Page 170 of The Last Hope

The kids and Roman perked up at the sight—and especially the smell—of food. From what they told us, Antonio had only given them bread and water twice.Twice.

“Too bad Mika isn’t awake. These are his favorites,” Elif said, unwrapping a still-warm sandwich and handing it to Andrei, who couldn’t stop touching his stitches.

Mikhail had made it through surgery, and thank God, he was going to be okay. The doctors had said he should regain consciousness within an hour. The door opened again, and this time, Grigori stepped in, followed by the doctor.

“Well, well, a true family gathering,” the doctor smiled as he approached the monitor tracking my wife’s vitals.

“When will she wake up ?” I asked, gripping her hand tightly.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ivanov, your wife’s vitals are strong, and the baby is developing well in its third month. Your wife and child held on despite the stress and violence they endured—they are both incredibly strong,” he said with an encouraging smile, and I nodded.

Yes, my wife was strong. Stronger than I would ever be, braver than I could ever be.

“I believe that by tomorrow evening, you’ll all be able to go home with Mikhail. But don’t forget, the patients need plenty of rest,” he added, jotting down notes in his notebook before shaking my hand and Grigori’s, then leaving the room.

“Here,” Elif said, handing me a sandwich. “See ? I told you we’d have dinner together,” she teased, nudging me with her shoulder, making me laugh.

“That’s not exactly how I remember our conversation,” I replied, taking the sandwich, though I set it down on the bedside table. I wasn’t hungry—I wouldn’t be until my wife and my son opened their eyes.

“You saved my life. Again,” I said, grabbing her hand. “And you saved my wife’s soul. If I hadn’t been wearing that vest, if she had… Thank you, Elif.” I sighed, closing my eyes, haunted by theimage of my wife just before she pulled the trigger. A memory that would stay with me until my last breath.

“Oh, Nikolai, I’m so proud of you. You’ve become the man you were always meant to be,” she murmured, snuggling against me.

“I could never have become the man I am without you,” I replied, holding her close in return.

I met Grigori’s gaze over her head. Despite his smile, I saw the worry in his eyes—concern for the upcoming meeting with theCosaNostrain the next few months.

Antonio’s death would be difficult to justify. Selina had to gain custody of Rafael, or war would be inevitable.

A war that would cost many lives—including Ivanov lives.

A month and a half later

The Italians looked at us as if we had murdered one of their own, ironically. From across the table, their glares burned with silent accusation as we waited for the arrival of Grigori and Capo Marino, the representative sent by theCosaNostra.

“I heard you got your ass handed to you in your last race, Roman,” said Michele, Marino’s nephew, about the same age as my brother.

Roman leaned back in his chair with an irritated sigh, crossing his arms behind his neck.

“And I heard you didn’t even last two minutes with a chick last time,” he retorted.

The tension thickened as the younger men exchanged increasingly hostile glares. Then, the door to our headquarters’ meeting room in California swung open, revealing Grigori and Capo Marino. We all stood in respect.

“Shall we begin ?” Marino asked, settling into the seat at the head of the table, while Grigori took the opposite end.

“Today, we are gathered to judge the circumstances surrounding the death of Antonio Rasili and the custody and inheritance rights of Rafael Rasili Ivanov,” Marino declared, his hands clasped firmly on the table.

“Do you have any evidence or witnesses to prove that Antonio Rasili held Selina Floros Ivanov against her will and subjected her to torture and manipulation for eight years?” he asked, turning to Grigori.

“My wife is ready to testify via video call about what she…”

“Unfortunately, her testimony cannot be accepted,” Marino interrupted. “Without Antonio’s word to counter hers, we cannot judge based solely on her claims.”

A low growl escaped me. We had expected this—but we had to play every card.

“Rafael is an Ivanov. He’s not going anywhere,” Grigori stated, leaning back and crossing his legs. “So we might as well begin discussing the terms of the war to come.”

Despite the weight of the moment, I couldn’t help but feel pride—pride in a brother I could count on, no matter the cost.

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