31. Lucian
31
LUCIAN
F eeling Tatiana’s warmth so close to me and feeling like she’s a hundred miles away is agony. But as we stand before our gathered men, I’m so intensely aware of her presence it makes my chest ache. It’s torture, having her here, calling her my wife, and yet knowing she doesn’t want any of it. All this time, I thought we were coming together—slowly but surely. I could make her happy if I stayed persistent. But she must feel like a prisoner in my world, a slave to the conditions she agreed to in order to save her sister’s life.
I’m a monster. That’s what this past week and a half of silence has told me. She still hasn’t said anything about being pregnant. At first, I worried that Saturo hit her hard enough, she might not remember. But when the morning sickness began and she continued to make light of it, saying it must be a side effect of the concussion, I knew. She truly doesn’t want me to know she’s carrying my child. And that realization is the most agonizing one I’ve ever known.
“I’ll be there through the entire battle,” Tatiana says, her voice clear and authoritative as it rings across the warehouse, and the silence that greets her is filled with a respect that hadn’t been there the first time we tried to address our men as a united front. “I’ll be watching from the sidelines. Lucian and I both agree that in this case, he has more experience with physical battle. He’s a strong leader, and having one clear voice to lead the charge will make our position stronger. So, men, I expect you to follow him with the kind of loyalty you follow me, and know that I’m with you every step of the way.”
Her men cheer her, my men joining in until the rafters are ringing and my eardrums throb. It’s moving to see how passionately the men follow Tatiana. She’s a born leader, a woman who overcame our world’s prejudice to earn the respect of some of New York’s hardest men. It’s a thrill to know she’s my wife—but as soon as the thought enters my mind, that crushing sense of guilt returns. My wife but not by choice.
I don’t know how today will go, but if I make it out alive, I need to reassess where we go from here, because something needs to change. I see that now.
“We know where he’s going to be,” I say, stepping forward. “We know his men will be scattered, unprepared. That’s why my men will lead the charge, firing from a distance. We have the weapons to thin their forces before anyone has to fight hand to hand. I know you’re itching to spill yakuza blood after their filthy betrayal, but I want a clean victory—only Saturo will lose men today. And then, he’ll lose his head. Understood?”
The response is thunderous now, and I glance toward Tatiana, sharing a small smile of satisfaction that makes my heart skip a beat. She looks so damn gorgeous, dressed in a bloodred sheath dress with its high slit. Her black Kevlar vest that comes down to flair at her hips is both practical and stylish, and I swear, only Tatiana could find a fashion designer willing to make a bulletproof outfit for her. It’s the only reason I’m letting her come at all.
I can’t blame her for wanting to see Saturo dead after what he did. I intend to crush the yakuza to dust for betraying me and hurting my wife. But I don’t like that she insisted on coming. Even if Tatiana intends to keep her distance, it makes me nervous. She’s not just risking her life to be here—she’s risking our child’s. Maybe that’s the point. She doesn’t want it. She intends to get rid of it, and that’s why she isn’t telling me about it. The thought brings bile to my throat. She can’t possibly hate me so much that she could hate the child I put inside her, could she?
I shove the despicable thought aside. Tatiana is taking every precaution she can in order to be present for Saturo’s execution without putting her life in danger. Beside her, Natasha has agreed to serve as her personal bodyguard since Tatiana’s men are still recovering from their injuries. And after having fought the younger Sokolov sister a grand total of one time before, I know that no one will be getting near Tatiana. Natasha is a terrifying fighter—easily better than most men. That’s a relief, since I intend to be at the front lines, ready to take Saturo down the moment I see him.
“You know your jobs. You know the stakes. We end this fight today!” I shout and signal for everyone to roll out.
The convoy of Escalades that file out of Tatiana’s storage yard is a massive one—larger than the force she and Killian put together to bust down the front gates of my compound to fight me over a month ago. It’s strange to realize I’m on the other side of the fight now, crossing the boundary between Manhattan and the Bronx to crush an enemy I didn’t even know I had until a week ago.
