My spine straightened.“What kind of incident?”
“Small fire.East wing.In the Study.Contained before it spread.”
My fingers froze on the edge of the desk.“The study?”
Marco cleared his throat, cautious.“They say the only thing burned are some documents.”
A long silence.He didn’t need to say anything.She’d done it.Not by accident.Not in panic.On purpose.
I drew a slow breath, exhaled through my nose.A cigarette burned down in the tray.The ember trembled before it died.
She’d sent a message—and she’d used fire to write it.
Something in my chest shifted.It wasn’t anger.It was something far more dangerous.
The phone was still warm in my hand when I made the call to Marco again.“Mobilize everyone we trust.South and west districts.Russo’s holdings.All of them.”
He hesitated on the other end.“Now?”
“Now.”
A pause.“We don’t have a full plan.Intel’s incomplete?—”
“I don’t need a plan.I need silence.”My voice came out flat.Precise.Lethal.“Every warehouse, every dock, every street corner with his name on it.I want it erased by dawn.”
There was a soft exhale.“That’s not retaliation.That’s war.”
“Then we’re already late.”I ended the call before he could argue.
The map laid open on the desk, still marked from the last offensive.I brushed my hand across the pins, they toppled one after another, until only a single red pin remained.
The Moretti estate.
I traced the line between it and my own.The distance wasn’t far.It never had been.
If the fire had started anywhere else, I could have dismissed it.Blamed it as an accident.But the study—the documents—our agreement.She hadn’t just burned paper.She’d burned the leash.And now every man in this city would smell weakness.
Russo would move.The old alliances would fracture.My father’s name, my empire, the illusion of control—all of it balanced on the edge of one woman’s defiance.She had no idea what she just did, but it only made it apparent that I had to to do something.
I told myself I was doing this to keep her safe.That destroying Russo first would draw the heat away from her.That it was tactical.Necessary.The truth was known.Protecting her meant war.Loving her might mean losing it.
The whiskey went down harsh, burning the way her name did in my throat.I welcomed it.By sunrise, half the city would be smoking.And maybe, for a few hours, that would be enough to keep her alive.
A couple of hours later, Marco called me down to the warehouse.I walked through it slowly, boots slick with mud.My men waited in silence, clearing bodies, collecting weapons, avoiding my eyes.The kind of silence that only comes after violence — reverent, uneasy, final.
In the center of the room, a man knelt tied to a chair, blood running down his temple.Russo’s lieutenant.
The only one left breathing.Marco stood behind him, arms folded, waiting for my cue.I stopped a few feet away.The man glanced up — not defiant, not pleading.Just hollow.He’d already seen what happened to the others.
“You were supposed to protect this shipment,” I said.My voice stayed calm.Too calm.“You failed.”
He spat blood onto the floor.“You burned half the block tonight.”
“I cleaned it.”
He laughed — a raw, broken sound.“You think this ends with Russo?”
I said nothing.
