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"Enzo, take your team and flank them from the left," I bark, my eyes scanning the battlefield. "Matteo, go around back and cut off their escape. The rest of you, follow me."
As the gunfire intensifies, I dart between slot machines and overturned poker tables, using the chaos to my advantage. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins like fire. This is the life I was born into, the life I've chosen – and I will not let my enemies destroy it.
"Got one!" Enzo shouts triumphantly as we converge on the attackers. His bullet finds its mark, and a Bratva thug crumples to the floor.
"Keep pushing!" I yell, urging my men forward. "Don't let them regain their footing!"
As we drive the Bratva out of the casino, I can't help but feel pride in the loyalty and bravery of my family. We fight together, side by side, and I know that no matter what comes our way, we'll face it head-on.
"Get off my territory!" I roar, my voice echoing through the now-silent casino. The remaining Bratva scum retreat, limping away with their tails between their legs. Good, we scared them off. The truth is, I could just kill them. But I know that if I don't want this to escalate to war, I have to let them go. "If we see you here again. We will kill you all. From today, no Bratva are welcome here."
The stench of gunpowder and sweat permeates the air as I survey the damage to my casino – shattered glass, bullet-riddled walls, and toppled furniture.
"Secure the perimeter," I order firmly, turning to my men. "Double-check every inch of this place. We can't afford any surprises. Alessandro?” I look at my head of security. “I think it’s time to give that Mossad contact of yours a call. Get these Bratva snakes blacklisted.”
"Understood, Don Philippe," Alessandro replies, his jaw set with determination as he relays my orders to the others.
I walk through the ravaged casino, a handkerchief covering my nose and mouth.
"Look at this mess," Giovanni mutters, kicking at a broken chair. He shakes his head in disgust as he assesses the damages. "We'll have this place back in shape soon enough, Boss."
"Thank you, Giovanni," I whisper. "We must remember, this is only the beginning. With Father gone, they think us weak."
"We ain't weak," Giovanni pronounces, his chin jiggling as he shakes his head furiously. "We ain't weak, Boss," he shakes his head again, over and over.
"I know we aren't," I give him an encouraging smile. "Not when I have you all, don’t I?"
But there is a stab of fear in my heart. I can't afford to make any mistakes. All these men are willing to give their lives for me, and I fear that one wrong move from my end and their deaths will be my cross to bear.
I need an advisor. Someone not hot-headed, not in the midst of all this. Someone with perspective who can show me reason. Oh, Tatiana, how I pray for your speedy return.
Chapter 18
Tatiana
The heavy velvet curtain rises. As the audience is slowly revealed, I let the energy of their expectation wash over me. I smooth my glittering costume, adjust my feathered headdress, and wait for my cue.
Showtime.
My heels click on the polished stage as I step forward. Crystal chandeliers blaze above me, illuminating the gilded balconies and red velvet seats. Men in tuxedos and women dripping in jewels watch me with rapt attention.
This is it. My moment. All those years of practice and sacrifice have led up to tonight. It was the same stage where my mother performed, and I can’t help but wonder if she perhaps stood in this exact spot.
I take a deep breath, sensing her within me and pour my heart into the music, letting my voice soar. The acoustics in this grand theater are phenomenal, carrying my notes to the very back row.
I belt out the final triumphant note, arms raised. The audience leaps to their feet, applause thundering. I curtsy, blowing kisses. Flowers litter the stage at my feet.
This feeling is incredible—the culmination of a lifelong dream. I wish my parents could be here to see it—all my parents.
I wonder if my father ever watched my mother sing on stage. Is that how they met? Tears comes to my eyes.
Suddenly, voices erupt. "?????. ?????. ?????." I don't understand. My Russian coordinator is running towards me from behind the curtains. He takes my hand in his, tears in his eyes. "They're asking for an encore, Ms. Amante."
I take a deep breath as I step back on stage for my final aria of the night.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I proclaim in English as the man next to me translates. "This next song is dedicated to my mother."
It feels like fate like this moment was meant to be. To sing this special song here - a haunting lullaby my mother used to sing to me as a child.
