Chapter 7 Mother Knows Worst

• [ZEKE]
• My father used to say, “Always be prepared for the worst. You never know what life’s going to throw at you.”
• Especially in our world, where the stakes are life and death, and mistakes aren’t just costly—they’re final.
• And I’ll give the old man this: when Dominic Russell still had his wits, he was sharp. Collected. Steady. A pillar.
• But something changed. It was like watching the ocean dry up overnight, leaving behind a cracked and barren version of the man I once knew and admired.
• And the cause? A woman. Beautiful. Dangerous.
• That was all it took to bring an empire to its knees.
• My mother likes to say my father fell madly in love with her. Maybe he did. But if that’s true, then how do you explain the woman who came after her? The one half her age who turned him into a stranger?
• I still remember the heaviness of his calloused hand in mine, the rasp of his last flickering breath. That night, I made myself a promise: I would never marry. At twenty-four, I believed vows had power. That resolve alone could shape a man’s destiny.
• But time and the numerous scars lining my hardened body have taught me otherwise.
• Whatever it was that undid him—love, lust, hope—I’ve carved it out of myself like rot from the bone. There’s nothing left in me for a woman to touch, let alone ruin.
• As for marriages… Families like mine don’t marry for love. We marry to fortify power, to protect bloodlines, to secure legacy.
• And sometimes for petty revenges, and a little thrill.
• Who knows how long this one will last?
• The thought strikes, and I stop struggling with the tie at my neck. The man in the mirror stares back with a sneer.
• The last wedding I attended was that of my eldest brother, Roman Russell. Things were so much different back then. The world was whole… Now all that remains of the great Russell family is Vivienne Russell, my mother. Luzia Russell, my devious little sister, and I. A man less than human.
• The more I try to protect what remains, the more they seem to walk willingly toward the flame—
• As if destruction is in our blood.
• I knew Vivienne would come the moment she heard.
• Her last living son. Getting married.
• She’d arrive with half a heart still beating and both eyes open.
• Then again, whether the marriage lasts? That’s anyone’s guess. Even mine.
• But one thing’s certain: whatever happens, it’ll unfold exactly the way I will it to—
• Even if I haven’t decided what that is yet.
• So why is there a nervous glint in the man’s eyes who stares back at me? I can blame it on the fact that he hates surprises, hates being vulnerable, and my mother’s sudden arrival at this estate has done just that. At least I hope she will have the sense to stay low.
• Marco’s footsteps break my thoughts. “Everything is ready. And Vance has just arrived. With three dozen of his men,” he says, whistling. There’s a pause while he takes in the tailored suit, scoffing. “So you’re really getting married, Boss?”
• I adjust my cufflinks. “It had to happen some day,” I add with an amused smile. “But Dante’s betting it’s going to be more of a warzone.”
• “Then we are prepared,” he claims confidently.
• “Good.” I expected nothing less from him.
• Reaching for my gun, which rests on the table, I let my fingers brush over the cold steel.
• It’s power, sure. The kind men fear.
• But I’ve seen enough blood to know—guns don’t make you untouchable.
• A jammed barrel. A second too slow. One bad angle in the dark. That’s all it takes.
• No, it’s not just the gun. It’s how fast you move when shit hits the fan. How hard you hit when your back’s to the wall.
• Strength. Agility. Instinct.
• That’s what keeps a man breathing in my world—not just the iron in his hands, but the fire in his gut.
• A slow smirk tugs at my mouth as I take one last glance at my reflection.
• Handsome.
• Even with the scars.
• Faint lines cut across my jaw—a blade that came too close. Another streaks along my ribcage, half-hidden under the crisp white shirt. A bullet that should’ve ended me.
• They used to make me flinch in the mirror.
• Now?
• They’re part of the story. Proof I’ve lived. Fought. Survived.
• People think power lives in the trigger. Guns give cowards courage.
• But this—this body, this build, the speed in my fists, the strength in my stance—that’s what makes me lethal.
• Guns can be taken.
• Muscles can’t.
• Reflexes don’t jam.
• I straighten my cuffs. Nod at the man in the mirror.
• Today, I wear a suit.
• Tomorrow, maybe blood.
• Either way, I’m ready.
• “Come on, let’s go say hello to my future father-in-law,” I joke and tuck the gun at my hip.
• But as soon as I step into the hallway, I freeze.
• The scent of roses—imported, no doubt—lingers like rot in the air.
• Then I see her.
• She’s mid-hallway, every step measured, the posture precise. An expensive handbag swings gently at her side, and her hair is pinned back like she’s walking into a magazine’s editorial.
• Trailing behind her, walking with even steps, is Dante.
• “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
• She stops. Turns.
• Her smile is the same one she wore when she used to sneak out of my father’s parties, dripping in pearls and lies.
• “My son is getting married today,” she says, her voice honey-smooth. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
• I flick my eyes to Dante. He can’t even hold my gaze.
• “You know I could not lie to her,” he mutters.
• “You could hide the truth,” I cut in coldly.
• “Mom,” I say, turning back to her. “You shouldn’t be here.”
• She adjusts her bag strap. The diamonds on her fingers glint in the light. Everything about her is immaculate. She’s always been obsessed with the way she looks—how people see her. That’s what matters.
• “Why not?” she asks, genuinely curious, like she hasn’t caused chaos in every room she’s ever entered.
• I scoff. “It isn’t safe.”
• Dante takes a step back, his head hanging low.
• Marco doesn’t move.
• She glances at Marco, then back at me. “I’ve lived this life longer than you have,” she says softly. “Longer than you’ve been out of diapers.”
• She’s not wrong. But I don’t need her reminding me.
• “Luzia will be very angry,” she warns.
• “I can deal with her.” The irritation starts to boil over.
• “Sure you will,” she says, almost kindly. It cuts deeper than mockery.
• Her gaze sharpens. “So who’s the girl?”
• “Vance’s daughter.”
• Her brows pull together. “Vance Moretti?”
• I nod once.
• “His daughter?” Her voice shifts. “So this is more than about fortifying power. You’re acting out of spite?”
• “You don’t need to know the details.” My tone is iron.
• She watches me longer than I like. The edge in her eyes softens into something else—something warm. Dangerous.
• She lifts a hand, reaches for my face.
• I step back.
• The space between us stretches wide.
• “If things get bad,” I mutter, “hope you brought your own gun.”
• Her smile fades just a little.
• But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she reaches into her expensive handbag and pulls out one. “Of course,” she reveals, smirking.