Driving back to my estate, I glanced at her in the passenger seat. She was staring out the window, lost in thought, her expression a mixture of shock and defiance. Zahra was resilient; I had to give her that. Most people would have crumbled under the weight of everything she'd endured, but she had this stubborn fire that refused to be extinguished.
As for me, my mind was racing. If Dominic Vazklov truly was Zahra's father, it meant we weren't just dealing with Ali or petty Mafia power plays anymore. This was a game on an entirely different level. The factions that had been lying dormant, the alliances I had spent years dismantling—they would all come crawling out of the woodwork the moment Dominic's name resurfaced. And Zahra would be their target.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Protecting her wasn't just a matter of revenge anymore. It was survival—for both of us.
The Next Step
