Page 122 of Sadistic

"Will they? Because from where I'm standing, you're about to risk a war over hurt feelings."

"I'm about to prevent a war by handling a threat," I correct. "If Bembe wants to use my wedding as leverage, he'll learn why the Bratva and Irish mafia have survived when others haven't."

"Through violence," Fenrir states.

"Through adaptation. My grandfather would have already killed Bembe, starting a cycle of retaliation. My father would negotiate, showing the business side of things. I'm going to let a sick man solve our problem while keeping our hands clean."

"That's cold," Ingrid observes.

"That's practical." But the words taste like ash.

This is who Revna fears I am—the man who uses people like chess pieces, who finds the angles even in tragedy.

As I head for the door, Ingrid stops me. "She loves you, you know. Even angry, even hurt. It's all over her face when she thinks no one's looking."

"How would you know?"

"Because I know what it looks like when someone loves a person who infuriates them." Her smile is sad. "Just... don't waste it. What you have. Don't let pride or control or this life ruin something real."

"Is that what happened with you and Bjorn?"

Her face closes off. "That's different. He chose his demons over me. You still have a chance to choose her."

Outside, the Florida humidity wraps around me like a blanket.

I pause by my car, looking back at the clubhouse.

Somewhere inside, Revna's probably helping her mother clean, or talking with Dalla, or just trying to process the insanity of the last few days.

Tomorrow.

Less than eighteen hours now.

Mikhail appears at my shoulder. "The team's in place. If Njal moves on Bembe tonight?—"

"When," I correct. "When he moves. His mania won't let him wait."

"When he moves, we'll know. The question is whether we intervene."

I consider this. Save Njal from himself, or let him remove a threat? The calculation is cold, practical, everything Revna hates about me.

"We protect him if possible," I decide. "But Bembe's the priority threat. If it comes down to it..."

"Understood." Mikhail opens the car door. "Your father called. He's mobilizing additional resources. Says to tell you the Bratva protects its own."

"Even reluctant brides?"

"Especially those." He almost smiles. "Your mother's already planning the grandchildren."

"Let's survive the wedding first."

As we drive away, I catch one last glimpse of Revna through the clubhouse window.

She's standing in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of her mother's stress-baking, looking lost.

Tomorrow, I'll either marry her or lose her forever.

Tonight, I'll make sure she lives to make that choice.

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