Chapter 42 STEPHANO
The Ducati rumbles under me as I cut through Queens, the traffic lights blur past in streaks of red and gold—I left the box in the SUV.
No green carpet for me tonight. The speed does nothing to steady the chaos in my head.
Nico is Alexei Voronin. Alexei. A name that shouldn’t belong anywhere near my brother.
Shouldn’t belong anywhere near my family. Shouldn’t belong anywhere near me.
But it does.
Wind tears at my jacket. My pulse is a hammer in my ears. What does this mean? Nico—Alexei—grew up in our house. Ate at our table. Fell asleep on the couch when he was a kid, head on my shoulder. We bled for each other. Fought for each other. I went half-mad thinking he was dead.
Voronin’s son or not, he is my brother. But the truth has teeth, sharp ones, and it’s sinking into everything I thought I knew.
The complex rises in front of me like a corpse, an abandoned apartment block hollowed out by time and neglect.
The kind of place where bad men get buried or resurrected.
Currently housing Gustave. My father. I had him brought here after the board meeting under strict security.
It's the only place I can think of where I might find Nico.
I kill the engine.
Silence hits, broken only by the wind rattling through broken windowpanes. My men guard the perimeter, but the building hums with a strange, waiting energy. As if it senses what's about to happen.
I climb the stairs two at a time, a sense of urgency driving me that is hard to explain.
A feeling of dread, anger, and something else.
When I push the final door open, the air punches out of my lungs even though I expected him to be here.
Nico stands in the center of the rotting room, a gun leveled at Gustave’s head.
Wind from the shattered windows lifts Nico’s dark hair, except underneath, lighter strands gleam in the moonlight.
Blond.
The ghost of who he was or now is.
Gustave sits tied to a rusted chair, blood drying at the corner of his mouth. He looks smaller than I’ve ever seen him.
"About time," Nico mutters without taking his eyes off him.
My voice is low. "Nico."
He turns his head, and for the first time in years, I see all of him—fear, rage, betrayal, grief—and something new: Purpose.
"You know," he says.
"Yes."
"And you still came."
"Yes," I answer, because it’s the only truth that matters. "I'll always come. You're my brother, no matter what."
A floorboard groans beneath my boot, and something in the room shifts, like the building itself leans closer to listen. Nico’s jaw clenches. "I didn’t know who I was, Steph. I swear it. Not until Aurelio took me."
Gustave’s expression tightens. I move closer. "Is that true?" Gustave doesn’t speak. "Answer me."
Finally, he exhales. "Yes."
The last breath my lungs were holding gets knocked out of me.
"Talk," I order.
Gustave turns his head away, fixing his gaze on the mold-streaked wall as if it might absolve him. His jaw locks. Lips thin. He’s always been good at silence—weaponized it my entire life.
"Well," Nico says, stepping into his line of sight, forcing him to look. "Here’s what I know. You sent me to Caracas to die. You wanted Silvestre to kill me."
A pause. Sharpened. "Why?"
Gustave doesn’t look at him. His mouth twists with something close to disgust. "What difference does it make?" he snaps. "You’re going to kill me anyway."
The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space as Nico puts a round through his foot.
Gustave screams. Tries to fold forward, but the chair holds him upright, merciless.
I flinch, but not from pity. I flinch because the man holding the gun is my younger brother.
The kid who used to steal my espresso and swear he hated violence.
He wasn’t innocent—none of us were—but this?
This version of him is sharpened. Tempered. Foreign and familiar all at once.
Nico levels the gun again. "You’re right," he says coldly. "But I get to decide if it’s fast. Or not."
"Don’t," I cut in.
Nico whips his head toward me, incredulous.
"He won’t talk like this," I state calmly. Nico might have picked up some torture methods in Venezuela, I don't know, yet, but I've learned one thing: men like Gustave and Silvestre won't talk unless they want to.
Nico shoots me an incredulous glare; I shake my head, my eyes saying, trust me. After a beat, he lowers the gun just a fraction.
I step closer, careful where I place my shoes. I didn’t wear Italian leather to baptize it in blood. I crouch in front of Gustave so he has no choice but to see me.
"Here’s what we know," I say. Bluffing. Building. Layering truth and assumption until it sounds inevitable. "What Silvestre told us." His eyes flicker. That’s tell number one. "Viktor married Marisol Valverde," I continue. "She had a child. Alexei." I glance sideways. "Nico."
