His expression softened instantly—almost too quickly.
The perfect image of loyalty.
Wounded.
Devoted.
“Boss,” he said, voice low, almost pleading, “you know my loyalty has never wavered.”
A pause.
“I can’t speak for Renzo, though I think it’s clear where he stands.”
“He stole what matters to you most—your heirloom ring—and handed it to Elena so she could sell it to the Spanish for whatever they’re offering,” he added carefully.
“I have pictures of Renzo entering Elena’s room multiple times... I wouldn’t be surprised if their relationship runs deeper than it appears on the surface.”
Renzo didn’t react to Ciro’s heavy accusation—not even a flicker of concern crossed his face.
His gaze stayed fixed on the polished floor, jaw tight, hands loose but tense at his sides.
When he spoke, his voice was stripped of rank, loyalty, and pretense.
Flat.
Dangerous in its own way.
“Vincenzo, you don’t ask questions like that after setting my execution for forty-eight hours from now.”
Silence.
“You have no trust left in me—so what loyalty are we even talking about?”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I stepped closer.
Slowly.
Then reached out and clamped a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Renzo,” I said, quieter now. “Forget titles. Forget ranks.”
My grip tightened slightly.
“You and Ciro—you’re my brothers.”
His jaw flexed.
“I told him to bring you because I never truly believed you helped Elena steal that ring.”
A beat.
“Not for a second.”
Renzo’s head lifted slightly.
But his expression didn’t soften.
