With Silas, nothing came directly. He preferred to speak in riddles, winding around the truth rather than handing it over. Tonight, getting answers would be a game of patience and careful negotiation—one we couldn’t afford to lose.
I leaned forward, my tone laced with a warning edge. “Silas,” I began, my voice a low growl, “we’re looking for Barbari.”
Silas didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. His hand moved lazily to his glass as he grinned, the gesture casual and mocking. “I’m sure you are,” he replied, the words hanging in the smoky air between us.
Luca, not one for patience, leaned in closer, his presence suddenly a heavy, tangible thing. He didn’t bother with subtlety. “If you know something, you better tell us now,” he threatened, his words cold and direct. “Because if we find out you knew anything and didn’t tell us, you’re dead.”
Silas didn’t flinch. Instead, he threw his head back and let out a gravelly laugh, the sound cutting through the tension at the bar. “Good luck with that threat,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me.”
I tried to dial back the heat, hoping reason might reach where intimidation failed. “Silas, please,” I said, my voice more pragmatic. “Barbari hurt innocent people. We just need to know where he is.”
Silas regarded me, then took a long, deliberate sip of his beer. His eyes glinted in the dim light, unreadable and sharp. “Barbari’s not the one you need to worry about tonight,” he said, his tone cryptic.
The words hit me like a bullet, the chill that crept down my spine sharper than the rain still seeping through my coat. “What do you mean?” I pressed, a tremor of unease in my voice.
Silas’ eyes hardened for a moment, but then I saw a flash—something almost like pity—before he blinked it away. His voice was grave, each word deliberately measured. “Did you honestly think you could play against the Devil and win? He knows about her.”
The air in the bar suddenly felt charged, the tension palpable and dangerous. I turned to Luca, catching the way his body tensed as he processed Silas’ words.
My calm unraveled, my heart thundering in my chest. “Who?” I demanded, already knowing the answer, as I tried to force composure into my voice to replace the panic that had set in. The walls of the bar seemed to close in, the air so thick I could barely draw breath. Every implication of Silas’ warning felt heavy and suffocating. This was no longer just about catching Barbari—it was about shielding her from a truth that could rip apart everything my family had built.
Silas’ final words came as a whisper, his tone almost gleeful despite their gravity, his voice barely rising above the drumof rain at the windows as I slowly stood from my seat. “Run, Massimo. The Devil is coming for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Massimo
I barely registered Silas’ words as I rose from my seat, the world narrowing to a single, urgent purpose: protect her. Luca matched my stride, his hand instinctively dropping to the concealed pistol at his side. The rain outside was relentless, each drop a drumbeat echoing my racing thoughts. We moved quickly, our decisions fueled by desperation rather than strategy. Every corner of the city felt hostile, every shadow a potential threat. There was no time to second-guess; we had to reach her before the Devil did.
“Her,” Luca finally breathed, his voice thick with dread. The single word hung in the air, heavy with implication. “He knows about Miranda.”
The realization that my wife—my refuge from the brutality of this world—was now a target, hit me with a surge of fury. I could feel it burning through my veins, sharp and undeniable.
We tore through the convoluted city streets, the unceasing rain thundering above us and fueling our urgency. Every shadow seemed to stretch and writhe, morphing into the Devil Silas had warned us about. The usual whispers from our informants and disputes over territory now seemed trivial in the face of this threat.
This was personal.
The enemy’s play was one I hadn’t foreseen, a move that risked destroying not just our empire but everything I loved. The foundation of my family, the traditions handed down by theItalian families, suddenly felt fragile—everything balanced on a knife’s edge, with Miranda at the very center of the storm.
Arriving at the house felt surreal; the familiar opulence now amplified a sense of emptiness. The city lights, once a symbol of life and safety, seemed to glare at us menacingly. I walked through the rooms, each one a silent testament to the life I was sworn to protect, my gaze lingering on Miranda’s favorite painting—a Monet meadow gifted by Cesar after our wedding.
The storm outside mirrored the turmoil within our family, a cruel parallel. We needed to be ready—not just to fight, but to shield Miranda from a darkness that was no longer a distant possibility but an imminent, lethal threat.
“Miranda!” I roared, frantically shedding my soaked coat as I searched every room. “MIRANDA!”
Tomasso stepped out of the sitting room, a deep frown creasing his face. “They are all at the hospital with Cesar. What happened?”
I felt the cold clutch of helplessness, but adrenaline kept me moving. The hospital was now our battleground, and I had no way of knowing what awaited us there. Luca and I met each other’s eyes—both of us resolved yet afraid—then plunged back into the storm, intent on reaching Miranda before the Devil could, with Tomasso hurrying behind us.
“What the hell happened?”
“Sinclair knows the truth about Miranda,” Luca shouted, urgency sharpening his voice as he slid behind the wheel of our SUV. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles pale in the glow of the dashboard lights, a clear sign of the storm raging within us both. The revelation hung in the air, heavy and threatening, its implications impossible to ignore.
“Stay here,” I commanded my youngest brother, my tone brooking no argument. I barely paused as I climbed into the passenger seat beside Luca, the weight of responsibility pressingon my shoulders. “I will call you when I know more!” I promised, offering what little reassurance I could before slamming the door shut. The sound echoed through the tension-charged night, and in the next instant, Luca floored the accelerator, sending us careening out of the driveway and into the rain-soaked streets.
Twenty minutes later, with our nerves frayed and hearts pounding, we arrived at Chicago Memorial Hospital. The sterile lights and bustle of emergency personnel underscored the gravity of the moment. Quickly, we learned that Cesar was still in surgery, fighting for his life, and that the rest of our family had gathered on the intensive care floor, anxiously waiting for news. Without hesitation, Luca and I hurried across the polished lobby and into the first open elevator, steeling ourselves for whatever awaited us above.
The moment the elevator halted, and the doors parted, the sight that met me was chilling: the muzzles of several guns aimed squarely at us. My heart slammed against my ribs with the shock of immediate danger.
