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“Say he agrees, how do we get there? It’s not like I have a passport lying around.”

“We get him to send a plane for you and for us.”

Z's jaw works silently as he processes this new approach, his expression torn between tactical approval and visceral rejection of anything putting Vesper in Victor's path.

“Once we’re in the air, we contact your grandfather and get the ball rolling there. All the while, our coalition is lying in wait.”

Z crosses his arms over his chest. I recognize that stance. The same one he's had since we were children, whenever he sees holes in my plans.

“This is insanity. You're assuming Victor will act rationally when he learns about his grandson. You're assuming The Collector will focus his rage on Victor rather than punishing Vesper for her betrayal. You're assuming fourteen crime families with generations of blood feuds between them will suddenly join hands and sing Kumbaya because we ask nicely.”

I sigh, recognizing the valid concerns beneath his skepticism. “We're not asking them to become best friends.”

“No, you're asking them to risk their lives based on blackmail and promises,” Z interrupts, pushing away from the wall. “These aren't rational actors, Oz. These are men who've built empires on vendettas and violence. What happens when the Gambinos remember the Lucchesis killed their underboss in '97? What happens when the Irish decide they'd rather see the Italians burn than help them? All it takes is one betrayal, one family tipping off The Collector or Victor, and we're all dead.”

He's not wrong. The fragility of our plan becomes more apparent with each objection he raises.

“What's your alternative?” Vesper challenges, stepping toward him. “Our deadline gets closer and closer by the second. We don’t have time to discuss this in a committee meeting, Zaire. need to execute it now.”

“I don't have an alternative,” Z admits, his voice tight with frustration. “That's what makes this so fucking infuriating.”

I watch the conflict play across his face.

“Then help us make this work,” Vesper says, her tone softening as she moves closer to him. “Find the holes in our plan so we can patch them. Make it airtight.”

Z's jaw works silently as he stares down at her. “You realize what you're proposing? Walking into the lion's den with nothing but your wits and our word that we'll be there to back you up?”

“I trust you,” she says simply. “All of you.”

“Fine, but we're doing this my way,” Z insists, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. “If we're playing both sides, we need fail-safes. Multiple extraction points. Weapons cached where Victor's security won't find them.”

I nod, already mapping contingencies in my head. “We'll need to contact our people in St. Petersburg. The ones Uncle Victor doesn't know about.”

“The Second Sons have operatives throughout Russia,” Talon adds, moving to the kitchen where we keep our secure satellite phone. “I can activate them within hours."

Vesper watches us shift into planning mode.

“What about my grandfather? He'll expect updates. Progress reports on my mission to kill Victor.”

“We feed him just enough to keep him believing you're following his plan.”

“Photos,” I suggest, moving back to the laptop. “Staged reconnaissance shots of Victor's compound. Travel documentation. Enough breadcrumbs to maintain the illusion.”

“And when he realizes I've betrayed him?” Vesper's question hangs in the air, heavy with implications none of us want to voice.

“By then it won't matter,” Z says with cold finality. “Because by then, Victor will be hunting him, not us.”

“I'll start contacting the families,” I say, already mentally sorting through the list. “I have direct lines to most of the underbosses, and where I don't, Talon does. We'll need to be careful about how we approach them. just enough information to pique their interest without revealing our entire hand.’

Vesper nods, her fingers drumming against the table as she processes. Then she turns to Z, her expression shifting to something more hesitant.

“How do we get in contact with your uncle?” she asks.

Z goes still. I recognize the conflict behind his eyes, hatred for the man who destroyed our family, warring with the tactical necessity of involving him.

Z runs a hand through his hair, tension evident in every line of his body. “Normally, we'd request a meeting through our father,” he says, his voice tight with barely contained rage. “But he's exiled himself to some godforsaken island in the Mediterranean, drinking himself into oblivion.”

I consider our options, mentally cataloging the remaining Petrov connections we've maintained despite our estrangement from the family. “What about Dmitri?” I suggest watching Z's reaction carefully. “We can use him to put us in contact. Play the remorseful nephews who want to return to the family with their tails tucked between their legs.” The idea leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, but strategy often requires swallowing pride. “That might work.”