, paranoia, and ghosts.
Oksana walks beside me, perfectly at ease among the excess.
Of course she is; this is how she grew up.
Raised in opulence sharp enough to cut a man’s fingers.
A childhood built on crystal chandeliers and blood-soaked expectations.
A girl pampered like a Tsarina while learning to slit throats before she learned to ride a bike.
It makes who she became even more remarkable.
I think of Mexico, the dirt, the heat, the broken-down safehouses.
How she’d sat cross-legged on a crate, eating tamales with her bare hands and laughing like she’d been doing it her whole life.
This woman could dine off imperial gold at an emperor’s table or eat street food on a roadside curb with the same unbothered grace and not appear like a diva or a snob.
She wasn't shaped by the luxury she was raised in.
She adapted. Her untamed spirit survived the oppressive expectations of her father, and she became a legend.
She dominates regardless of the setting. She is the most astounding person I’ve ever met. And somehow… she’s mine.
I keep my expression neutral, but my senses are razor-sharp. This is enemy territory—family territory—but enemy until proven otherwise.
Grigori stops at the foot of the staircase, crosses his arms, and looks me over with slow, deliberate amusement.
"Well," he says in heavily accented English, "you owe me."
I raise a brow. "I do?"
He nods like it’s obvious. "In Bratva tradition, the brother receives a bride price. Compensation for losing a valuable asset."
Oksana groans under her breath. I tell myself not to smile. Grigori gestures to her with an open palm. "She is my only sister. My best soldier. My headache. You pay."
I give him a slow smirk. "Bride price isn’t Italian."
He shrugs. "You are married to a Russian now. You will adapt."
I take a step forward, enjoying the spark of irritation tightening his jaw.
"How much is it worth to you," I ask, "for me taking her off your hands?"
Oksana freezes. "Stephano—"
But Grigori taps his chin thoughtfully.
"She is valuable," he muses. "Efficient. Clever. Good with knives. Requires supervision—"
"I do not require supervision," Oksana snaps.
I shrug. "You do."
"Unbelievable," she mutters.
Grigori continues, ignoring her. "Also homicidal when angry. Maybe double the price."
I chuckle. "You drive a hard bargain."
Oksana’s eyes narrow. "I will shoot both of you."
We both ignore her. For a beat, Grigori and I stare each other down, two different breeds of mafia, two kings who don’t bow.
Then, at the same moment, we smirk. He steps forward and claps my shoulder like we’re old allies instead of two men circling the same flame.
"We will set a wedding day soon," he says. "Russians and Italians in the same room." A wolfish grin spreads across his lips. "Diplomacy at its finest."
I return the clap. "I’ll try to keep my people from stabbing yours."
"Impossible," he says, amused.
Behind us, Oksana mutters, "You’re both idiots."
She’s not wrong.
But I like him.
I hate that I like him.
Oksana has that effect on people; she makes us tolerate each other. We walk deeper into the palace, down a long corridor lined with portraits of dead men who all have Grigori’s eyes. He leads us to a set of heavy doors and pushes them open.
Nico stands near a carved desk, leaning heavily on a cane.
He looks thin. Too pale. But alive. Grigori’s gaze flicks to the cane.
He doesn’t comment, but something in his posture shifts, subtle and unmistakable.
Not pity. Recognition. The look of a man who understands what it costs to survive and keeps score.
"Fratello," Nico whispers.
I cross the distance in three steps and pull him into a hug. He winces, but he doesn’t let go. My throat tightens. I grip the back of his neck, grounding myself. "I missed you."
His voice breaks. "I missed you, too."
He glances at Grigori. I look at Grigori then. Really look, and something shifts.
"Thank you," I tell him quietly. The words scrape out of me. But they’re true.
He shrugs like the praise irritates him. "It was nothing. The boy is… tolerable."
We both know it was everything. He moves to the bar and pours ice-cold vodka into three glasses with the numb precision of a man who has murdered more people than he can count. He hands me one without ceremony.
"Your family causes trouble in my house," he accuses.
He hands another glass to Nico, who watches Grigori over the rim. Careful. Measuring. When Grigori meets his eyes, Nico doesn’t look away. He inclines his head once, small, respectful. Grigori answers it with the barest nod.
"Funny, from what I discovered, it started in yours." Oksana clears her throat, pouring her own glass of vodka. I grin and amend, "What we found out."
Grigori is not deterred. "You married my sister without asking."
He downs his drink in one swallow, and I copy him. The vodka is cold and burns down my throat, but I'm getting used to the vile brew. "You're barely tolerable."
I hide my smile and nod. "Yet here we are."
He pours himself more vodka.
"I tolerate you," he says, staring into his glass, "because she likes you." He lifts his eyes, icy and cutting, and refills mine. "And because you killed a useful number of Venezuelans."
"I’ll kill more," I promise.
He grins, a small, sharp thing that would terrify anyone who doesn't know him, and the ones who do even more. "Good."
Nico watches the exchange with something like disbelief, and something else underneath it. Relief, maybe. As if a door he didn’t know he was waiting for has finally cracked open. Oksana leans against the desk, crossing her arms, shaking her head in mock disappointment.
"These idiots," she mutters in Russian.
