CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The soundproofed doors of the Palazzo’s private drawing room were sealed shut, locking the storm outside and trapping the suffocating tension within. Rain lashed against the reinforced glass windows, a steady, rhythmic drumming that did nothing to mask the silence gripping the room.
Sherezine sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her heart hammering a frantic, agonizing beat against her ribs.
Sandro stood directly behind her, his large, warm hands resting heavily on her shoulders.
His grip was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.
She had known the truth about her father’s death for twenty-four hours, and the burden of carrying it alone had nearly broken her. Now, she had to break her mother.
Roxana Kazan sat across from her. The matriarch of the East was the picture of aristocratic composure, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but the pale, rigid set of her jaw betrayed her anxiety.
To her immediate left sat Lucia Moretti.
In a departure from the icy, calculating distance she had maintained for months, the Italian matriarch had reached out, her manicured fingers gently covering Roxana’s trembling hands.
The shared understanding between the two mothers—women who knew intimately the cost of loving powerful, dangerous men—had formed a sudden, unbreakable bridge between them.
Vittorio Moretti sat in a wingback chair by the crackling fireplace, his weathered face carved from stone, while Matteo and Bernardo stood near the mahogany wet bar, holding the encrypted dossiers that contained the destruction of the Kazan empire.
"Tell me," Roxana said, her voice a low, steady murmur that cut through the crackling of the fire. "Do not soften the blow, Alessandro. I need to know who ordered the slaughter of my husband and my sons."
Sandro’s thumbs brushed gently against Zina’s collarbones, a silent promise of support. He looked at Bernardo, giving the Consigliere a brief nod.
"The architect of the strike was Taras Bondarenko, of the Odessa Combine," Bernardo explained, stepping forward into the firelight.
His voice was clinical, devoid of emotion, delivering the facts with the precision of a surgeon.
"When your husband, Emir, refused to capitulate to an extortionate shipping treaty, Bondarenko sought to eradicate the bloodline.
But a direct Russian strike in the East would have ignited a continental war. He needed a European proxy."
Roxana’s dark eyes narrowed. "Who was the proxy?"
"Ruggero Vanzetti," Matteo answered, stepping up beside Bernardo. "A northern Italian launderer. A parasite who uses our banking fronts to clean his money."
Roxana processed the name, her brow furrowing in confusion. "A mid-level Italian financier cannot breach the high walls of the Kazan estate. Our estate was impenetrable. How did Vanzetti get his mercenaries inside our home?"
Zina let out a ragged, trembling breath. She reached up, her fingers wrapping desperately around Sandro’s wrist. He leaned down, pressing his lips to the crown of her head, anchoring her as the final, devastating truth was laid bare in the quiet room.
"He bought them, Signora Kazan," Matteo said softly, the grim reality of the underworld in his voice. "Vanzetti bought your Capos. Kamran Shirazi. Bogdan Stoica. Farid Amini. Radu Constantin."
Roxana froze.
"Vanzetti promised them complete territorial autonomy and a vast share of Emir’s wealth," Bernardo continued gently. "The four of them conspired together. They lowered the internal security grid, dismissed the loyal guard rotations, and opened the gates for Vanzetti’s execution squad."
The words hung in the air, dripping with a betrayal so profound it felt obscene.
Roxana did not cry out. She did not scream.
But the elegant, unbreakable matriarch seemed to age a decade in the span of a single heartbeat.
Her face turned the color of ash. The physical shock of the revelation—that the men who had broken bread at her table, the men who had sworn blood oaths to her husband, were the ones who had sold her sons to the slaughter—was devastating.
A violent, uncontrollable tremor seized Roxana’s hands.
Lucia Moretti tightened her grip instantly, leaning closer to the grieving woman. "Breathe, Roxana," Lucia murmured in soft, melodic Italian, her own eyes shining with fierce empathy. "Hold onto me. You are not alone in this room."
Zina could no longer contain the agony tearing at her chest. Tears spilled over her dark lashes, hot and fast, tracing paths down her pale cheeks.
She covered her mouth with her hand, stifling a fractured sob.
Sandro instantly stepped around the sofa, pulling Zina up and wrapping his arms around her.
