If he wasn’t driving, my hands would be around his throat.He knew better.Hell, all my men knew better.Mia was off limits.And anyone that crossed the boundary I set… there’d be bloodshed.
“You’d better be careful with your next words.That’s my future wife.Treat her as such.”
A stoplight bled red across the hood.Marco’s knuckles tightened on the wheel.“Russo won’t stay quiet,” he said, finally changing the subject.“He’ll move again.”
“I’m counting on it.”
When the light changed, we rolled forward.The city swallowed us whole, its reflections flickering across the glass like ghosts that refused to fade.I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the rain’s rhythm set the pace of my thoughts.I could rebuild an empire from ashes, but one woman’s silence could still unmake me.Hers.
By the time we reached the compound, the rain sharpened.The guards at the gate opened it before the headlights hit them.My men straightened as I passed, eyes down, voices clipped.Discipline was survival here; hesitation got you buried.Marco peeled off toward the security wing.I headed for the office.A folder waited on my desk—a pale rectangle against dark wood.
“Report came ten minutes ago.”Matteo stood at the door, hands behind his back.“Russo’s men are regrouping.West docks.They’ve got help from outside.”
I opened the folder, pages full of grainy photos and coordinates.
“Names?”
He barely looked my way.“Not yet.”
“Find them.”
Matteo nodded and slipped out.The door clicked shut, leaving me alone.
The map on the far wall held red pins marking our holdings, blue for alliances, and black for debt.The newest red cluster bloomed like a wound along the docks.Russo’s reach crept close to Moretti territory, and by extension… to her.
Every empire has a weak point.Mine smiled at me across a dinner table.
The intercom buzzed once, a short pulse.Marco’s voice followed, calm but threaded with warning.“He’s here.Says it’s urgent.”
“Send him in.”
One of the couriers entered, rain still dripping off his jacket.He handed over another envelope, breathing fast.“They say Russo’s planning something bigger.Not just cargo this time.Names on the list include Moretti.”
My grip tightened on the paper.For a heartbeat, there was only the rain against the windows.“Clear the docks,” I said.“No mistakes.”
“And Moretti, sir?”
I looked up from the map.“Keep them out of it.For now.”
He left before I could change my mind.
The room went still again, except for the slow ticking of the clock.I told myself I was protecting an alliance.That it was strategy, not sentiment.Lies came easy when they were close to the truth.
The clock marked twenty minutes before Marco returned.Rain slicked his shoulders, darkening the fabric of his jacket.He shut the door behind him and crossed the room.“Matteo’s confirmed.They’ve got new suppliers—military grade.Whoever’s bankrolling him isn’t local.”
I turned from the map.“Cut the head, watch the rest scatter.”
Marco didn’t move.There was something in his silence.“Before we do,” he said carefully, “you should know Russo’s men have asked about Moretti shipments.And about her.”
The quiet that followed had weight.
I straightened, voice calm because calm frightened people most.“What about her?”
“He’s talking about leverage.”
Leverage.The oldest word in our vocabulary.
“Then find him,” I said.“Bring him in.Alive.”