Nico snorts and surprises me by speaking in my native language. "You missed us, didn’t you?"
She gives him a look. "Don’t push it." She looks from Nico to Grigori, "Looks like you two are getting along just fine, teaching him Russian and all."
"This one is a natural." Grigori slaps Nico on the shoulder, a rare smile forming on his lips.
"It seems it's in our best interest to clean both our houses," Grigori nods.
"Agreed."
"Let's talk about Caracas," Grigori invites us to sit on a group of deep-red leather chairs and couches.
"Let's," I nod and move to a couch, taking Oksana's hand to have her sit next to me.
With a roll of her eyes, she acquiesces, and Grigori raises an eyebrow. "Respect."
"Oh, for crying out loud," Oksana pouts, but smiles.
Even if she didn't mention it, I knew she was worried about Grigori and me meeting in person.
According to her, the first time didn't really count because it was business; this is private.
I wink at her. Telling her with my eyes, trust me, your brother will eat out of my palms.
She shakes her head, and the message back is clear: trust me, he'll eat your eyes.
"What did you find out in Caracas?" Grigori asks after getting comfortable in a padded wingchair, crossing one leg over his other knee.
I exhale slowly. "We confirmed a link between the Russians and the Venezuelans. An old and deep one, going back to Viktor Voronin.
Grigori’s eyes narrow; it's easy to see that he hates the sound of the man's name. "Speak."
"There was an alliance," I fill him in. "Between Caracas and Moscow. Viktor Voronin," I continue, "was married. In secret. To Silvestre's sister, Marisol, to deepen a deal they had for smuggling heroin and weapons."
Grigori goes still. Completely still. "And?" Grigori’s voice is low, a warning, already suspecting there is more.
"And they had a son," I say.
Silence hits the room like a blow. Nico shifts in his chair, not startled, guarded. "A son?"
Grigori’s fingers curl into the arm of his chair. "It's true then?"
"Yes." I don’t soften it. "And he’s alive."
Oksana leans forward, eyes like ice. "Alexei Valverde Voronin."
Nico whispers, "Jesus…" His eyes flick to Grigori, then away just as fast. He must have realized what this means to the Pakhan's throne, too.
I nod. "The Valverde family hid him, raised and protected him, knowing fully well his value, especially after your father killed Viktor and became Pakhan. The Cells we’re dealing with? They aren’t loyal to Valverde. They’re loyal to Alexei. To Viktor’s heir."
Grigori shuts his eyes once, long and slow, then opens them again, pale and lethal. "As long as that boy exists, my throne is not secure."
No fear.
No insecurity.
Just calculation.
Oksana clicks her tongue. "Viktor planned an alliance he never intended to fulfill. But once a child was involved, the dynamic shifted. Venezuela saw leverage. Legacy. A path into Moscow."
Nico nods slowly. "And when Viktor died…"
"They kept the boy hidden," I finish. "A weapon. A symbol. A claim."
Grigori leans forward. "And now?"
"Now," I say, "the Cells believe it’s time for the heir to step into Viktor’s shadow."
Oksana’s voice sharpens. "That’s not all."
Grigori lifts an eyebrow.
I continue. "The Venezuelans didn’t just aim at Russia. They aimed at La Famiglia."
Nico exhales shakily, "Because of Margarita…"
"Exactly," I say. "Her alliance wasn’t about Edoardo.
It was never about family. It was about preparing the ground in New York for Venezuelan infiltration.
She manipulated Edoardo. Used him. Bound him.
And when he outlived his usefulness—" We don't add that once the Venezuelans had La Famiglia dealt with, they would come after the Bratva.
He's a smart man; he already figured it out the moment we told him about Alexei.
"She planned to remove him," Oksana finishes coldly.
Nico snorts. "Sounds like her."
I lean back. "New York was the first front. Moscow is the second. Caracas wanted both. The heir gives them legitimacy. Margarita gave them access."
"And now that they are all dead," Oksana adds, "Alexei becomes the symbol they rally behind."
"Do you know where he is?" Nico asks, getting up and moving toward the bar by the door that leads to the hallway. He doesn’t wait for an answer, already moving toward the bar like he needs the distance.
The room falls into a heavy silence. Grigori stands slowly, the decision forming behind his pale eyes like a storm gathering shape. "We'll find and kill him. We will kill every single Cell like the cancer they are." Grigori promises.
Oksana watches her brother with a look that is equal parts admiration and warning. I watch him too.
Stephano Conti might excel at killing men.
Raffael DeSantis might revel in burning empires.
But Grigori Arsenyev?
He doesn’t just destroy dynasties.
He decides who gets to build them.
And suddenly, it’s clear: Our two worlds aren’t brushing against each other. They’re colliding.
And nothing will be the same. At least we share common ground.
Oksana and I being married is one. Toni and Grigori sharing a company is another.
The Venezuelans are already in shambles.
With both Silvestre and Aurelio gone, Caracas is up for grabs.
They'll be fighting over the bones and won't have time to look toward Moscow or New York.
Alexei is Grigori's problem now. Aside from the Cells in both our organizations, the only pressing problem La Famiglia has is Don Edoardo. And my father. Gustave. Both still need to be dealt with.