The silence deepens.
Karpov’s smile is a blade sheathed in something darker. He’s been waiting for this. It’s like the old man is watching his favorite action movie from up close.
Sawyer leans in. “Then we plan a resurrection.”
I turn to Dominik. He’s already writing.
‘‘There’s a meeting. A week from now, in New York. A Bratvacouncil. Only the Vor v Zakone. No outsiders. No backup.’’
I raise a brow. “Where?”
He writes a single word. A name that tastes like ash.
‘‘Brighton Beach.’’
Perfect, I’m going to cut this man open and strap him to a meat hook. Of course there, the first place he devoured.
‘‘I know who they will meet there.’’ I let the silence settle around the room before I add. ‘‘Lorenzo.’’
Before I continue, Karpov opens the folder in his lap, slow as a priest reading his last rites. The paper inside is yellowed and thin, but it hums with power.
“Birth records,” he says, voice low, eyes scanning the shadows outside the cracked window. “Not just some hospital printout or a name scribbled in ink. I’m talking about a sealed baptismal certificate tied to someone who was never supposed to exist on paper. The kind of file families like the Gambinos paid to bury—deep.”
Isabella scrunches her freckles nose anxiously.
“I didn’t get this from an ‘old associate,’” he adds, bitterness curling the corners of his mouth. “It came from a backroom registry, off-books, candlelit, locked behind three layers of silence. Took a dying archivist and a favor I can’t ever repay. I knew what to search for, without that no one would know where to look and what to connect.”
He slides the top page across to Isabella, her name is on the same line.
“You’re his blood.”
She stiffens. Pale. Frozen, like she heard it again for the first time.
“You want to weaponize that?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
“He weaponized you first,” Karpov says. His voice is flat, cold. “This flips the board. Half his men still worship Salvatore’sname. If they see what he did, some will turn their backs. Some will stray from fighting.’’
We all know what this is. A fracture in the myth Lorenzo built around himself. A public betrayal of blood. It’s not just strategy; it’s war through perception.
I watch Isabella. My woman.
I speak, not to the room, but to her. My voice softens just enough.
“We’ll leak it the day before the meeting,” I say. “It’ll be the first strike. A silent one. It’ll shake their loyalty before we even lift a weapon.”
She nods, slow but sure. Fire catching under ice.
“We have seven days,” I say, turning my gaze back to everyone now. “Seven days to prepare a funeral disguised as a council. I don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be flawless.”
I pause and let that settle before I begin assigning their roles.
“Sawyer,” I start, locking eyes with him. “You’ll be in charge of ground operations in Brighton Beach. I know you can do this. I want a map of every blind alley, every rooftop vantage, every sewer grate. We control that terrain like it’s home.”
He nods. “And if it isn’t home by now, I’ll make it one.”
“Dominik has given you our loyal contacts just now in an email. Coordinate with them. Outfit them. Weapons, comms, transport. Position backup on the edges. I don’t want anyone moving without us knowing it. We’ll provide it all, they’ll know where to get it. You just have to lead them on. These men think it is Dominik instructing them.”
“Understood.”
