"You're lying."
I broke the other arm.
He screamed. Good. Let him scream.
"There's someone," he gasped, blood dripping from his mouth. "Someone close to Lorenzo. They've been feeding us real-time information—locations, schedules, security rotations. Told us the reception would be the perfect opportunity. Told us Lorenzo wanted it done clean but couldn't be seen ordering his own daughter's death."
The words hit me like ice water.
I'd known Lorenzo hired the Castellanos to find her.
I hadn't known he'd authorized them to kill her.
Or that someone in his inner circle was helping them do it.
Paolo gave me three addresses before he stopped breathing. Two were decoys. The third was Bruno Castellano's actual compound—a fortified estate on the outskirts of the city, surrounded by private land and armed guards.
Bruno Castellano had accepted a contract to kill my wife. Had positioned men at our wedding reception. Had pulled triggers that nearly ended her life.
And somewhere in his organization was information about Lorenzo's inside man—the person feeding them intelligence, the person who'd betrayed his own Don to facilitate his daughter's murder.
I needed Bruno alive long enough to give me that name.
Then I needed him dead.
I didn't take an army to Castellano's compound. I didn't need one.
I took Vince, Marcos, and fourteen men. We came through the front entrance at 11 p.m. like we owned the place, because in the underworld, ownership was determined by the willingness to kill for it.
Bruno Castellano was hosting a private dinner when we arrived. Fourteen guests, expensive wine, the illusion that his world was stable.
I shot him in the head before he could stand.
"Everyone else, on the ground. Now."
They moved quickly. Fear is a more efficient motivator than bullets.
Castellano's lieutenant—a man named Torres—tried to run. Vince caught him at the kitchen entrance and held him in place while I approached.
"You authorized a hit on my wife," I said quietly. "Who inside the Altieri organization put you up to it?"
Torres spit blood.
I drove my knife through his hand, pinning it to the marble counter. He screamed, thrashing, and I waited until he was coherent enough to answer questions again.
"Who?"
"I don't know the name. Just a voice on the phone. They said the marriage wouldn't last, that Julietta would be dead within a month, that we should move fast before she got too entrenched."
"When was this contact made?"
"Three days ago. The day before the wedding. Before any public announcement."
The day before. Someone had known about the marriage before I'd even said my vows. Before the world knew Julietta was mine.
I looked at Marcos. "Find out who in the Altieri organization had knowledge of the wedding timing. Everyone with access to that information."
"I'll pull communication logs, cross-reference meeting attendance, financial transfers—" Marcos was already mentally cataloging the investigation.
