Page 56

Enzo

By afternoon, Vito leads in four guards who remove the chains. Two flank me, watching like hawks, fear in their eyes.

At least they’re smart.

They march me through the villa, up stone stairs, down long corridors, and past wide-eyed servants who scatter when they see us coming. The walk feels like an execution procession, every step heavy with the weight of what’s waiting at the other end.

The doors to the great hall loom ahead, massive and imposing. They open to reveal the gathered Capos. The air buzzes with tension, like static before lightning strikes.

Gabi sits at the head of the table, smug as ever.

He glances around. “Let’s see if anyone here thinks your decision hasn’t weakened us.”

With a flushed face and bulging veins, Vito slams his fist down. “He made us look weak to the Russians!”

Rocco echoes him with even more volume. “He destroyed our deal for some schoolteacher!”

Both shout over each other, their voices rising in a chorus of accusations. I remain where I am, my pulse racing and mouth dry, and when I can’t take it anymore, I force my hands to stay steady as I clear my throat.

“Vincent Martinelli’s daughter is leverage. She’s access to funds the late Padrino tried to secure. If she leaves this house, the trail dies. If she dies, the money vanishes, or we lose it to the Russians.” I pause so that can sink in. “By marrying her, I didn’t act out of stupidity or betray us. I acted out of necessity.”

The room shifts, and someone among the twelve dons murmurs agreement while another nods, both testing the waters.

Gabi glares at me and calls the vote, his voice cutting through the noise. Not holding on to much hope, I watch the hands in support of me rise. Vito counts. The margin is razor-thin but enough.

I win.

Gabi’s jaw locks tight, but he hides his irritation well and smiles instead as he stands, buttoning his jacket and tinkering with his cuff links. “You’re free,” he concedes. “But you get to clean up your own mess.”

He walks past me. “You’re meeting the Russians in person,” he says, “when they come for her.”

After that, I’m confined to the mini villa with Marco stationed outside, waiting while Sophia hides in her room. I pace the floors, hoping for some kind of distraction.

I get what I wish for a few hours later when I’m summoned back to the main house because the Russians arrive without ceremony. No fanfare. No warning. Just a growl of imported engines and the scent of violence. Four of them. Gray-eyed, iron-jawed, their suits sharp enough to slit throats without wrinkling.

The hulking Viktor, with his scarred jaw and eyes like frozen steel, leads the way. He prowls like a predator who’s never met an equal.

Beside him, Dimitri stands tall and gaunt, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut. The second is the stocky Alexei, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. The youngest is maybe thirty, but his eyes are dead, and the first one calls him Yuri.

Like old-world ghosts in polished shoes, they enter the Benedetti villa as if they own the place.

Viktor speaks with lips that barely move. “We’re here for the girl. Martinelli’s daughter. The Bratva has waited long enough.”

The Capos shift around, uncomfortable in the face of their adversaries. Izzy is here, waiting for the action to begin.

Vito and Rocco glance my way, eager to see blood spill, preferably mine. Nonna Rosa remains quiet, watching everyone.

But no blood will spill unless I allow it.

“She’s a Benedetti wife now.” I keep my voice flat.

The Russians freeze for a beat too long. Their silence screams louder than any gunfire.

Then Viktor sneers. “Convenient. But marriage can be…annulled. Reversed. Buried.”

“The Benedettis don’t throw their wives to the wild.”

Viktor’s jaw tightens. His hand inches—subtly—toward his jacket.