Page 70 of Arranged Mafia Marriage

The line goes dead. I lower the phone, meeting Viktor’s questioning gaze. “He agreed. We just need to wait for the location.”

Viktor nods. “It’s a start, sir.”

That evening, I arrive at the agreed-upon location, a private room in an upscale restaurant. Damiano is already there, sitting at a table with a glass of scotch in front of him. He grimaces as I enter.

“Kiril,” he says, his voice cool. “Let’s cut to the chase. What’s this about the Irish?”

I keep my voice low as I pass him the folder Viktor gave me earlier. “They’re making moves on both our territories. We have solid intel that they’re planning major operations against us.”

Damiano’s jaw tightens. “What’s your plan?”

I outline our strategy, detailing how we can combine our forces to defend our interests. As I speak, his skepticism slowly gives way to grudging agreement. “It could work, but how do I know I can trust you? You virtually blackmailed me into that family dinner with the information you’rehostingmy woman and son.”

I shrug. “You don’t. Just like I don’t know if I can trust you, but right now, we need each other.”

Damiano nods slowly. “What about Isabella and Tony?”

I keep my expression neutral. “What about them?”

He hesitates, and an internal struggle plays out on his face. Finally, he sighs. “I think it’s best if their presence remains a secret for now. With the Irish threat, exposing them could put them in danger.”

“Agreed,” I say, relieved that he’s come to this conclusion on his own. “They can stay with Felicity and me for the time being and for however long it takes. We’ll keep them safe.”

Damiano’s shoulders relax slightly. “Thank you,” he says, the words sounding like they’re being dragged out of him.

We sit in silence for a moment, our history hanging between us. Then, to my surprise, Damiano speaks again.

“I... I owe you an apology,” he says, not quite meeting my eyes. “For ordering the hit on Felicity before I knew her.”

I tense, anger flaring at the memory. “That was a mistake you won’t make again.”

He nods. “I know. I felt threatened, by her, by Papa’s clear affection for her from the documents I found despite never beingpart of her life, and by your alliance with Papa. I blamed her when I should have come after you and Papa. I reacted poorly.” He gives a small smile, indicating he might be joking. It’s hard to say.

“You did,” I agree, my voice hard. “And let me be clear, Damiano. I’m only a threat to you if you try to hurt Felicity again. As long as she’s safe, we can coexist.”

Damiano looks at me with a flicker of respect. “Understood, and you must know I hold the same view for Isabella and Tony. As long as there’s no threat to them, I’m prepared to honor our truce.”

An hour later, after more negotiation, he rests back in his leather chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “So, we’re agreed on the Rossi territory?” His dark eyes, once cold with hostility, now hold a glimmer of grudging respect.

I nod, tapping my pen against the notepad filled with our scribbled plans. “Yes. Your men take the docks, and mine handle distribution inland. We split profits sixty-forty in your favor, given your higher risk.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Generous of you, Kiril.”

“Strategic,” I say, allowing a hint of a smile. “Your success there means my success here. We rise together or fall apart.”

Damiano chuckles, a low, rough sound. “You Russians, and your metaphors.”

We continue like this for another hour, voices rising and falling as we debate finer points, occasionally punctuated by the scratch of pen on paper or the clink of ice in our whiskey glasses. The tension that had filled the room when we first satdown gradually dissipates, replaced by a wary but constructive atmosphere.

As we wrap up, he extends his hand. “I never thought I’d say this, but... it’s been productive, Pimaslov.”

I shake his hand firmly. “Agreed, DeLucci.”

It’s not friendship, the memory of his attempt on Felicity’s life still simmers too closely beneath the surface for that yet, but I can feel the shift. We’ve taken a step away from being enemies, toward being not quite allies, but something less volatile.

As we stand to leave, Damiano lifts his whiskey glass, which contains a bit of amber liquid. “To a successful partnership,” he says.

I lift my glass, which is mostly melted ice. “To keeping our families safe.” The glasses clinking together softly is a symbolic gesture, just like drinking to our truce with the dregs of our drinks, but it suits the nature of the deal and feels like a solid start.

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