Chapter 65
Nikolai
Of course she knows Russian.
Why wouldn’t my Italian princess speak more than one language?
I let her slip out the back door—exactly where her brother and Elijah are supposed to be waiting.
Ivan confirmed the meet, mapped the exits, double-checked patrol rotations, but none of that stops the itch under my ribs.
Letting her walk anywhere without my hand on her shoulder feels as stupid as it is dangerous.
I watched Adrian take her ten feet from me and wanted, with a calm, animal certainty, to snap his neck and watch the rest of the night burn.
Instead, I had to swallow what I wanted—just like I do now—and turn back toward the ballroom to give my final performance.
Stand. Smile. Speak politely with the man who raised me to shake hands while killing someone’s future.
“Viktor,” I greet, stepping into the circle of men.
My father shifts, making space—and suddenly Dante De Luca is standing behind him.
A quiet, sharp cold slides down my spine.
He wasn’t meant to be here yet.
No warning. No message. No reason.
“My son,” Viktor says, voice honeyed and cruel. “Please, say hello to our guest, Dante.”
My father’s smile is all teeth.
I extend my steady hand to shake the hand of yet another man I despise.
Dante’s palm is cold, and he doesn’t return my smile.
“He is here to arrange Aurelia’s terms,” Viktor says, smooth as oil.
“Is that so?” I reply.
Dante’s eyes flick to me, heavy and daunting. “If you all insist on fucking her, I’d rather kill her,” he says flat, with no flourish.
“What?” someone mutters, too stupid to mask the fear in his voice.
Dante continues as if he’s discussing contracts. “I don’t tolerate dishonour, Nikolai. Your father should know that.” His gaze cuts to Viktor. “He is, after all, the reason I had to kill the love of my life.”
A ripple moves through the men—forced chuckles, nervous claps on each other’s shoulders.
It’s all theatre.
Their smiles don’t reach their eyes, and their palms never stray far from the weight of their pistols.
If not for tonight’s agreement, this room would be a bloodbath.
Viktor’s smirk sharpens. “I mean, you did keep her daughter all for yourself, Dante. I wouldn’t act so high and mighty.”
A dog at Viktor’s side barks laughter and slaps a cigar between his teeth.
“That’s right. Do you fuck your own daughter? She looks just like her dead mommy,” he jeers.
He doesn’t even get his full grin in place before Dante raises his gun and puts a bullet clean through his skull.
Silence caves in on itself.
Then chaos.
Guns snap up from every side—Orlov, De Luca, mercenaries, old soldiers.
The illusion shatters.
These men don’t want peace—they want an excuse to kill.
“Relax, boys,” Viktor says, hands raised, voice soft, utterly in control.
He steps lightly over the corpse as two men drag it away, leaving a smear behind.
“It’s all right, Dante,” Viktor adds with a half-smile. “I would have done the same.”
He offers Dante a fresh cigar like they’re brothers sharing a private joke.
Dante takes it without a word.
Viktor exhales slowly. “Let’s get to the girl and leave the past where it belongs.”
But Dante laughs—quiet and humourless.
“The past,” he repeats. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Viktor’s jaw flexes, the only tell he ever gives.
“Don’t start,” he warns.
“You started it the day you fucked my fiance,” Dante says, every word placed with precision. “And again when you forced my hand to end her life.”
A low hiss of shock whispers around the circle.
Of course it comes back to a woman.
Viktor lifts his chin. “I would’ve kept her alive. That was your choice.”
“You took her from me,” Dante replies. “Same thing.”
The room goes still.
Suddenly every man understands:
This is not about their alliance at all.
This is about a woman who died for both their sins.
Viktor’s tone drops to something ancient.
“She loved me, Dante.”
Dante leans forward. “She chose me, Viktor. And you couldn’t stand it.”
Viktor’s smile is dead behind the eyes. “She chose the wrong side. And paid for it.”
No wonder Aurelia grew up in a cage of secrets and nightmares.
Viktor turns to me like nothing happened. “Son,” he says lightly, “where is our special girl?”
My throat feels raw. “With Adrian,” I answer.
The circle exhales—long, mocking, knowing.
Dante flicks ash from his cigar. “Bring her to me.”
I nod once. “I’ll be back.”
I look at Maksim, and he moves instantly, shadowing my steps.
As we step away, voices rise behind us—low, dangerous, old wounds tearing open.
I hope I gave Aurelia enough time.
The night air slams into me when Maksim and I push through the doors, doing nothing to cool the storm already in my chest.