The elevator doors slide open. I step inside. The ascent is smooth, silent. Controlled. Exactly how I feel now. At the top floor, security greets me with quiet respect. One opens the door without being asked. Another nods once, tightly. I walk toward the meeting room with my jacket still missing, blood dried dark against my shirt, knuckles bound with a tie. Let them see. This is what wrath looks like.
The moment I step into the boardroom, everything goes silent. All eyes fall on me. Damiano straightens first. Gabe's jaw tightens. Alessio goes still in that dangerous, coiled way of his. Enzo doesn't move at all; he just watches me, eyes sharp, already counting outcomes.
Bello looks like shit. Gray in the face. Eyes sunken. Shoulders heavy in a way that has nothing to do with age. He knows. He's known since the moment I asked Enzo to make sure he was here. Since the moment Jenna said his name. He doesn't looksurprised. He looks like a man who, after living on borrowed time for ten years, just heard the collector knock.
I don't sit. I don't speak.
I pull my gun. The sound of it clearing leather is the only thing that breaks the stillness. I cross the room in three long strides, grab Bello by the collar, and slam him into the wall hard enough to rattle his bones. He doesn't resist. Doesn't fight. Doesn't even grunt. I press the muzzle of my gun into his forehead.
Close. Intimate.
"You told Jenna," my voice is cold, even, and terrifyingly calm, "that I didn't want to see her."
His eyes meet mine. There's no fear in them. Only resignation.
"Yes," he admits.
A breath moves through the room. Someone swallows. No one interrupts.
"You were in the middle of a war," Bello continues, his voice steady, old-school to the end. "Vittorio was circling. Your cousins were sharpening knives. You didn't need that kind of distraction."
"That was not your decision to make," I growl.
"If she stayed," he defends quietly, "you would have lost focus. If she stayed, you wouldn't have won. You wouldn't be standing here right now."
My grip tightens.
"You don't get to decide what I can survive," I say. "You don't get to decide what I deserve."
He exhales slowly. "I did what I thought was right for you."
That's the betrayal. Not the lie. Thechoice. I lean closer, the gun never leaving his skin. "You stole ten years from me."
His jaw tightens once. "I know."
"You stole my son's father from him," I continue. "You stoleherchoice. You rewrote my life without permission."
"I knew when I did it," Bello says, finally. "That if you ever found out, I was dead."
Silence crashes down around us.
"The only reason," I say, "that you're not going into the Oven right now… is because you stood by my side when everyone else tried to knife me in the dark." A flicker of something like relief crosses his face. Not hope. Acceptance. "But make no mistake," I finish, "this betrayal is unforgivable." He nods once. No begging. No pleas. No prayers. Just a man standing by the cost of his choices. "Consider this my mercy."
I pull the trigger. The sound is sharp. Final. Bello's body goes slack instantly, sliding down the wall to the floor like gravity finally remembered him. Blood blooms dark against marble. No one moves. I lower the gun, and smoke curls faintly from the barrel. I look around the room.
"This," I state calmly, "is what happens when someone decides they know better than me."
I holster the weapon. The room exhales, barely. No one looks at Bello's body anymore. He's already been filed away as a consequence.
I turn to Damiano. "Did you find the insider at the club where Mia was killed?"
Damiano doesn't blink. He finishes his scotch, sets the glass down with deliberate care, then takes a seat like we're discussing quarterly earnings instead of murder. "Yes, boss. Two of them. Security guards. They messed with the system, camera loop, and door logs. Both were paid off by a Mexican named José."
"Where is he?"
"Running," Damiano replies. "My men are on him."
"Good."
