He approached the body with a measured grace, almost feminine in the smoothness of his movements, yet there was a sharp, predatory edge beneath it that made my skin crawl.
He squatted down, hands hovering for a moment before probing carefully, checking the pulse of the man sprawled before him.
Every motion was clinical—yet charged with an unspoken power, the kind that could bend men to his will without a word.
I held my breath, heart hammering, unable to tear my eyes from the grotesque scene.
“Is he... dead?” I asked, my voice trembling, barely above a whisper. “I—I didn’t mean to... I begged him to stop... I...”
Ciro’s gaze didn’t waver from the bloodied man.
His voice was low, controlled, carrying a quiet authority that made my chest tighten.
“He’s alive,” he said. “And for the record, this is Renzo—third in command to Vincenzo Orsini.”
Third in command?
I had just beaten the third in command of a mafia empire to a stupor?
Relief hit me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and my knees gave way.
I sank to the floor, gasping for air I couldn’t quite catch, heart hammering so violently it felt like it might burst from my chest.
He wasn’t dead.
He was alive.
I looked down at my hands—still slick with his blood—and nausea rolled through me, hot and bitter.
Every drop, every stain, felt like a scar branded onto my soul.
The weight of my actions pressed down like stone, each breath a ragged struggle.
Ciro rose with a smooth, effortless motion, the kind of control that made everything around him seem slower, smaller, weaker.
His eyes flicked briefly to my bloodied hands, then to my trembling form, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might say something—anything.
He didn’t.
A faint, almost casual gesture invited me to move.
“Stand,” he said, voice low, calm, and precise.
Each syllable carried the weight of command, “The Capo is waiting at the altar. The bride... is expected.”
I hesitated, glancing down at myself—blood-stained, trembling, exhausted.
My body felt foreign to me, coated in the aftermath of violence I had barely controlled.
Yet, slowly, I forced myself up from the floor, letting Ciro guide me, one careful step at a time.
I kept glancing back at Renzo, a question burning in my mind: shouldn’t someone be helping him? Ambulance? Medical team?
But Ciro ignored him entirely, leading me away until the distance became too great to see, leaving Renzo lying there, alone, yet alive.
We entered a separate room.
Three women were already there, moving with quiet efficiency.
