Victor
She didn't look back when she walked out. Her father said something under his breath, but I didn't catch it. I was too focused on the way her shoulders were squared, heavy with anger, like she was holding herself together by sheer will and she was good at that. Looking like she's in control when she's barely holding on.
I should've said something. Anything, but what's the point? She already made herself clear in the garden last night.
She doesn't want this.
She doesn't want me.
The door shut softly behind her, and the air turned heavier without her in it.
"Son," my father said, voice sharp. "We have a situation."
Of course we do. We always did.
I turn from the door and take a seat beside him.
"What now?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls out a black folder and slides it toward me. Inside were photographs, drone footage, timestamps and heat signatures. I flip through them in silence.
"These were taken three nights ago outside Milan," he explained. "One of our containers went missing from the port. When the trackers came online again, we found it miles inland emptied."
"And no bodies?"
"No," he said. "But the Turkish aren't just stealing. They're redirecting. Rebranding our shipments and selling them to smaller outfits across Eastern Europe under their label."
"They're building an army." I frown.
"Fast and sloppily," he nodded. "They've already lost three men in their last handoff. Gun jammed mid-deal. Exploded in the buyer's car. Sloppy, like I said."
"And the buyer blamed us." I sighed.
"They always do."
I leaned back, jaw clenched. This isn't just business now. Its war disguised as clumsy theft. Someone is orchestrating this mess from the shadows, and whoever it is, they know exactly how to turn the spotlight on us.
"What about our moles inside their operation?"
"Silent," he replied. "Too silent. Either they've been burned or bought."
I closed the folder and tapped my fingers against the table.
"What do you need from me?"
His expression doesn't shift. He's calm—too calm—and that never meant anything good.
"We need to accelerate the wedding."
Of course.
"This again."
"This always," he corrects. "You marrying Zara isn't just a symbolic gesture. If we want the Italians to back us when the Turkish push, we need to be one family. Blood bound. Not just business partners."
"You think the Turkish will make a move that bold?"
"I think they already have."
My chest tightens. Not because I'm afraid of them, but because I know what comes next. The Turkish don't just steal guns and move on. They retaliate in blood. They leave warnings behind in forms of bodies. And if we don't act soon, one of ours will be next.
"We strengthen the alliance," my father continued. "We make it clear to everyone watching that the Antonov and the Rossis are untouchable."
He doesn't have to say the rest. We both know what he means. The wedding isn't just about optics anymore.
It's about survival and Zara has no idea how dangerous this is becoming. And I have no idea how to tell her.
She's smart. Sharp. Fierce when she wants to be, but she still believes—deep down—that she might get out of this life. That some hidden door exists where she can disappear and live like a normal girl. But there's no door. Only walls. And I'm one of them.
"I'll handle it."
"Good," he said, standing. "Start with the leak. Whoever's feeding them our intel, we need them alive."
"For how long?"
"Long enough to make them regret it."
He walked out, leaving me alone with the folder and my thoughts. I pick it back up and stare at the grainy stills of a convoy we once owned being hijacked like a toy train.
I don't know what the Turkish are planning, but it's big.
Big enough to risk crossing two major families.
Big enough to leave bodies in its trail.
Big enough that marrying Zara might be the least bloody decision I'll make this week.