Chapter 116 A TRUCE.
\~~~LUCIANO.
I sat behind my desk in the private meeting room, the heavy oak pressing into my back like a weight I couldn't shake. The air felt thick, stale, and laced with the faint scent of cigar smoke from some forgotten deal. My eyes burned from lack of sleep, and my body drained, but I kept my face blank and detached. That's what I needed to be.
Raina lingered in my thoughts, twisting everything, but I shoved her down.
This wasn't about her, not anymore.
The door creaked open. Gabriel stepped in first, his face tight, eyes flicking to me for a cue. Viktor followed, broad shoulders filling the frame, his usual calm cracked just a bit.
Then came the third man, the Consigliere. Old, with sharp eyes that missed nothing, his thick Italian accent always carried like a warning. He moved slow, and deliberate, but there was urgency in his steps.
“I came the moment I got the message,” he said, voice gravelly. “This is serious, Don. We need to talk now.”
I nodded once, sitting upright. The silence stretched, heavy as lead, setting the room on edge.
Gabriel shifted his weight, Viktor stood like stone and even the Consigliere paused, waiting. Despite the exhaustion pulling at my bones, I lifted a hand and signal to start.
He didn't sit, he just leaned forward, his hands on the desk's edge. “What started this mess with the Volkovs?”
I met his gaze, cold and flat. “Irina. She set the bomb for my wife. I hit back with kindness,” My words came out brief, and clipped.
The Consigliere's eyes narrowed. He straightened, pulling a file from his coat. “Irina lived. Third-degree burns over half her body. She might never walk right again, and never look the same. That is Volkov's daughter, Don and she is ruined like that? He won't swallow it.”
The room went still. Gabriel's breath caught. Viktor's jaw tightened. I felt nothing but a dark satisfaction twist in my gut.
Good, let her suffer.
“Listen to me,” the old man pressed, his Italian accent thickening with worry. “This is escalation. Volkov's no fool. He will come for blood. You need to call a truce. Meet him halfway. War costs too much. Lives, money, and everything. We can end it clean.”
His words hung there, the room holding its breath. ns.
A dark chuckle escaped me, low and bitter. I pushed back from the desk, standing slow, my height casting a shadow over him. The Consigliere's eyes widened a fraction.
“I need that war. I need it,” I stared at him down. “Leave.”
His brows pulled together.
“Luciano…”
“I said leave. Everyone, in fact.”
The room went dead silent as he searched my face, and then he probably saw the storm brewing, and the choice already made.
He nodded once, sharp, and turned for the door. Gabriel opened it for him, and they were all gone, their footsteps fading down the hall.
The door clicked shut, alone in the room, but the tension didn't break. It coiled tighter. I sank back into the chair, the leather creaking under me. My head throbbed, a dull hammer from the booze and the endless nights.
Later, I retreated to my study. The room was dim, curtains drawn against the afternoon light. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes I hadn't touched in years.
I poured another, the amber liquid sloshing. My hand shook just a bit as I lifted it, but I steadied it quickly.
The first sip hit hard, warming my chest, blurring the edges and then the door opened softly. Viktor slipped in, cautious, like he was stepping into a lion's den. He closed it behind him, eyes on the bottle. “Boss. What are you going to do?”
I didn't answer. Just took another swig, the glass cool against my lips. Let the question hang.
He hesitated, then stepped closer. “With all due respect, boss,” he said, “I would advise you to stay away from alcohol for now. You’ve been drinking for two days straight. It won’t help you think clearly. You need to be clear headed the most right now.”
That was it.
I slammed the bottle down, stood up in one sharp movement, and yanked open the drawer beside me.
My fingers closed around the cold steel of my gun. I pulled it free, leveled it at Viktor's chest, dead center. His eyes locked on the barrel, and his body froze mid-step.
“Anyone who says one more word I don't want to hear dies,” I said, my voice ice-cold.
The rage was building up, mixed with the whiskey haze, turning everything red.
Viktor’s face paled, but he didn’t step back.
“Boss…” His voice came out low, almost a whisper.
He knew he had crossed a line. He knew it the moment the word left his mouth.
Something inside me twisted violently, like a wire pulled too tight. My thoughts blurred, anger and grief colliding until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. I felt unsteady, unanchored and it was like one wrong breath could push me over the edge.
I didn’t know what I was capable of at that moment.
And I think Viktor knew it too.
I held the gun steady a second longer, the weight familiar in my palm. Then lowered it, just a fraction. Enough to let him breathe. But the threat lingered, heavy in the air. “Assemble the men.”
He nodded, slow, eyes still wide. “Yes, boss.”
“We don't wait for Volkov to hit first. We move now, strike hard and end it.” My words came out rough, edged with the alcohol's burn.
Truce? I’d rather be damned.
Viktor didn’t argue. He dipped his head once more and turned, his steps quick and careful as he exited the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
Silence rushed in.
I leaned back in the chair, the tension in my shoulders finally slipping just a little. I raised the bottle and took a long gulp, the liquor scorching its way down my throat. It didn’t calm the storm in my head, but it dulled the edges.
For now.