There wasno version of this world where my brother’s killers walked away.None.Their fate had been sealed the moment they spilled his blood.
Vengeance wasn’t a choice.It wasn’t an impulse.It wasn’t even justice.It was a taste.A pulse.A whole fucking emotion.It rose through me like heat from a furnace—bitter, metallic, all-consuming—and I let it fill every hollow place grief had carved out.
They touched Alessio.They ended him.And now?It was our duty to return the favor.
I drew in a slow breath, forcing my rage to steady itself.The logic settled first—that quiet, deadly calm that always appeared right before everything I was burned down.
“Viktor and Milan Sokolov are dead,” I began.“But the Sokolov line isn’t.”
“Semyon Sokolov,” Gianni rumbled.“The surviving brother.”
“And his inner circle,” Raze added.“Six, maybe eight loyalists.And they have a small army.”
“That wasn’t some small crew who unleashed hell on my brothers,” I murmured.One look at the wreckage in Atlas’s penthouse, at the clean precision of the breach, the brutal efficiency of the attack, and it was obvious these weren’t amateurs.
“We have the element of surprise on our side,” Gianni remarked.“They think Atlas and Alessio are dead.They think we’re grieving and crippled.”
Raze smirked.“It’s the perfect time to hit them.”
Gianni glanced at me.“They’ll scatter.”
“They’ll gather,” I corrected.“When someone calls them.”
“Who?”Raze asked.
I stood, straightened my jacket, and nodded toward the door.“Him.”
The men turned as the door opened.
A tall, lean figure walked in—dark hair, intense cheekbones, a serpent tattoo curling over the side of his neck.He wore the expensive suit of a man who saw blood daily but never expected to get any of it on himself.
Archie ‘The Pope’ Popovich.Pakhan of the Antonovich Bratva.Our sometimes enemy.Until now.Now we shared a common enemy.
Gianni stiffened instantly.Raze’s hand went to his gun.
Archie’s lifted one palm.“Relax.If I wanted you dead, I’d have worn cheaper shoes.”
I rolled my eyes.“Archie.”
“Marcello.”His gaze flicked to the sheet-covered form on the bed.He paused.“My condolences.Alessio was so young.”
“Too young.”
He nodded, expression unreadable.“The Sokolovs are reckless.They’ve been itching for a war to claim wider territory.I wasn’t interested.But I didn’t think they’d go this far.”He sighed.“You know how little I care for alliances.”
Raze clicked his lighter, eyes narrowing.“And yet here you are.”
“Because,” Archie explained, stepping closer, “I want the Sokolov family wiped from this earth as much as you do.They’ve cost me business, soldiers, and patience.And I’m done tolerating them.”
He leaned forward, locking eyes with Gianni.
“And because Atlas Cavalho once saved my life.I owe him a debt.”
I knew exactly what he was referring to—the moment only months ago when Gianni had a gun pressed to Archie’s skull, finger tight on the trigger, and it had been my brother Atlas’s call that forced him to stand down.The order hadn’t come lightly, and Gianni had obeyed it with visible restraint, fury simmering just beneath the surface.
Atlas had his reasons for keeping the Russian alive.Important ones.Strategic ones.I told myself that mattered.I even wanted to believe Archie had changed—that whatever monster he’d been before had been tempered by time and consequence.
But Gianni hadn’t watched from a distance.