Chapter 41 OKSANA
Even the air feels wired, electric, like New York is holding its breath. Raf drives with the confidence of a man who’s convinced rules are theoretical. Stephano handed him a little black box that Raf plugged in, and all the lights are turning green for us.
"You've been holding out on me, Marito," I say.
"Me too," Raf agrees.
"I might get you both one for Christmas," Stephano tries to joke, but it falls slightly flat. The tension is too high.
Stephano sits beside me in the back, holding my hand, like he needs the physical contact. His jaw is sharp enough to cut granite. We’re headed to Raf’s computer store to finally get into the Venezuelan database. We’re about to strip the Valverde files down to their bones.
That’s when my phone rings.
Grigori.
Oh shit.
With everything else exploding around me—lies, betrayals, Gustave’s rotting empire—I’d almost forgotten about Nico.
No.
Not forgotten. I shoved it onto the back burner like a coward. Yes, a coward.
Me.
The woman who can slit a man’s throat in the dark without scuffing her shoes. I can take a bullet, a beating, a kill order—
But apparently delivering another blow to Stephano Conti?
That’s where my spine wobbles. One more truth, and I’m afraid it won’t be just him breaking. I might crack with him. And Oksana Arsenyev does not crack.
I answer. "Da?"
"What the fuck is going on, Oksana?"
He sounds like a wolf foaming at the mouth. My blood turns to ice. I know that tone of voice. I've been there a few times when he used it on some hapless victim in his dungeon.
"What did you find?" I ask in Russian, already knowing the answer but praying I’m wrong.
More Russian pours through the speaker, vicious and fast. "Ty izdevaesh’sya nada mnoy?"—Are you fucking kidding me? "Ty zastravila menya nianiit’ i balkovat’ krvavogo vraga."—You made me babysit and pamper our own blood enemy.
My spine locks.
Stephano turns, brow furrowing. His Russian isn’t perfect, but he understands enough. Raf stiffens too.
My heart drops into my stomach.
Ah shit.
Nico!
Nico is Voronin’s son.
"Where is he now?" I ask because terror is a strange, cold thing, and it makes my hands go numb.
"Gone, Oksana!" Grigori roars. "You tip him off?"
"What? NO!" I snap. "Are you fucking insane?"
"You tell that rotten husband of yours?"
"Do NOT call him that," I hiss. "And no—Stephano has no clue. So quit screaming at me before I—"
"Clue about what?" Stephano cuts in, deadly calm. That tone. The one that means corpses will be involved shortly.
Raf glances at me in the mirror. "Uh, Oksana? What the fuck is happening? Nico’s what now?"
"Oh, great," I mutter. "Now you did it, Grigori. Thank you so much."
I hang up on my brother before he can growl something nuclear. The car falls into thick, suffocating silence. Stephano’s eyes are on me.
Dark. Razor-sharp. Demanding.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Decide honesty is the only thing that will keep the man I love from combusting on the spot. "Steph…" I begin, but my voice cracks, and I clear it. "Stephano, Nico is not Gustave’s son."
His entire body goes still. "What are you talking about?"
I hold his gaze because if I look away, I’ll break. "He’s Alexei Voronin."
The world stops.
Stephano blinks once. Twice.
Then: "…fuck."
He doesn't ask if I'm sure. His trust in me is like a knife twisting my heart.
Raf mutters, "Holy shit."
Stephano’s breathing changes, shallow, jagged, weaponized. He’s processing a lifetime of memories and three years of grief in one heartbeat.
I go on because I have to. "Steph… this means he wasn’t Aurelio’s prisoner. Not really. They had three years to work on him. Groom him. Turn him into a Voronin."
He shuts his eyes like the thought physically hurts. "He’s not my brother."
"No," I whisper, and then add words I don't think I've ever said before, "I'm sorry." And I am. I am sorry to have to give him the news, to gut the man I love. To tell him that the man he thought of as a brother isn't.
"Half-brother." Raf tries.
I shake my head. "No."
No, not even that. Because what we do know about Alexei, slash Nico, is that he was Voronin's only legitimate child. Opening Pandora's Box even wider, making more questions spill out. The first one being the obvious: How did Viktor Voronin's son end up being raised by Gustave?
And even more pressing, did the Venezuelans know?
My mind does a quick search of Silvestre's interrogation, of what he said and didn't say.
Aurelio was the one who named Alexei. They had to have known.
But why would they not have claimed Marisol's child?
She was Silvestre's sister. Nico was… Aurelio's cousin.
And what about the shitshow of Gustave sacrificing his son to the Venezuelans?
My head swims. What the fuck does this all mean?
Stephano presses a fist to his forehead as his mind is probably following a similar train of thought. "I need to talk to him. Alone."
For a moment, I'm confused, unsure if he's talking about his dad or Nico. Either way, "No," I snap. "No, I’m not leaving you with him."
Raf exhales. "Okay, look. You two deal with Nico. I’ll take care of the Venezuelan firewall. Meet at my shop."
"Raf—" I start.
He lifts a hand. "I can handle a bunch of Venezuelan code monkeys. You two… clearly have a hurricane to sort out."
Stephano shakes his head. "I’m doing this alone."
"The hell you are," I snarl.
He meets my eyes. "Oksana. Please."
Oh no. Not that word. Not in his voice. Not with that look. And damn it—he’s right. He has to face Nico. Not as a Conti. Not as a Voronin. But as the man who loved him like a brother.
I swallow hard. "Fine," I whisper. "But you come back to me."
He nods once, too stiff to speak.
The next few minutes are spent in silence. The tension is so thick it could be cut with scissors. Each one of our minds is going through the web of lies that just doesn't seem to want to unravel.
We pull up to Raf’s shop.
A mutilated man is leaning against the wall beside a Ducati, breathing too shallowly to be considered alive but too stubborn to be considered dead.
"Your handiwork?" I ask.
Raf shrugs. "He tried to steal my bike."
I look at the Ducati. Sleek. Lethal. Very Raf.
Raf tosses Steph the keys. "Take her."
Stephano catches the keys, nods. "I'll have a chat with Gustave first."
He steps to me, pulls me into his chest, and his mouth crashes against mine with the same desperation with which I reciprocate it. My fists thread through his shirt. For some reason, it feels like the last time.
A farewell in disguise.
Fuck.
Our foreheads briefly touch each other, our eyes lock, and I punch his chest with both fists. "You’d better come back to me."
"You know I will. If not in this life, then in the next."
I watch him swing onto the Ducati. The engine roars. Without a look back, he speeds away into the night.
"You know," I say, trying to keep my voice level, "if he makes it out alive, I’m getting him one of those. Looks fucking sexy."
Raf rolls his eyes. "Don’t make me puke. Come on. We have work to do."
He leads me into the shop. I shove every feeling—fear, love, dread—deep down where it can’t slow me. He’s right.
There is work to do. And if I fall apart now, I might never stop.