"The men who took her—" I rasp, gripping Alessio's sleeve with my good hand. "I want them breathing when I get there. They're mine to finish."
Alessio's face hardens. "Understood."
I try to push myself up, but my dislocated shoulder won't cooperate. "Go. Take care of my sister."
Alessio nods, leaving me with two men as he disappears through the doorway, barking orders to the team.
I struggle to my feet, using the wall for support. My bones groan in protest. The pain from my dislocated shoulder is blinding, but I force myself to stand. I won't meet my end sprawled on this filthy floor.
A door creaks open behind us.
Two shots ring out, so close together they're almost one sound. My men crumple to the floor before they can even reach for their weapons. Clean head shots. Professional work.
"Were you looking for me, Damiano?"
That voice. Smooth as silk, cold as ice. The sound of it makes my blood boil.
I turn, fighting through the searing pain in my shoulder.
Byron Easton stands in the doorway, pistol still raised, wisps of smoke curling from the barrel. He looks immaculate in his tailored suit – not a hair out of place, not a speck of blood on his hands. The perfect picture of a businessman. A fucking coward who lets others do his dirty work.
But he's here now. And there's something different in his eyes. Something reckless.
"Easton." I spit blood onto the concrete between us. "You're a dead man walking."
He smiles – that practiced, empty smile I've seen across negotiating tables. "I thought it was time we had a private conversation. Man to man."
"You call this a conversation?" I gesture to my battered body with my good arm. "You're a fucking coward. Couldn't even do your own dirty work."
"I prefer to think of it as delegation." He steps into the room, carefully avoiding the growing pools of blood from my men. "Though I must admit, there's a certain satisfaction in handling matters personally."
His finger tightens slightly on the trigger, and I tense, ready to lunge despite my injuries. If I'm going to die, I'll die fighting.
"Where is she?" Byron asks, his polished veneer cracking slightly. "Where's my girl?"
"Your girl?" I laugh, tasting copper. "Zoe was never yours."
"You have no idea what you've stumbled into, Feretti." Byron levels the gun at my chest. "No idea at all."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Byron circles me slowly, the gun trained on my chest with unwavering precision.
"You know, I used to run this city," he says. "Before your father expanded into Manhattan. Before the Ferettis became the darlings of New York's underworld."
I say nothing, trying to gauge the distance between us. My body screams in protest at even the slightest movement, but I force myself to stay alert. Every second Easton monologues is another second for my men to find Lucrezia, another second for me to find an opening.
"It wasmyterritory," Byron continues. "I had judges in my pocket, politicians at my beck and call. And then your family swept in with your Italian charm and old-world loyalty." He practically spits the words. "Suddenly, I was pushed to the periphery of my own empire."
The gun wavers slightly as his emotions rise. I catalog the movement, storing it away. Anger makes men sloppy. I need him angrier.
"I've spent years waiting for the perfect opportunity to reclaim what's mine," Byron says, his eyes gleaming with a fanatic light. "And Michael Travis handed it to me on a silver platter."
My muscles tense at the name.
"Poor Michael," Byron tuts, shaking his head with mock sympathy. "Single father, drowning in debt, desperate to give his daughter a better life. He came to me for a loan." A cold smile spreads across Byron's face. "And I saw my chance."
Heat builds in my chest, fury crawling up my spine as the pieces start falling into place.