He buried her face against his chest, holding her so tightly she could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heart.
"They were our family," Zina wept into his shirt, the grief stripping away the assassin and leaving only the heartbroken daughter. "Kamran practically raised Farzin. How could they do it?"
"Greed is a sickness, piccolo," Vittorio Moretti rumbled from his chair.
The retired Don leaned heavily on his cane, his ancient eyes burning with a dark, merciless fire.
"It rots the soul from the inside out. But a sickness can be purged.
Vanzetti and the traitors who aided him will be eradicated.
You have the word of the Moretti family on this. We will bring you their heads."
Roxana squeezed her eyes shut, fighting to draw a breath through the crushing weight in her lungs. She looked up at Vittorio, her expression torn between the thirst for vengeance and the desperate need to protect what little she had left.
"No," Roxana whispered, her voice shaking as she looked around the opulent room. "No, Signore Vittorio. I cannot allow you to do that."
Vittorio frowned, his thick white brows drawing together. "Roxana, they murdered your husband."
"And if you go to war with Vanzetti and the Bratva on our behalf, they will bring the slaughter to your doorstep!
" Roxana argued, her voice rising with maternal panic. She pulled her hands free from Lucia’s, gesturing frantically toward the door.
"Look at what we have found here. Reza is thriving.
He is smiling again because of you, Vittorio. He is safe. And my daughter..."
Roxana looked at Zina, securely anchored in the protective embrace of the Don of Milan. "My Zina has finally found a measure of peace. She has found happiness with Alessandro. How can I possibly ask you to bring the Kazan war into your home and risk everything you have given us?"
Sandro rested his chin on the top of Zina’s head, his gaze locking onto Roxana with unyielding authority.
"You did not bring the war to us, Roxana," Sandro stated, his voice a low, vibrating hum of pure dominance. "Vanzetti did. And he did it the moment he chose to align himself with the Bratva while operating on Italian soil."
Matteo nodded in agreement, taking a step toward the center of the room.
"If Ruggero Vanzetti was foolish enough to forge a covert alliance with the Odessa Combine, it is only a matter of time before he uses Russian muscle to challenge the Italian syndicates.
He is a parasite. If we allow him to consolidate his power and absorb the Kazan assets, he becomes an existential threat to the entire European network. "
"We are not merely doing this for vengeance, Roxana," Bernardo added quietly. "It is a tactical necessity. We must amputate the infection before it spreads to our own borders. Vanzetti must be dismantled."
Vittorio struck the floor with the rubber tip of his cane, the sharp crack silencing the room. "The Kazans are under our roof," the old man declared, his voice echoing with the law of the old world. "That makes you blood. And the Morettis protect their blood. The matter is settled."
Roxana looked at the fierce, uncompromising faces of the Italian family surrounding her.
For the first time since the night she fled her home in terror, she did not feel like a ghost running from the shadows.
She felt the impenetrable shield of an empire locking into place around her family.
She lowered her head, the first tears finally breaking free and slipping down her cheeks, and offered a slow nod of gratitude.
***
A week later, the storm had passed, leaving the nights in Milan crisp and clear. The sprawling master suite of the Palazzo was bathed in the soft, flickering light of the marble fireplace.
Zina stood by the tall glass doors leading to the balcony, wearing a floor-length robe of dark green silk. She was looking out over the manicured gardens, her mind calculating the impending logistics of the intelligence Matteo had gathered on Vanzetti’s supply lines.
"You are plotting again," Sandro murmured.
Zina turned. Sandro was sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked incredibly relaxed, yet there was a deep, simmering intensity in his green-grey eyes as he watched her.
"I was merely thinking about the port tariffs," Zina deflected with a soft smile, walking toward him. "If Giorgio squeezes the customs officials in Genoa, Vanzetti’s shipments will bottleneck by Tuesday."
Sandro reached out, catching her by the waist and pulling her forward until she was standing directly between his knees. "I did not invite you to my bedroom to discuss Giorgio’s customs negotiations."
Zina rested her hands on his broad shoulders, her thumbs brushing against the warm column of his neck. "Then what did you invite me here to discuss, Don Moretti?"
"The International Summit," Sandro said quietly, his hands resting on the flare of her hips.