Marco used to joke that I was the pretty one. Said I took after mom’s light brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and hazel eyes, while he got Dad’s build and permanent five-o’clock shadow. I was pretty enough that alphas looked twice. Marco hated that. He’d been so paranoid when I presented as omega, worried I’d get claimed by some asshole who’d treat me like property.
“You’re too smart for that,” he’d said once, after he scared off an alpha who’d been sniffing around me at a bar. “Too good. Promise me you won’t let some knot-head ruin your life.”
I’d promised.
Our parents died when I was fifteen. Food poisoning, of all things. One bad meal and suddenly Marco, who was barely twenty himself, was all I had. He could’ve resented it, could’ve dumped me with relatives and lived his own life. Instead, he worked odd jobs, and did anything that would bring in money, even getting entangled with people like Valerio, so long as that paid well enough to put me through school. He’d sacrificed his own future to provide me with a better one.
And now he’s dead, and here I am standing in a shitty bathroom in a shithole apartment I rented for this mission, fighting off heat symptoms because I’m about to walk into a mafia boss’s home tomorrow night with murder on my mind.
Pretty sure this counts as letting my life get ruined.
The pills finally kick in, dulling the headache to a manageable throb. I splash cold water on my face and head to my laptop.
I grab the encrypted drive from my jacket pocket and plug it in. The surveillance footage I copied today loads, and I start scrubbing through, frame by frame, looking for anything that proves what I already know.
Three hours later, I find it. The loading dock. On the day Marco did the pickup.
A truck pulls in. Unmarked. Three men get out, and even through the grainy footage, I recognize one of them: ViktorSokolov. He’s talking to someone off-camera, gesturing toward the truck.
The cargo doors open, and I see boxes. Lots of them.
I lean closer, trying to make out details, squinting at the timestamp, the angles, looking for anything that might help.
Another figure enters the frame, and my heart stops.
Marco.
My brother. Alive and whole, wearing the jacket I’d bought him for his birthday, the dark green one he’d joked made him look like he was trying too hard to be cool. He’s talking to one of Sokolov’s men, and he looks so fucking young. Too young to be dead. He was only thirty-three but could have passed for twenty-five.
I watch him help unload boxes, completely unaware that he’s signing his own death warrant. He’s smiling at something one of the other guys says, shaking his head. That was Marco. Always trying to lighten the mood and make friends even in shit situations.
Sokolov appears again, this time looking directly at Marco. He says something. Marco’s expression shifts from confusion to worry. He sets down the box he’s holding and follows Sokolov out of frame.
I want to reach through the screen and yell at him to run. Not to trust the bastard.
The footage continues. The truck gets unloaded. The men leave.
Marco never comes back into view.
Three days later, cops kicked in our apartment door at three in the morning. I woke up to guns in my face while they dragged Marco out in cuffs. He didn’t even fight. He kept saying “There’s been a mistake” over and over while they shoved him against the wall.
This footage, this moment right here, was part of the last hours my brother walked free. The last time his smile was bright.
I sit back only to realize my hands are shaking. This is proof that Marco was there, that he saw something. But it’s not proof of what happened after. It doesn’t prove that Sokolov framed him, or whether Enzo knew about the setup.
It’s not enough to justify what I’m about to do.
Except Marco is dead. Still buried in a grave I can’t bring myself to visit because seeing his name carved in stone will make it real in ways I’m not ready to face. While Enzo Valerio and Viktor Sokolov are still breathing and conducting business, as if my brother’s life meant absolutely nothing. Like he was just another loose end they tied up and forgot about. And now Valerio has the fucking audacity to invite me to dinner.
Welcome me to the family, my ass.
Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
I close the laptop and pull out the gun I’ve kept hidden under the mattress. Check the magazine and the safety. It’s a familiar weight now, fits my grip perfectly. Six months ago, I would’ve freaked out about owning a gun, but months of practice before sunrise and in abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the city have burned the hesitation out of me.I’m not a natural, but I’m good enough. At close range, good enough is all I need.
Tomorrow night, I’ll walk into Valerio’s home. I’ll smile at his mother, make small talk with his associates, and when the moment is right, when he’s distracted and vulnerable, I’ll put a bullet in his skull. And if his guards kill me for it, fine. At least Marco won’t be alone anymore.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number.
