At the docks, the rain was relentless — sheets of it falling over the rusting ships and cargo containers. Matteo was already waiting near Pier 47, the glow of a cigarette ember the only light on his face.
"They're in the warehouse," Matteo said quietly, nodding toward a shadowy structure at the far end. "No guards outside. Just two black cars. Russian plates."
Nicolas scanned the area, the tension in his jaw tightening. "They think no one knows."
Matteo flicked his cigarette away. "You think this is about the weapons deal?"
"No," Nicolas muttered. "This is about power. Moretti doesn't make personal appearances unless he's trading something more valuable than guns."
They moved closer, silent as the rain. From a gap in the metal wall, Nicolas could see faint light spilling inside the warehouse — men in suits, a table, crates stacked high along the walls. And then, through the haze of smoke and rain, two figures.
Moretti Meng — older, commanding, his posture arrogant even in the dim light.
And opposite him, Dmitri.
---
It had been years since Nicolas had last seen that face.
Dmitri was taller now, his frame lean but sharp-edged, his expression a perfect mix of calm and danger. His black coat was soaked, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes — those same pale gray eyes Alisa had — gleamed like a wolf's in the half-dark.
Nicolas couldn't hear much over the rain, but fragments reached him through the gaps:
"…Osborous… ready to strike first…"
"…Italy will fall into chaos…"
"…your son's loyalty is uncertain…"
Moretti's voice, cold and measured, answered, "Leave Nicolas Volkov to me. Once this deal is complete, he will have nowhere to run."
Nicolas's hands curled into fists at his sides. His mind raced — Moretti. Osborous. Dmitri Meng.
They were forming an alliance.
Against him.
Matteo's whisper broke his focus. "Boss, we need to move—"
"Not yet," Nicolas hissed. His eyes locked on Dmitri again.
The younger Meng leaned forward across the table, his voice lower now, impossible to hear — but the expression said enough. Ruthless. Calculating. He wasn't just here to negotiate. He was here to take control.
After a long pause, Moretti extended his hand. Dmitri clasped it, and the deal was sealed.
That single handshake was more dangerous than any bullet.
---
Nicolas stepped back, the rain swallowing the sound of his breath.
So this was the truth Alisa never spoke of — the real Meng heir wasn't the delicate daughter with the soft voice and fake smile. It was the shadow her family had hidden all along.
Dmitri Meng — the ghost of the border — was back in Italy.
And he'd chosen the perfect time to rise.
---
Back in Scarlett's apartment, the storm had quieted to a drizzle. She sat by the table, a single lamp casting light over her half-eaten dinner. Her phone buzzed.
Nicolas: "Don't go anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Promise me."
She stared at the message for a long moment, unease curling through her chest.
Scarlett: "What happened?"
The reply came almost instantly.
Nicolas: "The Mengs just declared war."