"Which means," Enzo suggests slowly, "they'll do it again."
"Yes," I agree. "And not where we expect."
I push away from the counter with a decision fully crystallized. "Lock down transport routes," I order. "New protocols. Rotating escorts. No solo runs. Anyone who deviates gets flagged."
Enzo nods without hesitation. I drum my fingers once against the stone. "You two talk toeveryonewho had contact with that last shipment. All the way down from Pablo. And I want every ounce tested before it goes out. No exceptions. This stops now."
"You've got it, boss," Enzo agrees.
Good.
Because whoever thought they could poison my streets and walk away is about to learn something very simple: I don't miss patterns. And I don't forgive lessons taught in blood.
The drive back to the penthouse is a blur of calculations. The laced coke isn't isolated; it's coordinated. Selective contamination. Enough to spook buyers without triggering full shutdowns. Then the club shooting, clean, precise, timed for maximum visibility. Different methods, same message.
Pressure.
They want me to react. To chase smoke and make mistakes. They want me lookinganywhere but inward. I won't give them that satisfaction.
By the time the car pulls into the valet lot, I've already mapped the next steps: audits disguised as loyalty checks, sudden reshuffles, silence where noise is expected. Let them think I'm distracted. Let them think I'm soft.
Moving through the casino is like second nature, so much so that I don't even notice the stares, the flirting, the sudden tension. The elevator ride up is quiet. My men are well-trained and pick up on my mood.
The doors open into the security antechamber, and the guards straighten as I pass. Everything is as it should be. Controlled. Contained.
Then I hear it. My name. Not spoken. Not called. Screamed.
"MASSIMO—!"
The sound rips through the penthouse, raw and terrified, echoing down the hall like a gunshot. I don't stop. I don't even slow. The sound of my name doesn't paralyze me; it flips a switch. Fully alert, purposefully, I stride towards the guest bedroom, gun out, safety off. My senses take in my surroundings instantly: dimmed lighting, sharp neon from outside, nothing moving in the shadows, a slight shuffling sound now that the scream has died out; the only things I smell are bourbon and Gabe's cologne.
Gabe is already there, halfway out of the guest room, hands lifted slightly when he sees me. His expression is sharp, alert.
"I didn't touch her," he says immediately. "She's having a nightmare."
Another scream, broken this time. Hoarse. Desperate. My name again.
I don't answer Gabe. I shove him to the side and move past him, into the room. She's thrashing on the bed, sheets twisted around her legs. Her bandaged hands claw at the fabric; her breath is coming in short, panicked bursts.
"No—please—don't?—"
Her body curls inward, bracing for something that isn't there anymore. I don't touch her. I stand there, watching fear own her even in sleep. This isn't theater. This isn't manipulation. This is real. Suddenly, the war outside my walls feels secondary to the one happening right here, in this room, one I never planned for and don't know how to fight. She screams my name one last time, then gasps awake.
Her eyes fly open, wild and unfocused, and they lock on me. Time stops.
The city keeps breathing outside the windows. My empire keeps bleeding quietly in the dark. Standing at the foot of her bed, listening to my name echo out of her terror, I understand something with brutal clarity: Whatever this war becomes, it's already deeply personal.
Light.Too bright. It hums. Not like music, this is electric, alive inside the walls. It crawls under my skin, makes my teeth ache. My feet slide on cold tile. Smooth. Slippery. I know that sound, the faint squeak of skin moving too fast. I'm not steady. I try to stop, but my body doesn't listen.
I become aware of hands. Hands around my throat. That's why I can't scream. The hands are suffocating me.On your knees, little girl,the voice snarls into my ear, raising revulsion, fear, and anger simultaneously. But something else too.Betrayal! He betrayed me in the most vicious way possible.
Your boyfriend sold you out. In the end, they all do.
The words burn deeper than the fingers around my throat. It doesn't make any sense, but I hear a door closing, laughter. I know where I am, and yet it doesn't look at all like it did then. Lights flicker, adding a horror-movie touch—as if the situation needs it.
On your knees, little girl, he repeats. The word disappears into the hum. I look for another door. There isn't one. Another sound reaches me, becomes louder and louder until I want to throw my hands over my ears. It takes a moment to realize it's the sound of a helicopter. It's taking something away. Something important. My back hits hard wood, and the impact knocks the breath out of me. My hands scramble for balance, slide, fail. My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
My pulse roars in my ears. My chest burns. I try to breathe deeper, but the air won't go where it's supposed to. Panic rises fast and hot, clawing up my throat. Hands again. On my arms. On my shoulders. Stronger now. Guiding. My skin crawls.
