CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
Zina’s tactical mind immediately pivoted. The Summit was a legendary event within the underworld—a gathering of Capos, Dons, and cartel heads from across the globe, held on neutral ground to negotiate treaties, establish borders, and flaunt power.
"It is in Geneva this weekend," Zina recalled. "Matteo said the security perimeter will be impenetrable. Are you expecting Vanzetti to attend?"
"He will be there," Sandro confirmed, his eyes darkening slightly. "He will use the Summit to project strength and attempt to secure his new Russian alliances. Which is why I want you to attend with me."
Zina froze, her dark eyes widening in genuine shock. "Me? Sandro, I am supposed to be a ghost. If I walk into the International Summit on your arm, every syndicate in the world will know the Kazan bloodline survived."
"Exactly," Sandro said, his voice dropping into a low, fierce register.
He looked up at her, his expression radiating uncompromising devotion.
"I am done hiding you in the shadows, Sherezine.
I am done letting the world believe your family was eradicated by cowards.
I want you to walk into that ballroom and look Ruggero Vanzetti dead in the eye.
I want him to see that he failed, and I want him to know exactly who is coming to destroy him. "
Zina’s breath hitched. The sheer magnitude of what he was offering—the protection of his name, the public declaration of their alliance, the ultimate vengeance—made her head spin.
"But Sandro," she whispered, her hands trembling slightly against his shoulders. "If I go with you... what is my cover? I cannot just be an anonymous companion. The other Dons will ask questions. They will demand to know why you brought me into the inner circle."
Sandro didn't answer immediately. He shifted his weight, reaching into the pocket of his trousers. When he pulled his hand back, he opened his palm to reveal a ring.
It was a breathtaking piece of architecture. A flawless emerald-cut diamond, flanked by two smaller diamonds, set in platinum. It was elegant, and radiated power.
Zina stopped breathing. The air in the suite vanished.
Sandro looked up at her, his powerful hands trembling slightly as he held the ring between them. The Don of Milan was completely stripped of his armor, leaving only a man in love.
"Your cover," Sandro whispered, his voice thick with emotion, "is that you are the love of my life. You are the woman who owns my soul, the woman who commands my home, and the woman I intend to spend the rest of my breathing days worshipping."
A fractured, breathless sob tore from Zina’s throat. Tears instantly flooded her eyes, blurring the firelight and the glittering diamond.
"Sandro," she gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth.
"I cannot promise you a life without violence, Sherezine," Sandro continued, his voice breaking as he looked into her weeping eyes.
"I cannot promise you that the world will not try to tear down our walls.
But I swear to you, on my life, that I will stand between you and the fire until my last breath. Marry me. Let me be yours."
"Yes," Zina cried, dropping to her knees on the Persian rug in front of him. "Yes, Sandro. Of course, yes."
Sandro let out a ragged breath of pure, agonizing relief. He slid the diamond onto her left ring finger. It fit perfectly. He didn't waste another second. He pulled her up off the floor and directly into his lap, crashing his mouth down onto hers.
The kiss was an explosion of desperate, unadulterated need. Zina tangled her fingers in his hair, kissing him back with a fierce, answering heat, her tears mingling with the salt on his skin.
Sandro broke the kiss only to scoop her into his arms, carrying her the two short steps to the center of the bed and following her down into the silk sheets.
The silk robe was discarded in a frantic rush, cast aside as Sandro’s hands mapped the soft curves of her body with a possessive, reverent urgency.
He worshipped her. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down her throat, over the swell of her breasts, drawing a long, shuddering moan from her lips that echoed in the quiet room.
When they finally came together, the connection was so complete it felt like a collision of souls.
Sandro drove into her, his intense thrusts matching the desperate rhythm of her heart.
Zina wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, anchoring him to her, her fingernails biting lightly into his back.
Sandro buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath hot against her skin, his control crushed by the love he felt for the woman beneath him.
Zina matched his pace, her head falling back against the pillows as the pleasure built inside her, tightening her muscles until she was consumed by it.
