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But I couldn't. Her fear, her withdrawal—it stopped me cold.

That's when it hit me, clear as a gunshot.

Cassie's happiness was worth more than any victory.

No matter how much intel Ginnie had, no matter how fast she could help me bury Marco, I wouldn't trade Cassie's peace for it. I loved her—more than my empire, more than my revenge, more than my own damn life.

"I'll fix this," I said softly, knowing she might not believe me. "I swear, I'll make it right."

I turned and left, closing the door gently, my mind racing with a reckless, ironclad plan. I'd cut Ginnie loose, no matter what she offered. I'd take down Marco my way, even if it meant a longer, bloodier road.

Downstairs, the living room was bright, too bright. Ginnie lounged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine like she owned the place. When she saw me, she set it down, her face lighting up with a smug, victorious smile.

"So, how'd you like my gift?" she purred, her voice dripping with pride. "Bet Marco's losing his mind right now."

"The intel was solid," I said, sitting across from her, keeping my face neutral. "Marco's hurting bad."

"Of course," she said, tilting her chin up like she'd single-handedly won the war. "And that's just the start. I know every one of his hideouts, his next moves, his weak spots, his so-called unbreakable allies." She leaned forward, her red lips curving seductively. "Give me the green light, and in a week, I'll hand you his head on a platter. Marco, gone from Chicago's map."

She paused, her eyes glinting like a snake's. "But, of course, I have a few… small requests in return."

"We're done," I said, my voice flat, leaving no room for argument.

Her smile froze. "What?"

"You heard me." My eyes bored into her, cold as ice. "I'll pay you for your help. Cash. Now get out."

Ginnie stood, her face a mess of confusion, shock, and then raw, humiliated fury. Her eyes turned venomous. "Gennady, are you fucking insane?" she screeched, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I just handed you Marco's ass on a silver tray! I proved my worth! I can give you his empire, his life, everything you want! And you're throwing it away for that bitch? That frigid little slut who won't even let you touch her?"

"Shut your mouth!" I shot to my feet, my voice a low, dangerous growl, my aura radiating pure menace. The air seemed to freeze. "One more word about her, and I'll rip your fucking tongue out."

Ginnie didn't back down. Instead, she let out a shrill, vicious laugh, like nails on a chalkboard. "Rip my tongue out? You think you can threaten me, Gennady? You think you've got options?" Her eyes gleamed with cruel madness.

She sauntered to the couch, picking up her purse with deliberate slowness, pulling out a thick manila envelope. She dangled it in front of me, like a trophy. "Listen, darling," she said, dragging out her words, savoring my rising anger. "If you cut me out…" She leaned closer, her voice a venomous whisper. "By sunrise, your precious Anya's exact address—Montana, Lake Missoula, east shore, that cute little safehouse—will be on Marco's desk. How long do you think he's been waiting for that?"

My blood turned to ice, my mind blank except for one word: Anya. It echoed like a thunderclap.

"What did you say?" My voice was hoarse, trembling with a fear I didn't even recognize.

"Montana. Lake Missoula. East shore. Private estate," she said, each word clear and cutting, her smile poisonous. "You thought you hid her well? Gennady, you underestimated me. Isabella told me about that place years ago, before she died."

"You dare touch my daughter?" Rage erupted, a volcano exploding. I lunged, grabbing her collar, nearly lifting her off the ground. My knuckles cracked, my eyes blazing with murder. "You fucking dare?"

"Let go!" Ginnie snarled, clawing at my hand, unfazed. "This isn't a threat—it's a deal!" She wrenched free, stepping back, smoothing her expensive collar with a mocking grace, her eyes glinting with something darker, deadlier. "And that's not even the best part, Gennady Sokolov. Do you know how Cassie Monroe's poor father, John Monroe, really died?"

My heart stopped. A cold dread shot from my feet to my skull, freezing me in place. "What do you mean?" My voice was rough, like sandpaper.

Ginnie's smile was cruel, predatory. She pulled out faded photos and a thick file from the envelope, slapping them onto the glass coffee table with a sharp thwack. The photos showed a younger Victor Sokolov—my father—standing next to a man with a gentle smile, familiar features. Cassie's eyes, her softness. It was John Monroe, alive, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my father like friends.

"Twenty years ago," Ginnie hissed, her voice like a snake in my ear, "your dear old dad, Victor, wanted to keep a fortune smuggled from Russia—enough to buy half of Chicago. He betrayed his closest partner, John Monroe. Set him up, framed him as a traitor."

My world spun, the floor dropping out from under me. I grabbed the photos, my hands shaking so bad I could barely hold them. My father's smile in those pictures looked monstrous now.

"John found out," Ginnie went on, her voice cold as a guillotine. "He had proof, enough to bury Victor. He was ready to blow the whistle to the other families. So Victor struck first." She slapped the file down next to the photos. "He stirred up old grudges, sparked a 'random' gang war. And in the chaos…" Her eyes stabbed into mine. "He made sure John Monroe died. Clean, no trace. Look—action logs, signatures. Victor's own hand. Ironclad."

A tidal wave of guilt and horror crashed over me, drowning everything. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

Ginnie watched my face pale, her smile triumphant, like she'd crafted a masterpiece. "So, you get it now?" she said, her voice thick with malice. "Cassie Monroe, the woman you love, is sleeping with the son of her father's killer. And the kicker? She doesn't even know."