“He was right.”
From the house, a voice called her name.She turned toward it, then back to me.For an instant, neither of us moved.
“I’ve gotta go and you shouldn’t be here.Aren’t you and my father feuding right now?”She walked toward the house.“Whatever, just don’t get yourself killed.”
I stayed until the sound of the door closing swallowed the night.
She was supposed to be leverage.Instead, she became my everything.
By the time I returned to the compound, the rain started again—thin, steady, relentless.The front gates opened without question.No one peered at me too long; they’d learned that curiosity was expensive here.Inside, the lights burned low.Marco waited by my office door, arms crossed, jaw tight.Never a good sign.
“You were seen,” he said before I’d even reached the desk to sit down.
I took off my coat and draped it over the chair.“By who?”
“One of Moretti’s guards.He recognized your car.Word’s already out that you were at the estate.”
I didn’t flinch.“Let them talk.”Honestly, at this point, her father knew my intentions long before tonight.He couldn’t stop me from seeing her, or else consequences would arise.
“You think Russo won’t use that?”
Marco’s voice rose, not with disrespect but with fear.“He’s probably already twisting it—saying you’ve lost focus, that you’re distracted.That the great Enrico Di Fiore is breaking rules over a woman.”
I poured two fingers of whiskey and didn’t offer him any.“Russo’s opinion doesn’t concern me.It never fucking has.”
“It should.Because he’s moving again.Another strike.South side this time—one of the docks we took last month.You can’t ignore this.He is going to take us out and Moretti.The families won’t stand for this.”
I took a slow drink.“I’m ending it.”
Marco exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation.“You know what that means.”
“No survivors.We send the message once.Clean.Complete.”
He hesitated, studying me.“You’re sure this isn’t about her?”
I met his eyes.“Everything is about her.Every single decision.”
That silenced him.He nodded once, then left to relay the order.
When the door closed, I stood alone.The papers, the maps, the half-burned cigarette still in the tray—all pieces of a life built on precision.And for the first time, I could feel it slipping, inch by inch.
Outside, thunder broke.I turned toward the window, the reflection of my own face split by raindrops on the glass.
War wasn’t coming.It had already begun.
9
MIA
The shouting woke me.My father’s voice threaded through the halls.The tone that meant someone would bleed.I slipped out of bed, the floor cold under my feet, and followed the sound to the landing.From there, the staff were frozen, servants pretending not to listen.
“Di Fiore,” my father said.Even from here, the name carried like a curse.
A second voice answered—one of his men, nervous, apologetic.“He was seen here yesterday, sir.”
My father’s glass struck the table.“You let him near my daughter?He is getting antsy.Using this to get closer to her.I won’t have it.”
A pause.The thud of a body hitting wood.A muffled groan.