She shattered beautifully, a breathless cry escaping her lips as the climax rolled through her in a violent wave.
The sound of her surrender was all it took.
Sandro followed her over the edge a second later, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he poured himself into her, collapsing forward to rest against her chest.
***
Later that week, the afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the expansive rear gardens of the Palazzo.
Sandro was walking down the crushed gravel path, reviewing a security manifest on a silver tablet, when he spotted Reza. The twelve-year-old boy was sitting on a stone bench near the fountain, his math notebook discarded by his side, staring thoughtfully at the water.
Sandro tucked the tablet under his arm and walked over, taking a seat beside the boy.
"You look too serious for a Thursday afternoon, Reza," Sandro observed gently, resting his forearms on his knees.
Reza looked up, his dark eyes wide and contemplative. He had grown more relaxed since moving into the estate, the terror of the past months slowly fading beneath the warmth of the Moretti family, but he still possessed the serious, watchful demeanor of a survivor.
"I was thinking about Geneva," Reza said quietly, kicking his sneakers against the stone base of the bench. "Zina told me you are taking her to a Summit. With the other families."
Sandro nodded slowly. "I am. It is time the world knows she is with me."
Reza looked at Sandro, his expression completely devoid of childish innocence. "Are there going to be bad men there?"
"There are always bad men in my world, Reza," Sandro answered honestly, refusing to lie to the boy. "But they are not going to hurt her. I am going to be right beside her the entire time."
Reza studied Sandro’s face, evaluating the sheer, physical mass of the Don, the broad shoulders, the unyielding set of his jaw. The boy seemed to reach a silent conclusion.
"You are very tall, Sandro," Reza noted, a faint, relieved smile finally touching his lips. "And you have a lot of guards with very big guns. I think they will have a hard time getting past you."
Sandro chuckled endeared by the boy's practical assessment. "I assure you, they will find it impossible."
"Good," Reza sighed, leaning back against the bench. "Because I am still growing. I need you to protect her for a little while longer. Just until I am big enough to do it myself."
Sandro felt a powerful surge of affection for the boy. He reached out, ruffling Reza’s dark hair. "You have a deal, little brother. I will hold the line until you are ready to take the watch."
***
Three hundred miles away, in a heavily fortified estate overlooking the rolling hills of Tuscany, Ruggero Vanzetti was sweating.
The air conditioning in his expansive, modern office was running at full blast, yet the collar of his bespoke Italian suit was soaked. He paced frantically behind his glass desk, a tumbler of vodka shaking in his trembling hand.
"What do you mean, the shipments are gone?" Vanzetti shrieked, hurling the crystal glass against the wall, where it shattered into a hundred glittering pieces.
His Underboss, a thick-necked man named Carlo, flinched but held his ground.
"They vanished, Boss. The cargo at the Genoa docks was seized by customs, and the secondary transport trucks were intercepted on the highway.
They were burned to the axles. Our men didn't even have time to unholster their weapons. "
Vanzetti gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles turning white. "Who is hitting us? Is it the Bratva? Did Taras Bondarenko decide to cut me out of the deal?"
"It isn't the Russians," Carlo said, his voice dropping into a terrified whisper.
He stepped closer to the desk, sliding a crumpled piece of paper across the glass.
It was a forensic routing slip from one of their frozen shell accounts.
"I had the accountants run a deep trace on the financial freezes.
The authorization codes blocking our capital... they belong to the Moretti syndicate."
Vanzetti stopped breathing. The color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse. "Moretti? Alessandro Moretti is dismantling my network?"
"Piece by piece," his Consigliere added from the corner of the room, looking physically ill. "We have lost three regional captains in forty-eight hours. Nico Barone was spotted in Turin. The Moretti enforcers are hunting us, Ruggero."
"But why?!" Vanzetti screamed, slamming his fists onto the desk. "I have never crossed the Don of Milan! I pay my tariffs! I use his ports, I respect his borders! What the hell did I do to offend Alessandro Moretti?"