He did it for money," the man whispered. "For peace with the Italians."
I stood up slowly, and the chair scraped the floor. "There's no peace bought with blood."
The man started to beg. "Please, I told you everything–"
But I wasn't listening. My chest felt tight, and anger sat heavy in my veins. I turned to Yuri. "Finish it."
Yuri nodded once, and I walked out before the sound came. I didn't need to hear it. Outside, the night was quiet again. I lit a cigarette, and the smoke curled up into the cold air. The rain had stopped, but the storm inside me hadn't.
"Marco. The bastard," I whispered, exhaling smoke through clenched teeth.
**********
I walked in slowly. Isabella was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her robe wrapped tight as she stared toward the window. When she looked up, I saw the worry in her eyes.
"You're late," she said. The words were small and too calm.
My hands were still damp with blood. I didn't answer. I dropped the folders on the table. Rain had mixed with mud, and the scratches showed on my sleeves.
"Tell me," she said, standing. "What happened?"
I waited until the door clicked shut behind me, and I spoke in a flat voice. "Marco sent someone to meet the Italians tonight. Your father keeps betraying us, despite owing us. What a fool I’ve been.”
Her face drained. "What do you mean he sent someone to them?"
"He did," I said it plainly. "He sent his lieutenant, and I intercepted him at the docks."
She stepped closer, sucking in a shallow breath. "Why would he do that?"
"Because he's a coward," I said. "Because he thought he could buy peace with blood and lies." I watched her hands. "Because he traded Giovanni."
The words left my mouth like a stone, and she froze. For a second, she didn't move at all.
"No," she whispered. "No, that can't. My dad would never–"
"He did," I said. "He promised Giovanni as payment to the Italians after some shipment blew up."
She laughed then, and the sound was short and broken. "Prove it," she said. Her voice was sharp now. "Prove it to me. Bring proof. Tell me the men who know, show me messages."
"Ask him," I said. "Ask your father why the Italians stopped dealing with us. Ask him who pulled the trigger. The record is there if you want to dig. But the truth is in his hands, not mine."
She stared at me like she wanted to tear me apart. "You think I'll believe you over my blood?" Her fingers curled into white-knuckle fists.
I stepped forward, close enough to feel the heat from her. " Your blood sold him out," I said. "Your father's choices killed Giovanni, not mine."
Her hand moved fast then, anger burning on her face. She slapped me hard across the cheek. The sound echoed off the windows.
"You lying bastard," she hissed, and tears flashed, but she didn't let them fall. She pushed at me with her fierce hands.
For a second, I saw the girl from years ago with fire in her eyes. Not the broken woman. The part that made her dangerous and the part that made me both proud and terrified.
She stared at me while her chest rose and fell. I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her everything would be different. I wanted to tell her I was sorry in a way that meant something.
But sorry didn't fix the dead, and it also didn't bring back Giovanni. It didn't clean betrayal.
I held on to her, our breath mixed, heavy and fast. Her tits pressed against my chest through the thin robe, and damn, that fire in her eyes wasn't just rage, it was raw and fucking uncontrollable rage. I could feel my cock hardening already, the anger twisting into something darker.
We were both angry. For different reasons, however.
