Not for anything.
Ciro cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“I have things to handle.”
Ciro turned his attention back to Renzo, his voice calm but laced with quiet authority.
“And you — don’t forget the sit-down with the Sicilians tonight.”
Renzo grunted in acknowledgment, his body still tight with barely contained anger.
“Take the third battalion,” Ciro continued. “Full show of force. No mistakes.”
Renzo’s jaw clenched visibly, but he gave a single, curt nod.
Ciro’s gaze shifted back to me.
This time—softer.
“Stay safe, Elena.”
Then he turned and walked away.
“Bitch!”
Renzo’s fist crashed against the table, sending cracks spiderwebbing across the surface.
He stood abruptly, circling the shattered bottle like a predator stalking prey, every movement taut with rage.
Like he was fighting the urge to explode.
“Thinks he can just order me around like I’m some fucking foot soldier.”
His voice rose, heat bleeding into every syllable.
“Ciro and I have been with Vincenzo since we were fifteen—fifteen—”
He jabbed a finger at the floor as if pointing to the past itself.
“—bleeding in the same gutters, burying the same bodies, watching each other’s backs when no one else would.”
His pacing quickened.
“Same streets. Same enemies. Same blood.”
A harsh breath escaped him.
“We built this empire brick by bloody brick.”
“And what does he do the second he plants his flag and calls himself boss?”
His jaw tightened.
His voice dropped—colder now.
“Hands that second-in-command title to Ciro.”
He spat the name like it tasted wrong.
