Page 99 of Masked Seduction
She crosses the room with unhurried confidence and offers me her hand. Her grip is firm, certain. “Isabella Agosti,” she introduces herself. “It’s a pleasure, Signore Vasiliev.” She repeats the ritual with Denis and Mikail, nodding politely to each, assessing us quietly.
The don’s eyes soften. “My daughter,” he tells us. “And soon, my voice.”
Isabella settles into the armchair beside him. Only after confirming his comfort does she turn her attention to the three men invading her father’s study.
The don exhales a shaky breath. “I wish to die under my own roof, not among sterile hospital walls.” A rueful smile. “But I refuse to leave bloodshed as my epitaph.”
Isabella takes over, her tone measured. “You have our deepest regret for Nico’s excesses, Signore Vasiliev. My brother coveted power he did not earn. He believed violence equaled strength.” A brief pause, pain flickering in her gaze, but there’s steel underneath it. “His death ends one problem, yet it presents another.”
I incline my head, unsure if she’s a diplomat or a velvet-gloved threat. “Succession.”
“Precisely.” She folds her hands. “In Sicily, my life is my children, vineyards, art foundations. But I am the last direct Agosti heir.” She glances at her father, who nods. “I return to America to assume stewardship of our holdings—cleanly, respectfully—without a war.”
Denis arches a brow. “Territory lines have already been crossed, Ms. Agosti.”
Isabella accepts the point with a graceful nod. “Lines can be redrawn rationally. Murders invite federal spotlights. Accountants make far better allies than coroners.” She allows herself a small smile. “Besides, America adores brilliant women. Your country will accommodate me.”
The don chuckles, a rattling sound. “She has claws, Signore Vasiliev. Sharper than mine ever were.”
Jenna’s face flashes in my mind, still fierce even with a gun at her head. “Our city does appreciate brilliance,” I concede, my voice cool, “but trust has to be built, not forced.”
“Then let’s begin building.” Isabella leans forward. “Over the next months, you and I will meet often. We’ll settle the border disputes, repair damaged businesses, bury the dead with dignity. And we will both make a great deal of money.” Her gaze hardens. “My brother was a fool. No more kidnappings. No threats to women or children. Agosti honor demands it.”
I study her for a long moment. She doesn’t blink.
The storm outside fades to a dull rainfall. The fire pops in the grate, scattering sparks that glow briefly before dying—exactly what this war could become—if we so choose.
I give a single nod. “Then we have the beginning of an understanding.”
Isabella smiles. “That’s all I came to secure tonight. We’ll write the fine print tomorrow.”
Denis exhales. Mikail lowers his shoulders a fraction. The guard in the corner even visibly relaxes, just enough to prove this meeting really was a negotiation, not an execution.
The don’s breathing grows more shallow, each inhale dragging like gravel through a pipe. He lifts one trembling hand, palm open in farewell. “There is nothing more to discuss,” he rasps. “The fate of the family sits in Isabella’s hands now. The next time we meet, Mr. Vasiliev, will be at my funeral, if you’d honor an old rival with your presence.”
I nod once. “I will stand to pay my respects, Don. But I expect that day is still a long road off.”
He wheezes out a laugh that turns into a cough. “Ah, that famous Russian sense of humor.”
Isabella rises, gently touching her father’s shoulder, then gestures for us to follow. The guards open the study doors, and she walks us back through the silent, dark corridor.
“At dawn, I’ll arrange a preliminary agenda,” she says. “My advisors will reach out to yours. Let’s give Las Vegas a quarter without gunfire, shall we?”
“We’ll see what we can manage,” I answer.
At the foyer she stops, extending her hand once more. “I look forward to a very profitable relationship, Signore Vasiliev.”
“Likewise, Ms. Agosti.”
The front door swings open. Rain sheets off the portico roof, silvering the drive. Two guards return our weapons—magazines separate, chambers empty. Professional courtesy. Denis slides in behind the wheel of the Yukon while Mikail takes shotgun. I climb into the back and rest my head against the cool leather.
The moment the gate shuts behind us, Denis expels a long breath. “Bozhe moi, I thought we were headed for a mass grave.”
Mikail rubs a hand over his face. “If Isabella’s half as reasonable as she sounds, we might actually get a cease-fire.”
“Reasonable people can play unreasonable games,” I mutter, watching the slow strobe of streetlamps pass over wet pavement. Is this truly peace, or just the calm before a new storm? Hard to tell where Isabella’s ambition ends and her pragmatism begins.
What I do know is Nico’s dead, Jenna is alive, and the city isn’t burning tonight. That’s enough for now.