Tatiana’s bringing up the rear—in a completely separate SUV than I am. I’m glad because I want her safe, and I need to focus. Having her near me puts my thoughts and emotions into tangled knots. I want her more than I want oxygen, but every time I’m with her, all I can think about is why she’s keeping secrets from me. And only one reason makes sense—she still thinks we’re playing a game, and she intends to win.
Saturo’s home, nestled between the trees along Riverdale Park, is built in the Japanese style, with a sprawling zen garden and a bamboo forest lining either side of the winding drive. It feels serene—a sharp contrast to the treachery the oyabun is capable of. There is no impenetrable gate to keep his enemies out, and the place feels intensely calm and empty as the convoy pulls into the small driveway.
But as we put the Escalades in park and slowly climb from the vehicles, keeping our heads on a swivel, Saturo’s warriors start to filter out of the woodwork, silent and watchful as they stand along the edge of the bamboo.
Someone sounds the alarm, and feet patter across the wood panels of the wraparound porch before a door slides open and closed on smooth tracks. I signal Luca and Tullio to fall in behind me, and a contingent of ten men made equally of Tatiana’s soldiers and my own stay with us.
“If any of them so much as make a move, kill them,” I command the soldiers who remain near the convoy. I don’t like leaving Tatiana outside—out of my range of view—but there’s no doubt in my mind that Saturo is hiding in the house somewhere, waiting to spring some kind of trap, so I can’t bring her with me.
Again, the sprawling Japanese-style mansion feels deserted, the rooms empty except for the spartan personal effects that decorate them. We creep from room to room, looking for any sign of the oyabun , but it’s like he vanished.
He couldn’t have known we were coming. Tatiana and I didn’t even have this plan locked in place until late last night, so unless someone was spying at the gathering this morning Saturo has to be here. My lookout placed him at his house just under an hour ago. Tingling intuition creeps up my spine, the hair lifting on the back of my neck as I enter the next room. I feel eyes on me even though the space is devoid of life.
Then I look up.
I don’t know Japanese, but it’s not hard to recognize the command to attack, and several kudo fighters jump down from the rafters into our midst, drawing knives before we even have a chance to raise our guns.
As one, the fighting explodes into action across the estate. I can hear the gunfire coming from the driveway, and my stomach knots as my thoughts go straight to Tatiana and her safety. It’s enough of a distraction, I barely step back in time to dodge the sweeping strike that would have cut me open from shoulder to the opposite hip.
But I’m not messing around today. Lifting my gun a fraction, I pull the trigger, lodging a bullet in the fighter’s thigh before he can come at me again. He drops to the ground howling, and as my men take out the yakuza fighters around me, I kneel to wrench the knife from his grasp.
“Where is Saturo?” I demand, holding the blade to the man’s throat.
The words that hiss from his mouth aren’t English, but it’s not hard to gather their meaning when he spits in my face. I take a moment to wipe the saliva from my cheek, keeping my expression calm and emotionless. Then I drive the knife into the man’s hand, pinning it to the ground.
“Tell me where he is,” I command, pulling a knife of my own from my pocket and flicking it open.
Saturo’s man glances down at it, his eyes widening, and a flash of fear crosses his face. I know exactly how to dole out pain to get the answers I’m searching for, and as the last of Saturo’s men drop lifeless on the ground around us, he knows that no one’s coming to help him.
“Please,” he says, shuffling away from me on his back, but he can’t go far with his hand keeping him in place. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me anything.”
“No? Then why were you in here? Are you protecting him?” I grab the man’s ear, bringing my blade up to his face to make it perfectly clear what I intend to do next.
The man releases a defiant scream, but even if his mouth is unwilling to betray Saturo, his eyes have a more instinctual need for self-preservation. They flick toward a bamboo rug covering the center of the floor—just for a moment—before he glares up at me.
“Go to h?—”
I cut his words short as I slash his throat and come to a stand, watching the blood leave his body in spurts. Tatiana’s men stand in stunned silence before Dima slowly raises his eyes to me.
“How are we supposed to find Saturo now?” he asks.
