Page 65 of Dark Promise

Weak.

The word hangs in the air, sharp and cutting. I see Nikolai’s grip tighten on the gun, his knuckles white, but his face remains impassive. His silence only seems to fuel Mikhail’s taunts.

“You think you can take what I’ve built?” Mikhail sneers, stepping closer. “You? The sniveling brat who cried when I killed his dog? The boy who got his mother killed because he sniveled and whined when I gave him a well-deserved slap?”

Nikolai doesn’t flinch, but I feel the words hit him like blows, the subtle tightening of his jaw the only sign of the storm raging beneath the surface.

And I realize, with bone-deep certainty, that Mikhail isn’t just trying to wound him—he’s trying to provoke him. To make him falter. To make him lose control.

Nikolai doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He simply waits, his gun steady, his gaze locked on his father.

But I can’t stay silent. I can’t just watch. My hands tremble as I reach for the phone in my clutch, my finger hovering over Leo’s number, but then I see something that freezes me in place.

Movement.

The man I followed into the garage is there, lingering in the shadows behind Nikolai. My heart lurches. He’s not aiming a gun yet, but he’s close enough to act—and I know, in that instant, that the odds are about to shift in Mikhail’s favor.

Panic grips me. My mind races through every possible outcome, and none of them end well. Even if Nikolai fires first, even if his aim is true, what if Mikhail also fires? What if they both fall? What if—

No.

I force myself to breathe, to think.

I was born a Russo. I was raised a Russo. My father taught me to protect myself and the people I love. And I’ve tried, for so long, to deny the darker parts of myself. To convince myself that I’m different, that I’m better. But in this moment, I realize something I’ve fought to ignore.

Two things can be true at once: You can be a criminal, a killer, a thief, and still be loving and good in other ways. Just like Papa.

I am Sabina Russo. I am not a Mafia princess hiding behind charity galas and elegant gowns. I am a Mafia queen. And I will act like it.

The man in the shadows hasn’t seen me yet. He’s focused on Nikolai, his hand inching toward the weapon at his side.

My hand moves to the gun in my clutch, and I draw it with trembling fingers. The weight of it is familiar and foreign all at once. Memories crash over me—the night I killed a man in self-defense, the horror, the guilt. For three years, I’ve told myself the gun went off by accident. That I didn’t mean to kill him.

But now, standing here with my hand on the trigger, the truth comes rushing back, running through my thoughts like a slide-show.

Click.He had a knife.Click.He was going to kill me. My training kicked in, and I made a choice.Click.I aimed. I pulled the trigger. It wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate. Intentional. And it saved my life.

But this isn’t that night.

This isn’t self-defense. This is war.

I step out of the shadows, raising my gun. My vision narrows, locking onto Mikhail. His head snaps toward me, surprise flashing across his face. But I don’t hesitate. I am a Russo. And I am Nikolai Ivanov’s queen.

The tension is an electric charge, crackling through the parking garage like the moment before a lightning strike. Everything—the cold air, the flicker of a fluorescent light overhead, the distant hum of the city—fades into nothingness. There is only this moment, and my hand doesn’t waver.

My finger tightens on the trigger, and I fire.

One shot.

It hits Mikhail squarely between the eyes, snapping his head back. He sways for an instant, his gun falling from his hand, and then he crumples to the ground.

I take a breath and fire again. This time, the bullet drives into his heart. It’s not just about ensuring he’s dead—it’s about making a statement. The same way he killed my father.

The echo of the shots rings in my ears, and the world seems to hold its breath.

Then chaos erupts.

Figures pour from the shadows, guns drawn. For a moment, I panic, thinking we’re surrounded. But then I recognize them. Leo. Luca. Damian. Cassio. Dante. Their faces are grim, their movements precise as they fan out, covering every angle. And among them, Nikolai’s men emerge, led by the man I saw follow him from the gala. The man I thought was an enemy.

---