CHAPTER 7
Sasha sat at the long, polished mahogany war table—because that's what this was. A battlefield.
Cigarette smoke curled in the air. Crystal glasses of aged whiskey rested beside stacks of high-stakes deals. The men around her were Matteo's best—calculating, brutal, unforgiving. The kind of men who built empires with blood and fire.
But tonight, she commanded the room.
She let them simmer in silence for a moment, her red lips curved in the faintest smirk, fingers tapping idly on the black leather folder in front of her.
Then, she spoke.
"Let's talk numbers."
The air shifted.
Men who had killed without blinking leaned in like students before a master.
She flipped open the folder with precise, deliberate ease, revealing pages of cold, ruthless strategy.
"The Bratva has changed course," she began, voice silk-laced steel. "They've severed ties with the Turks, favoring a new pipeline with the Albanians. If we act now, we can claim a stake before the shift locks us out."
She paused. Calculated. Measured. Watched them absorb it.
"Or…" she let the word hang in the air, shifting forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"We take the Turks. They're desperate, bleeding out, and they need a lifeline. If we move in, we don't just get better rates. We get control."
Heads turned. Interest flared.
The choice was clear, easy, profitable.
And completely lethal.
Sasha didn't destroy an empire overnight.
She rotted it from the inside.
The Turkish syndicates? Weeks away from a civil war that would shatter their supply chain.
The Albanian pipeline? A honeytrap, designed to pull in new partners and gut them alive.
But she never lied outright.
Oh no—Sasha's brilliance was shaping the truth just enough to lead them to their own downfall.
At first, it looked like a masterstroke.
Then? The cracks.
A shipment lost.
A deal delayed.
A trusted ally suddenly unreliable.
Tiny, imperceptible fractures spreading through Matteo's empire.
And cracks?
Cracks always grow.
Matteo wasn't at these meetings.
Not yet.
It made her job easier.
She only had to convince his lieutenants—men who were hungry for wins, men eager to prove themselves, men who didn't realize they were playing into her hands.
By the second meeting, they trusted her.
By the third, they obeyed her.
Sasha hid her satisfaction behind a mask of calculated indifference.
She wasn't just inside Matteo's empire.
She was steering it toward ruin.
But then—Lorenzo.
She had expected resistance.
She hadn't expected him.
Lorenzo Falco. Matteo's right-hand man.
A man who saw through lies before they were even spoken.
The others followed her.
Lorenzo?
He watched her.
During a meeting, as she pitched another "flawless" investment, she felt his eyes on her—not impressed, not convinced.
He didn't frown. Didn't challenge her.
He just sat there, fingers steepled, gaze unreadable.
A predator.
Watching another predator.
She held his stare, refusing to blink, refusing to give an inch.
The room buzzed with agreement, men already discussing their next move.
But Lorenzo?
He was still.
Silent.
Waiting. Calculating.
She didn't know what he had seen yet.
But she knew this—
She would have to handle him.
Soon.