I don’t hesitate. The second I push through the heavy side door, the air changes. Men turn.
Conversations die.
A dozen pairs of hard, suspicious eyes lock onto me.
Silence drops like a weight.
But I lift my chin.
These are Alessandro’s men. And I am Alessandro’s wife.
So, I keep walking—heel clicks echoing over concrete, spine straight, hands loose at my sides the way Gia taught me.
A few of them nod. Another steps aside quickly, almost nervously. Good.
I follow the sound of raised voices toward the back of the warehouse.
As I move deeper, the air thickens—hot, metallic, laced with the unmistakable scent of blood. My stomach tightens, but I don’t stop. Not even when my knees tremble.
Alessandro is here. And he needs me. I reach a closed door, loud voices spilling through it—sharp, furious, scraping along my nerves.
Someone shouts. Something crashes.
Then a roar—Alessandro’s—deep and savage in a way I’ve never heard.
My heart slams against my ribs. Instinctively, the mask slides over my face. The one my father trained into me. The emotionless, unbreakable shell Alessandro hates so much. But right now, it’s the only thing keeping my legs moving. I grab the handle. And I throw the door open.
What I walk into is—Utter, bloody chaos.
Bright overhead lights glare down on a scene that looks ripped from a nightmare.
A man is tied to a metal chair in the center of the room—barely recognizable beneath the bruises, the blood streaking down his chest, the swollen mess of his face. His head hangs forward, breaths shallow and ragged.
The floor is splattered with red.
Tools litter the table beside him—knives, pliers, things I don’t want to name.
Dante stands off to the side, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he’s two seconds from tearing the place apart.
Rocco is near the wall, injured arm wrapped but tense, a weapon in his hand, his eyes are laser focused and ready for his turn.
And Alessandro—Alessandro is in front of the half-conscious man, shirt soaked through, fists dripping crimson, chest heaving with unrestrained rage.
He looks feral. Unhinged.
A force of nature barely contained by human skin.
He turns at the sound of the door slamming open.
His eyes—dark, wild, burning—snap to mine.
And the whole room freezes.
Every man goes silent.
Even the one tied to the chair lifts his head in shock.
Because Alessandro—the Underboss, the monster, the feared second-in-command—goes completely still.
