Page 41 of Porcelain Lies

“Already done. Vasya’s working on it.” Sasha clears his throat. “There’s more. He didn’t just cook our books. He set up dummy corporations, fake invoices. Made it look like legitimate business losses.”

My blood runs cold. This isn’t amateur hour theft. This is calculated. Planned. The kind of scheme that takes time and inside knowledge to execute.

“Who had access to those accounts besides him?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Could have had help from the inside. But my money’s on Maranzano.”

“Gianni?”

“Da.”

“Pizdets,” I spit. “Makes sense. That slimy motherfucker always rubbed me up the wrong way.”

I close my eyes, exhaustion warring with fury. First the doctor, now this bullshit. The universe seems determined to test my patience today.

“Find him,” I growl into the phone. “And when you do, bring him to me. Alive.”

I pace the length of my private gym, each step measured against the fury building inside me. Nico fucking Verona. Should have gutted that cocky little prick the moment he walked in.

Three hundred thousand.

The number repeats in my head like a drumbeat. Not just stolen — systematically siphoned off.

And Gianni. That preening Italian peacock, always vouching for Nico, always pushing to give him more responsibility. “He’s young, but he’s got potential,” Gianni had said. “Just needs guidance.”

Mudak.

They think they played me. They thought wrong.

My jaw clenches so hard I taste blood. Three hundred thousand isn’t just theft — it’s a declaration of war. A deliberate insult to my authority, my intelligence, my control.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar calm of planning settle over me. “Sasha,” I bark into the phone. “Get me everything on Maranzano’s recent movements. Bank records, phone logs, security footage. And put extra surveillance on his properties. That peacock’s not going anywhere until I have answers.”

I end the call, letting memories of past betrayals surface. The Petrov brothers thought they could skim from the casino profits. Their screams echoed through the warehouse for days before they broke. Then there was Dmitri, who tried running with protection money. We found him in Thailand. His new beach house in Pattaya became his tomb.

My knuckles throb as I flex them, dried blood cracking. The gym’s silence amplifies each breath, each heartbeat. A decade hunting Larkin. Now this theft. Both violations demanding response. Both requiring the particular brand of justice I’ve spent years perfecting.

I grab a fresh towel, dabbing at my split skin. Three hundred thousand. The number cycles through my mind again. Not the largest sum I’ve dealt with, but the audacity… the careful planning… the sheer fucking disrespect.

My reputation wasn’t built on mercy. Every thief, every traitor became an example. Their fates whispered about in dark corners, warning others what crossing me means.

I sink onto a bench, fatigue finally seeping in. Two major threats in one day. The doctor who crippled my son. The punk who thought he could steal from me. Each deserving their own special attention.

The weight of it settles on my shoulders like a familiar coat. Heavy, but necessary. This is what power demands — constant vigilance, swift retribution. No weakness. No hesitation.

And unfortunately for my enemies, that’s what I do best.

Chapter Thirteen

Stella

My hands are shaking.

The world beyond my car’s windshield is blurred through tears I’ve been holding back since the morning I left Gianni’s apartment. It’s been over two days, yet here I am again, crying over the future I’d lost.

A sob rips through my chest, raw and primal. My body’s having an emotional release, so I let it.

“You’re better off without him,”Boyana whispers in my mind.

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