CHAPTER FIFTEEN #2
Sandro stood up. "Giorgio, Ettore, Fabrizio. By midnight tonight, I want every single one of Vanzetti’s logistical routes severed. Freeze his accounts. Seize his cargo at the docks. Strip him of every asset he possesses."
"It will be done," Ettore said immediately.
Sandro turned his gaze to his enforcers. "Nico. Ricardo."
Nico stood up straighter, his eyes locking onto his Don. "Boss."
"Dismantle his network," Sandro commanded, his voice cold as ice. "I don't want a quiet warning. I want a massacre. Eradicate his lieutenants, burn his safe houses, and drag Ruggero Vanzetti to me alive. The Bratva will not save him. No one will save him."
Ricardo Ferri grinned, a vicious, volatile gleam in his eye. "With pleasure."
***
Later that afternoon, the rain had begun to fall over Milan, casting a grey, somber light through the tall windows of Sandro’s private study. The fire cracked in the hearth, providing the only warmth in the room.
Sandro stood near the desk, pouring two glasses of amber scotch. He took a long, steadying breath. He was a man accustomed to delivering death sentences, but the prospect of telling Zina what they had uncovered filled him with an aching dread.
The door opened with a soft click. Zina stepped into the study, wearing a soft cashmere sweater, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She took one look at Sandro’s rigid posture, the two glasses of scotch, and the grim expression on his face, and she knew immediately.
"You found them," Zina said. Her voice was steady, but her hands immediately balled into fists at her sides.
Sandro picked up the glasses, walking across the Persian rug to hand her one. He didn't insult her by delaying or softening the blow. She was a Kazan; she deserved the tactical truth.
"We found the architects," Sandro said gently, maintaining eye contact as she took the glass. "It was orchestrated by Taras Bondarenko, the son of the Odessa Combine’s patriarch. He wanted your father’s assets.
When Emir refused him, Taras realized a direct Bratva strike would trigger a European war. "
Zina’s dark eyes narrowed, her mind instantly calculating the logistics. "So he used an Italian proxy."
"Ruggero Vanzetti," Sandro confirmed, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "A northern launderer. Vanzetti agreed to execute your family in exchange for the Bratva’s covert backing to elevate his standing here."
Zina took a slow sip of the scotch, the burn of the alcohol masking the sudden, violent tremor in her hand. "A mid-level launderer cannot breach the estate walls, Sandro. Who opened the doors?"
Sandro stepped closer to her, his heart breaking for what he had to say next. "Vanzetti bought your Capos, Zina. He leveraged their greed."
Zina froze. The glass in her hand tilted dangerously.
"Kamran Shirazi," Sandro said softly, watching the color drain from her beautiful face. "Bogdan Stoica. Farid Amini. Radu Constantin. They conspired together. They lowered the defenses."
The names hit Zina with the concussive force of a physical blow. The glass slipped from her trembling fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor, the amber liquid pooling at her feet.
"No," Zina whispered, her voice fracturing. She stepped backward, shaking her head in blind denial. "No, Sandro, that isn't... Kamran taught me how to shoot. Bogdan sat at our dinner table. They were blood. They were our blood!"
"They were traitors," Sandro corrected fiercely, though his voice remained impossibly gentle.
The reality of it—the sheer, unfathomable betrayal of the men she had known her entire life—shattered the stoic armor Zina had worn for months.
It hadn't been an unstoppable outside force.
It had been the men who had smiled at her father, who had sworn loyalty to her brothers, who had sold them to the slaughter for a share of the spoils.
A ragged, agonizing sob tore its way out of Zina’s throat. Her knees buckled as the crushing weight of the grief and the white-hot, blinding rage collided inside her.
Sandro was there before she could fall. He caught her by the waist, wrapping his arms around her, and pulled her tightly against his chest. He backed up, sinking into the deep leather sofa near the fire, pulling her fully into his lap.
Zina unraveled. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, her hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket with a desperate, crushing strength.
She wept with a violence that shook her entire frame, screaming her brothers' names into his skin, cursing the men who had betrayed them.
She cried for the senselessness of it—for a dynasty wiped out not in a war of honor, but in a cowardly, greedy transaction.
Sandro did not try to hush her. He didn't offer empty platitudes.
He held her with a fierce, immovable devotion, anchoring her in the storm.
He pressed his lips to her temple, murmuring soft, continuous words of love in Italian, stroking her back as she shook against him.
He gave her the safety of his arms, allowing her to break, knowing that he would be there to help her put every single piece back together.
"They will burn, Sherezine," Sandro promised into her hair, his eyes reflecting the dark, flickering light of the fire, burning with a merciless vow.
"I swear to you on my soul. Vanzetti. The Capos.
Every single man who had a hand in this will beg for death before I am finished with them. I will burn their worlds to ash."
Zina clung to him, her tears soaking his shirt, drawing the only comfort she could from the steady, powerful beating of his heart.
She was broken, but as she held onto the Don of Milan, she knew the ghosts of her family would not go unavenged.
The war had finally arrived, and this time, the Kazans were not fighting alone.