And in this world, you don’t survive long after stealing from the legacy of a name carved in bodies and blood.
Men rose against him before the day was done. Gambino soldiers breaking rank. Old dons calling in favors. Rival families paused their feuds just to watch this unfold. Even the Russians, my world, felt the aftershock. Because if a Gambino can fall, anyone can.
And now?
It’s evening.
The eve of extinction.
I’m in the basement beneath the old monastery where it ends.
Stone walls. Sweat-damp air. It smells like old blood and older prayers. This is where the meeting will happen. Where Lorenzo will stand before the Vor v Zakone and try to convince them he’s still king. That nothing’s changed. That they should support him in killing the last Russianpakhan: Dominik. That he should be king of both families.
He has no idea what’s coming.
Dominik sits silently across from me, typing into a tablet, monitoring real-time feeds.
Malik is on my right. His hands move with ghostlike calm, assembling a custom rifle from black steel and carbon fiber, each part clicking into place with the soft finality of a blade sliding into bone.
Sawyer is pacing.
Vest unstrapped, sleeves rolled, glass of whiskey dangling from his mouth. He’s electric, coiled tension and silent rage. He doesn’t like waiting. But he’ll wait. For her. He is here for her.
And two more loyalists, men I once bled beside, who vanished when I did, stand silent at the door, watching. Ready.
Above us?
The city waits.
Snipers are stationed on every rooftop. Every upper window. Every unseen opening above us holds a breathless man with a finger resting on a hair trigger. They won’t miss. Malik madesure of it.
Ten more men, armed to the bone thanks to Sawyer, circle the perimeter. Hidden in parked vans, old shops, and back alley service doors. At my signal, they’ll swarm. One word, and Brighton Beach becomes a graveyard.
Ada and Karpov are stationed in the surveillance van two blocks east. Ada’s already rerouted the building’s power grid, looping every internal camera feed on a 15-second delay. She’s watching everything in real time through drones. She’s our eyes. If one of Lorenzo’s men moves, she’ll know before they do. She’ll film the entire scene too, perhaps for use to send heat into the underworld.
Karpov is monitoring transmissions. Calls, text pings, heat signatures. Nothing leaves that building. Not a cry. Not a whisper.
The chessboard is set. These rats will burn.
And me?
I look like a polished monster.
Black tactical pants, combat boots laced tight. A knife sheathed behind each thigh. A pistol at my hip, another at the small of my back. Two more in a harness across my chest. My shirt underneath is black, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the full language of my skin. Ink runs down both arms; old symbols, Bratva marks, prison codes.
My heartbeat is calm. Cold. Precise.
I look like death risen for the final time.
And that’s exactly the point.
My face is clean-shaven. My hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. I look controlled. Cold. Timeless.
Not like a man returning.
Like a Devil reclaiming his throne.
Isabella and I planned everything last night. Carefully. Purposefully.
