I stood in the war room. The enormous, multi-screen display wall was alight with every piece of information we possessed: satellite feeds, financial transactions, cargo manifests, and the smoldering report from Murmansk. But all I saw was a single, perfect image of my wife’s frightened face, followed by the sight of Irina’s lifeless hand.
Grief is a luxury. Sorrow is a distraction. I had buried both somewhere cold and deep on the road back from Nizhny Novgorod, sealing them beneath the granite foundation of my purpose. I was no longer a husband, or a son, or even the Don. I was a weapon, honed by two losses and one overwhelming objective: retrieve Isabella and my sons.
Salvatore thought he was being clever. He thought by taking Isabella, my heart, and killing Irina, my history, he would
