My stomach churned. This was way beyond normal Mafia business. Way beyond what my father would use. This was something and someone else entirely.
The construction site around me was a mess of concrete pillars and half-finished walls. Plastic sheets snapped in the wind like ghosts. The contrast between the high-tech pod and the abandoned building sent chills down my spine.
I spotted other pods through gaps in the walls.
For a second, I hesitated, then clenched my jaw and moved along the corridor.
Leaving Mira behind felt like ripping out my own heart, but I trusted Birdie would do whatever it took to get all of us out.
I slipped into the next hallway, moving as quietly as I could, which was damn quiet thanks to my bare feet. Each step forward—away from Mira—felt wrong. But I forced myself forward.
Once I was back at La Dimora, I would find out what this place was and who was responsible, and they had no idea what kind of enemy they’d just made.
I might not be a warrior in real life. But I was damn good behind the computer screen.
And if this really was my father’s doing, I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t make it my mission in life to destroy everything he held dear.
Which sure as shit wasn’t his family.
3
IVAN
Ileaned against the wall outside Alfredo Salvini’s office. This situation had been months in the making. Months of manipulating Vince Salvini into believing I was the enemy. Months of manipulating Alfredo Salvini into believing I was actually on his side. I couldn’t believe Alfredo had been able to hold onto power for so long that he was actually still alive with the kind of ego he had.
Then again, ego, paired with enough power and giving absolutely zero fucks about anyone else, made you excel in our line of business. In this kind of life.
It was actually quite funny. Caring about no one but yourself and caring too much for others—like your family—both made you equally vulnerable.
In a world of monsters, you either become one willingly or through necessity and survival. The transformation happens gradually—imperceptibly—until one day, you look in the mirror and barely recognize what, not who, stares back.
I’d thrived in this world for years, balancing between the monster and whatever fragments of humanity I managed to preserve in the deepest corners of my soul.
I was probably the perfect mixture between Alfredo and Vince Salvini, or maybe I was worse than both.
But at this point, fucking with people really was child’s play.
Child’s play I was ready to be done with.
I focused back on the situation. I didn’t even need the earpiece transmitting every word from the bugged room because the confrontation inside, and the raised voices of Alfredo Salvini and his sons Vince and Hero, were loud enough to be heard on the whole floor.
My fingers traced the edge of my phone as I monitored the security feed. Jemma Salvini was probably our biggest bargaining chip. Even though I was pretty sure Vince Salvini would burn down the world to get his sisters back, as well, which would probably throw a wrench into Grey’s demand to keep Isabella Salvini a while longer. Why was Grey so obsessed with her anyway? And why was I?
Well, obsessed was too strong a word, but every now and then, the image of her defiant stance, of her curvy body and beautiful face, popped into my head. Completely unwelcome and completely annoying.
I sighed. I did not agree with Grey’s and the Paraskia’s tactic to capture the Salvini twins and Salvini’s bride to force Vince and the Salvini family back into the fold. It was a dangerously stupid plan, and I much preferred a more elegant approach to facilitating cooperation, but Vince Salvini had proved to be a tough nut to crack.
And Grey had run out of patience. So there was nothing I could do but play my part and play it well.
Before I started my approach, I switched to the livestream of Alfredo Salvini’s office. We’d had him under surveillance for months, but watching the old man’s theatrical performance made my stomach harden.
The casual cruelty in Alfredo’s voice when he spoke to his son transported me back to another time, another place. The dank smell of the fighting rings. The sharp crack of a belt. The cold eyes of men who viewed us children as their property, as replaceable, as animals, and nothing more.
My jaw clenched. Some wounds never fully heal—they just get buried deeper.
I shifted my attention back to the security feed. Vince stood rigid, controlled, while his brother Hero vibrated with barely contained rage. The dynamic reminded me of my own early days after being rescued, before I learned to channel rage into calculated action. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest tactical choice by Vince—allowing Hero’s loss of control to resurface.
Or maybe it was brilliant. Let the younger brother be the emotional one, which would distract his father while Vince could maintain his own composure—and the upper hand.