I can hear the effort it takes not to make the question sound impertinent, and I give a cold smile as I raise my finger to my lips. Then I silently signal my men to pull back the bamboo rug. They do, slowly and quietly, careful not to make a sound, and beneath the rug is a trap door with a simple metal ring to open it. Luca wraps his fingers around it, standing back toward the trap door’s hinges so he won’t be in the direct line of fire. Then he waits for my signal.
“Let’s go,” I state coldly, gesturing for Dima and his men to block off the exits. “He’s not here,” I add. If we can catch Saturo by surprise, he might not have an attack readied—the surest way to save my men’s lives.
The Sokolov men do a decent job of making it sound like everyone is leaving the room. And for a moment, everyone pauses, all eyes on me.
As soon as I give the signal, Luca hauls the trap door open, and I step forward along with five of my men, aiming our guns into the small cellar below. Saturo stands there, his hands halfway to the gun at his belt, two guards standing behind him, who reach for their weapons despite ours already being drawn. Saturo flinches, curling in on himself as my men open fire, dropping his guards in a matter of seconds.
“Out,” I command as soon as the ringing ricochet of bullets subsides.
With a cold glare, the oyabun does as I say.
“Hands in plain sight,” I add as he starts to climb the simple wooden steps.
As soon as he’s at the top step, my men are on him, wrenching the yakuza leader’s arms behind his back to restrain him.
It’s a decisive victory. Saturo should have known he couldn’t outmaneuver us. Then again, I don’t think he realized he would be facing my men and Tatiana’s. He should have known better from the last time. As we march him back to the convoy, it’s clear to see we won the firefight out here as well. Countless yakuza litter the ground where they fell, bullets riddling their bodies. They might have fought hard, but they’re no match for our weapons and our armored vehicles’ natural form of defense.
Tatiana stands at the head of the vehicles, her sister by her side and a ring of our combined forces around her. “You took him alive?” she asks, a hint of surprise in her tone.
“I wanted to give you the opportunity to bear witness to his execution—if you’d like.” I know she doesn’t like the sight of blood, but I thought this might be an exception to the rule after the stunt he pulled, and I do intend to put Saturo on his knees before executing him for daring to lay a finger on my wife.
Tatiana’s lips press into a thin, determined line, and she gives a single curt nod. “Do it.”
I can hear the scuffle as Saturo fights against my men, then a pained grunt as one brings him roughly to his knees. Eying the blade I found in the war room Saturo was hiding beneath, I appreciate the craftsmanship. Whoever made the Samurai sword knew what they were doing. Saturo must have paid a pretty penny to have it on display.
And as I turn to face the yakuza leader, I catch the first glint of fear in his eyes when he sees what I’m holding.
“Do you have any last words, Saturo? Perhaps a heartfelt apology for laying a hand on my wife?” I press the edge of the blade to his neck, and when a sliver of red appears without adding any pressure, I know just how sharp the sword is.
Saturo hisses, his eyes narrowing as he flinches from the biting cut. Then he spits on the ground at my feet.
“Hmm. Funny,” I say with false levity. “Those were the same last words as your man before he gave away your hiding place.”
With a shrug, I drag the tip of the blade through Saturo’s neck, nearly beheading him with one clean swipe. But I’m not ready to give him that merciful of a death, and as Saturo’s eyes widen, the sound of his choking gurgles echoing around the serene space, I stoop to his level and drive the sword through his stomach. It buries inside him to the hilt, the sharp, crimson stained tip exiting through his back, and he doubles over, choking on a silent scream of pain.
No one moves. No one breathes as he takes several agonized minutes to bleed out. Then he collapses, lifeless, to the ground.
With his death, one thing is assured. The new reign of the Sokolov-Agosti alliance is indestructible. Add the Kings to the equation, and New York has officially become the Sokolov sisters’ playground. It’s ironic really, that in the end their marriage alliances have made them untouchable. Where Boris always feared that allowing them to marry would weaken their claim to power, instead, they’ve managed to gain two more armies who would go to war to defend them. The yakuza tested the waters and paid for it dearly.