"What about him?" Vince gestured to Torres, still screaming, his hand pinned to the counter. His expression was flat, expectant. Ready.
I considered it. He'd tried to murder my wife. In the old days, I would have made an example of him, left his body where other cartels would find it, sent a message in blood and bone.
But I had something better now.
"Burn the compound. Leave him alive. Let him crawl out, let him spread the word about what happens when you come for my wife." I turned toward the door. "And send cleanup to every Castellano property. I want them dismantled by dawn."
She was waiting for me in the library.
I'd expected her in the bedroom, or the office, somewhere private. Instead, she was curled in the leather chair by the window, still wearing the ivory dress, still stained with another man's blood.
When I entered, she looked up.
"The Castellanos," she said quietly.
"Handled."
"Bruno is dead." Again, not a question—she knew me well enough to know how this ended. "What about the people at his compound? The ones at the dinner?"
"Handled."
She nodded slowly, processing the violence I'd unleashed in her name. I waited for fear, for revulsion, for her to finally see me as whatI actually was—a man who solved problems with bullets and bodies.
Instead, she stood and crossed to me.
"There's someone inside your father's organization," I said. "Someone who gave the Castellanos our wedding details—the date, the venue, our security setup. Someone feeding them real-time intelligence."
"I know."
I blinked. "What?"
"I overheard my father on a call with his consigliere months ago—before you took me. He mentioned someone—a captain named Sal—who was 'handling the Julietta problem.' I didn't know what it meant at the time. I thought it was about the wedding, about keeping me compliant. But after today—"
"Sal Renavetti."
She nodded.
Sal had been Lorenzo's right hand for fifteen years. We'd invited him to the wedding because we had to—excluding Lorenzo's consigliere would have raised too many questions. He'd smiled at us, raised his glass, stood five feet from Julietta while secretly coordinating the hit that would kill her.
The rage that flared was somehow worse than before—more focused, more deadly.
But then Julietta took my hand.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to end him. And everyone who moves with him."
"And then?"
I looked at her—this woman I'd married for leverage, this woman I'd kept like a prisoner, this woman who'd somehow become the only thing in my life that felt like breathing.
"Then I'm going to burn anyone else who even thinks about touching you."
She squeezed my hand.
"Good," she whispered.
Icouldn't sleep.
