We make our way through the wreckage, ducking falling beams and skirting pools of blood.
I try not to think about the bodies. I try not to think about how easily the front gate was breached, how quickly our defenses collapsed.
When we reach the hallway leading to what’s left of Raf’s apartment, I see them.
Raf is sitting on the ground, his eyes blank, his face pale, lips bloodied. Sandro crouches next to him, murmuring something low and steady.
Gio stands behind them, flanked by two of our surviving guards. Relief hits me all over again at the sight of my family alive. Damaged—but alive.
“Leo!” Gio rushes forward and pulls me into a tight hug. “You’re okay. We thought?—”
“It would take more than this to kill me,” I rasp.
“We need to go. Now,” Miko says. “This place is compromised. If they’re regrouping, they’ll come back to finish what they started.”
“The yacht,” I say without thinking.
They all look at me.
“It’s stocked. Defensible. We’ll see them coming and can get away on the water.”
Miko nods. “Yeah. Good.”
We don’t waste time. Raf doesn’t speak a word as we help him to his feet. He holds on to Sandro’s shoulder like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. The scarf is still clutched in his hand.
By the time we reach the docks, my body is screaming. Blood coats my arm from a shallow cut I hadn’t noticed.
The yacht gleams in the moonlight like salvation, the last untouched remnant of our empire, and we board in silence.
It doesn’t take much time to gather our small remaining force in the yacht’s main cabin, everyone grim and bruised.
The black water of Lake Michigan groans beneath us, steady and deep, as the yacht stays moored to the boatyard dock, ready to set sail at a moment’s notice. It feels wrong, being here.
This boat was always a symbol of wealth, family, indulgence. Now it’s our hideout. Our only haven.
Miko’s the first to speak. “We lost more than the house,” he mutters, staring out at the water like it might swallow him whole. “The don is dead,” he confirms for everyone to hear.
Gio only nods, his expression solemn. Across from me, Sandro swallows hard and reaches over to steady Raf, who’s crumbling.
Raf’s always been the clever, sharp-tongued one, ever ready with a quick response. But right now, he looks like an empty shell.
“Where’s Genevieve?” I ask, realizing for the first time that my brother’s wife is missing, and a ball of ice forms in my stomach at the look of agony that flits across my baby brother’s face.
“They… slit her throat.” Raf’s voice cracks, thick with grief. “I couldn’t get to her in time, and they just… they didn’t even hesitate.”
Sandro says nothing.
He just keeps a hand on Raf’s shoulder as he keeps him upright.
My heart aches for Raf. I might not have seen what it was that Raf liked so much about Genevieve, but it kills me to see him in such pain, knowing his loss is similar to the one I’m suffering—only his wife was ripped from him against her will. And she’s gone. Permanently.
“I’m sorry, Raf,” I murmur, swallowing the lump in my throat as I share a glance with Miko.
His expression is just as dour, his blue eyes sharp with regret—as if the fact that he couldn’t stop this attack single-handedly makes it all his fault. We’re all a mess. Bloodstained, burned, and barely breathing. But at least we’re together.
Most of us, anyway. I sit forward, leaning my elbows on the table as I brace my forehead against my hands, thumbs digging into my temples.
My throat tightens as the guilt rushes in. I’ve failed my brothers so completely.
