Page 81 of My Wedding Night Massacre

"You got it, boss."

I stand. The meeting's over. Sergei and Alexei file out first, the kid throwing one last awed glance over his shoulder. Viktor lingers.

"It's good to have you back," he says quietly. "Really. Things were... they were stable while you were gone, but they weren't the same. We need you."

"You did good, Viktor. Better than good. The organization's stronger than when I left."

"Yeah, well. I had a good teacher." He grins, then sobers. "You okay, though? Really?"

Am I?

Seven years in a six-by-eight cell. Seven years of watching my back every second, sleeping light, eating food that tasted like cardboard. Seven years of running my empire through coded messages and weekly phone calls, never sure if the guards were listening, if someone had turned, if today was the day it all fell apart.

But it didn't. Viktor kept it together. My soldiers stayed loyal. My enemies stayed scared.

I should feel victorious.

Instead, I feel hollow.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Go home. Get some sleep. Tomorrow we remind Dmitri why crossing the Santego family is a death sentence."

He nods, leaves.

I'm alone.

The club's bass still throbs through the walls, muffled but relentless. Out there, people are dancing, drinking, fucking, living. And I'm in here, surrounded by reports and violence and the weight of a crown I never asked for but can't put down.

I pull out my phone. Scroll through contacts until I find the name I'm looking for.

Luca Olivera.

We go back twenty years. Brothers in everything but blood. He took a bullet for me once, back when we were young and stupid and thought we were invincible. I took the fall for a job that would've put him away for life, spent seven years in prison so he could stay free, could raise his daughter.

I should visit him. Soon. Reconnect, rebuild the alliance.

But first, I need to stabilize my own house. Need to deal with Leo, with Dmitri, with the fifty other fires that have been smoldering while I was gone.

I pocket the phone, and head for the exit.

The club's main floor is still packed. I scan it automatically, looking for threats, checking exits. Old habits.

And I see her.

The girl in the red dress. She's leaving, flanked by two friends—a blonde and a dark-skinned woman. They're laughing about something, pulling her toward the door.

She glances back.

Our eyes meet.

For a second, everything stops again. The music, the crowd, the world. It's just her and me and this stupid, impossible pull that makes no sense.

Then she's gone, slipping out the door into the night.

I don't follow.

I'm not that man. Not the kind who chases girls half his age just because they make my pulse race. I've got control, discipline, decades of practice at keeping my wants separate from my needs.

But I watch the door for longer than I should.