‘‘Let me at least know,’’ I murmur, my voice edged with something sharper than desperation. ‘‘Who’s the man behind Nick? The man taking overmyempire?’’
Nick’s lips curl, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he drags his tongue across his bottom lip, as if savoring the taste of my question, as if the mere thought of revealing just a sliver of truth is something to be indulged.
His grin stretches wider, that same stupid, infuriating smirk.
‘‘You know, I’m kind of sick of you calling me Nick at this point.’’
He falls into silence, letting the words hang in the air, thick with mockery.
Then, slowly, he leans forward, as if it’s a privilege he’s about to grant. ‘‘I will indulge in a dead man’s last wish, but remember, you asked me for it.’’
He pauses, and his gaze sharpens.
‘‘I’m the head of the Gambino Mafia family.’’
The words hit me harder than anything he’s said so far, each syllable deliberate, like a dagger being twisted in an open wound. The Gambinos.Oneof thefivemost powerful crime families in New York, controlling the East Coast’s underworld, known for their ruthlessness and connections in every corrupt corner of society.
For decades, the Gambinos and the Bratva have been rivals, competing for dominance in every illegal venture from drugs and arms to human trafficking and smuggling. Our worlds collided over and over again, but this, this is something different.
How could I have not known?
The Bratva and the Gambinos have been divided by blood, borders, and an unspoken rule: kings don’t dirty their hands with other kings unless they’re declaring war. Everything else is handled through layers—middlemen, fixers, whispers in back alleys. I dealt with the Gambinos, yes, but never directly. Always through proxies; men in expensive suits who said nothing that could be traced. And so did Lorenzo. I thought I was the ghost,the one no one could track. But so was he. We existed in different shadows, orbiting each other like loaded guns in separate rooms, until that prison. Until Isabella. Until now.
He watches me, savoring my silence, the dark gleam in his eyes unwavering.
‘‘I’ve been a dirty fed every now and then,’’ he continues, a wicked smirk tugging at his lips. ‘‘My connections in politics and the police forces made that very possible. I was never just a man of crime, Aslanov. I was the shadow behind the curtain, pulling strings in the most powerful places, bending the system to my will. From senators to detectives, I’ve had them in my pocket.’’
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle. He knows the power of his connections.
‘‘I made sure the right people stayed paid, the right investigations went nowhere, the right laws were ignored. Hell, even your precious Russian connections were never safe. I moved money, arms, men—whatever I needed, to whichever corner of the world I wanted. And no one questioned it. But I never knew you.’’
He smirks.
‘‘I was in that prison for a different reason. I was there because two of my men got locked up, I needed to fix the situation, besides some other things. But when I saw you in there, you caught my attention. You weren’t like the other inmates. You carried yourself differently, like a man who knew exactly what he was capable of. But back then, I didn’t know who you were. The man behind the face. I never encountered you before, not in the circles I run in. We were unaware of each other.’’
He lets the thought hang in the air for a moment, letting me digest it.
‘‘And then you escaped. And when you dismantled that whole prison, taking down every last guard in a single night, I knew. I had a feeling that I knew exactly who you were. It was morethan a hunch, it was the feeling that someone from my world was involved.’’
A low, almost imperceptible chuckle slips from him as he steps closer, his voice dropping. “I always preferred to keep business less personal than you. Remember when you met with one of the Five Families in New York; the Lucchese family? The front man, Tommy? He’s a distant relative of mine. He’s been watching you ever since you forged that alliance with his branch of the New York Mafia. Every move you made, he reported back to me. That’s when I knew for certain, it was you. You were Aslanov, the ghost of the Bratva. The legend.’’
He claps his hands together, the sound echoing through the room, his eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and amusement.
‘‘And for the grand finale,’’ he says, his voice dripping with mocking satisfaction, ‘‘you picked a very unlucky woman to engage with. You see, my name isn’t fucking Nick.’’
He leans in slightly, letting the weight of his words hang in the air like smoke, as if savoring the moment.
‘‘My name is AntonioLorenzo,’’ he says, the words dripping with finality. He looks me over, savoring the moment. Then, he adds, almost as an afterthought, ‘‘Brown.’’
He pauses, eyes sharp and calculating as he waits. “I rarely use my last name. I prefer to be known simply as ‘Lorenzo.’ Still… does it ring a bell?”
The shock hits me like a physical blow. For a moment, I can’t process his words. My mind stumbles, scrambling to make sense of the impossible revelation. I look at him, but it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I’m left gaping like an idiot, unable to form a coherent thought. It’s too much, too sudden. He watches me with a satisfied smirk, but when I finally manage to stutter out, ‘‘What the fuck does that even mean?Brown... Isabella...’’
Before I can finish, he cuts me off, his voice sharp and commanding. ‘‘Isabella is myniece. She is Gambino blood. Her father, my brother, was the previous head of the family.’’
The words slam into me. Gambino blood. It makes sense now, the lineage, the arrogance, the power. He’s not just a high-ranked criminal, he’s a blood heir to one of the oldest, most ruthless families in the world.
