I stand, holstering the gun. "They were wrong."
"Wait," he calls out. "I told you what you wanted. I cooperated. That's got to count for something, right?"
I turn back to him, and whatever he sees in my face makes him recoil against the chair.
"You made her afraid. There is no forgiveness for that."
"Please," he whispers. "Please, I have a family."
"You should have thought of that before you threatened mine."
I press the barrel against his temple. He's crying now, openly weeping, all pretense of toughness gone.
"This is for thinking you could touch what's mine and live to brag about it."
I pull the trigger.
His head snaps to the side, and then he's still. The warehouse falls silent except for the distant sound of traffic and the steady drip of blood hitting concrete.
I holster the gun and turn to Enzo, who's been watching silently.
"Clean this up," I say.
He nods, his face impassive once more as he gestures to two of my men who quickly begin their grim work.
Once Enzo takes over, I don’t linger. I walk out without another word, the sounds of the warehouse fading behind me. I don’t wait for backup.
I drive alone, the route memorized, the rage in me my only companion.
The building's quiet and industrial.
The lights are still on. They're here.
I slip around the side of the building and shoot the guards at the door. Silencers. Two precise shots. They drop without a sound, their bodies crumpling in the darkness. Efficient. Clean. No witnesses. No alarm.
I move through the building like a shadow. Inside, I find the one I'm looking for—Grassi. He's sitting at a makeshift desk, reviewing documents, a cigar smoldering in an ashtray beside him. He doesn't even have time to look up before I put a bullet in his hand. The cigar drops, forgotten, as he yells. Blood blooms against the white sleeve of his shirt. Another bullet lands in his thigh. His body slumps onto the floor.
"You sent him after her," I say, my voice deadly in the sudden silence of the room. I step closer, my shadow falling over him.
He's trying to crawl away, his eyes wide with terror. "She's just aa idiot girl! She's nothing! A stupid influencer! It was a test and a lesson!" His voice's choked with pain and fear. “To see if you were still loyal to the families.”
I kick him in the ribs so hard he spits blood, a dark spray against the concrete floor. "She's not nothing. She’s mine.”
"You said she was an act, a distraction to divert attention from the video!" he gasps.
"Plans change,” I state.
This isn't about anger. This is about power. About making a statement.
If I kill him now, the message dies with him. But if he limps back to his people, soaked in his own blood and whispering my name?
That’s terror they can’t ignore.
"And my plans changed the moment you dared to put a knife near her. The moment you dared to breathe in her direction after you’d been warned."
I shoot him in the stomach. The bullet tears through flesh. He's crying now, sobbing openly, a pathetic heap on the floor. He’ll be wearing diapers the rest of his miserable life.
And I don't care. Not a single shred of remorse.
