EPILOGUE #2
Reza walked down the stone steps, stopping a few feet away from Sandro. He offered a respectful, formal nod. "Welcome back to our home, Sandro."
Sandro returned the nod, regarding the young man with genuine respect. "You have grown, Reza. Your mother tells me you are excelling in your logistical studies with the loyalist Capos. And I hear your marksmanship is already rivaling the veterans."
Reza’s chest swelled with quiet pride, though he kept his expression disciplined. "I am learning how to defend what is ours. I have to be ready."
Sandro stepped closer, placing an affectionate hand on the teenager’s shoulder.
"You are making your father and your brothers proud, Reza.
But remember, you do not have to carry the weight of this empire alone.
The Moretti syndicate stands behind you.
Whatever you need—whether it is capital, weapons, or intelligence—you only have to ask me, and it is yours. "
Reza looked up at the towering Don of Milan. He didn't ask for money. He didn't ask for power. The fourteen-year-old boy simply looked toward the grand doors where his sister had disappeared.
"I only want one thing," Reza said, his voice quiet but fiercely intense. "When the baby comes, she will be distracted. She will be focused on the child. I need you to promise me that you will never stop watching her blind spots. I need you to protect my sister, Sandro."
The sheer, selfless devotion in the boy's request struck Sandro deeply. He squeezed Reza’s shoulder, his green-grey eyes burning with a solemn, unbreakable vow.
"I swear it on my life, Reza," Sandro promised, his voice a low, echoing rumble in the quiet courtyard. "Before any threat can even look at Sherezine or your nephew, they will have to cut out my heart. She is safe."
Reza stared into Sandro’s eyes for a long moment, evaluating the truth of the vow. Finally, a genuine, youthful smile broke through the serious mask of the Kazan heir. "I know. Come inside. Maman-bozorg made your favorite lamb."
***
The weeks following their return to Italy slipped into a warm, predictable rhythm, but pregnancy had by no means slowed down Sherezine Kazan-Moretti.
Despite Sandro’s frantic, hovering attempts to keep her confined to the luxurious safety of the upper floors, Zina refused to let her skills atrophy. Her body was changing, her center of gravity was shifting, and she was determined to adapt to it.
On a rainy afternoon, the training facility beneath the Palazzo was filled with the rhythmic thud of bags and the grunts of sparring enforcers. Matteo and Nico were overseeing a group of new recruits, running them through close-quarters combat drills on the padded mats.
The steel doors swung open, and Zina walked in.
She was wearing a pair of black maternity leggings and a fitted athletic top that proudly displayed her six-month baby bump.
Her dark hair was pulled back into a braid.
The moment she stepped onto the mats, the entire gym went dead silent.
The recruits, having heard the terrifying, mythological stories of the Don's wife dropping mercenaries barehanded, froze in place.
"Do not stop on my account," Zina said lightly, picking up a roll of white athletic tape. "Nico, who is your best grappler in this new class?"
Nico swallowed hard, exchanging a panicked look with Matteo. "Signora Moretti, with all due respect, the Don specifically requested that you—"
"The Don is currently on a conference call with the Swiss bankers and will be occupied for at least another hour," Zina interrupted smoothly, taping her knuckles.
She pointed to a towering, heavily muscled recruit who looked like he had been carved out of a granite mountain. "You. Step onto the center mat."
The recruit looked at Matteo, his eyes wide with terror. He would rather fight a grizzly bear than lay a finger on the pregnant wife of Alessandro Moretti. "Underboss, please. If I touch her, the Boss will literally flay me alive."
"You are not going to touch me," Zina assured him, stepping onto the mat and settling into a loose, balanced fighting stance. "I am going to touch you. I need to test my rotational balance with the extra weight. Come at me. Half speed."
The recruit hesitated, then slowly raised his hands, stepping forward with agonizing caution. He threw a slow, telegraphed right hook, fully intending to let her block it.
Zina sighed. "I said half speed, not in reverse. Try again, and mean it this time."
The recruit gritted his teeth, stepping forward with a slightly faster, heavier jab.
Zina didn't block. She used the shift in her center of gravity to her advantage, dropping low and slipping inside his guard with terrifying, liquid speed.
She grabbed his extended wrist, pivoted sharply on her heel, and used his own forward momentum against him.
In a blur of motion, she launched a flawless, devastating drop-kick directly into the center of his chest.
The recruit flew backward through the air, hitting the padded mat with a concussive, breath-stealing thud.
"Perfect," Zina murmured, pleased with her balance, adjusting her top over her bump.
"SHEREZINE!"
The roar shook the concrete walls of the gym.
Everyone froze. Standing in the doorway, having ended his conference call exactly forty minutes early, was Alessandro Moretti.