Pain from his shattered foot distorts Gustave’s face, but his eyes betray him. They follow Nico. Whatever else Nico is, Gustave raised him long enough for something like ownership to set in. Habit. Investment. Maybe even attachment. It doesn’t save him, but it matters.
"We also know Viktor seeded Cells all over the world," I go on. "Blood-bound loyalists. Men and women who believe lineage is destiny." I watch carefully. "They didn’t know about Alexei, did they?"
His eyes squeeze shut. A subtle shake of the head. No.
"Good," I murmur. "So you kept him hidden. For years." I lean in. "Why?"
The answer comes out like venom. "Because of Christine, your fucking mother."
The words hit harder than any gunshot.
"Because she had a soft spot for her brother," Gustave snarls, rage finally breaking through the pain. "Because she put us all in danger for them. That’s why."
I look up at Nico. Something dark has settled behind his eyes.
Not confusion. Not shock. Grief, distilled into something colder.
He shakes his head once. Then steps forward.
"The Valverdes didn't know who I was; neither did I." The gun moves just enough to make me aware of the risk. This isn’t the kid who left three years ago. I don’t distrust him, but I won’t underestimate him either.
Whatever he says next, I know one thing with absolute clarity: This family is already dead.
We’re just arguing over who finished the job.
Nico’s words hang there. The Valverdes didn’t know who I was. Gustave’s jaw tightens in confirmation. I don’t rush it. I let the silence do the work. My father has always underestimated silence. He thinks that if he outlasts it, he wins.
He’s wrong.
"You didn’t tell them," I say slowly. "Not Silvestre. Not Aurelio. You let them think Nico was just leverage. A Conti problem they could exploit."
Gustave winces as pain radiates through him. "They didn’t need to know."
"Because if they knew," I continue, "they’d have protected him. Used him differently. And you couldn’t control that."
Nico’s grip tightens. His knuckles go white around the gun. "You wanted them to kill me."
Gustave finally looks at him then. Really looks. There’s no affection there. No regret. Just calculation that never shuts off. "I planned to let fate do its job," he says. "One way or another."
That lands. I straighten slightly, pieces clicking into place with sickening clarity.
"You sent him to Caracas knowing there were only two outcomes.
Either Silvestre killed him—problem solved.
" I hold Gustave’s gaze. "Or he survived long enough to draw the Cells out into the open.
" Gustave’s lips curl. "Either way, the threat ends. "
Nico lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. It isn’t.
"So that’s it," he says quietly. "I was bait."
"Yes," Gustave snaps. "And you were finally useful."
The gun lifts again. I don’t stop Nico this time. I just shift closer, not to restrain him, but to anchor him. He feels it. His breathing steadies.
Gustave slumps back in the chair, blood soaking into the wood under his feet, breath ragged, but the defiance never leaves him. It’s the last thing he owns.
"You think killing me fixes this?" he sneers. "The Cells won’t stop. Viktor’s legacy won’t stop."
"Probably not," I agree. "But together we can take them out."
Gustave laughs, "You and what army? Him?" He nods his chin at Nico.
"Him. Me," I agree. "The Russians." I tilt my head. That gets a real reaction.
Gustave laughs again, this time wet, ugly, and broken. It rattles out of him until it turns into a coughing fit that folds him forward, pain tearing through his body as he struggles for air. He wheezes through it, eyes watering, mouth twisted in something close to delight.
"The Russians?" he chokes. "They’ll kill him." He laughs again, softer now, like he’s savoring the punchline. "I can't believe you asked Grigori to babysit his sworn enemy."
He drags in a breath and looks up at me, eyes shining with cruel amusement, and for half a second, it yanks me backward in time.
When we used to watch old movies together.
All three of us, while mom was in the hospital, again.
I remember bad jokes. Him laughing on the couch like this world wasn’t already rotting.
I swallow it. There’s no room for ghosts here.
"You always did think in straight lines," I say quietly. "Grigori doesn’t kill what he can use. And he doesn’t waste blood without profit." Gustave’s smile falters. Just a fraction. "And you," I add, stepping closer, voice dropping, "are finally out of moves."
Something shifts then. Not fear. Not regret. Resignation.
He exhales hard, like a man who’s been holding something in his chest for decades and finally decides it’s not worth protecting anymore.
"You deserve to know," he says hoarsely. I don’t respond. I don’t need to. He knows I’ll take the truth whether he wants to give it or not. "Marisol didn’t want to marry Viktor," he says. "She wanted out."
I kind of assumed as much, but I don't interrupt.