And worse—I'm enjoying it.
Oksana and Conti move together with a precision that borders on obscene. Not rehearsed, not showy. Instinctive. Brutal. Like they're sharing a language no one else in the room speaks fluently enough to interrupt. They don't look at each other much. They don't need to. Adjustments happen mid-motion, a shift of weight, a raised brow, a fraction of a second shaved off a kill. It's intimate in the way only shared violence can be. A savage symphony.
I should want them dead. Men like me don't like witnesses. Don't like variables. Don't like other predators operating in the same dark. But instead, something else stirs, recognition, maybe. Or respect. The kind that only comes when you see someone else do the thing right. Clean. Controlled. Joyless in execution, but alive in motion. I almost feel like I don't want to kill them. That thought alone is dangerous. Because enjoyment like this dulls the edge. Makes men forget why they came. Makes them linger instead of finishing the job. I force my focus back where it belongs. This isn't art. This isn't camaraderie. This is a means to an end. But as we move—silent, lethal, perfectly aligned—I can't deny it: for the first time in years, I don't feel like a king watching war. I feel like a soldier inside it. And I remember exactly why I was feared long before I was crowned.
The closer we get to the villa, the more the tension compresses. Gunfire cracks somewhere below. Shouts. Footsteps scrambling uphill.
"They're regrouping," I whisper.
"They're panicking," Oksana replies calmly.
She's right.
"Good."
We round the terrace garden, stone pillars, bougainvillea, and narrow sightlines. A choke point dressed up as beauty. Valverde taste. I adjust my grip on the rifle. This is where men die, thinking they're still in control. And somewhere beyond this, my son is breathing air that belongs to me. No one here survives forgetting that. Conti slows. I know that stance. The fractional shift in weight. The way his shoulders lock without tension. He's sensing something. The dark answers first.
A single guard explodes out of it, blade raised, breath ragged, desperation driving him forward. I bring my gun up instinctively, but Conti is already moving. It's clean. A wrist twist so precise it looks rehearsed. Bone pops. The blade clattersaway. A palm strike to the sternum drops the man like air leaving a lung. He folds, wheezing, eyes wide with shock. Conti steps in and knocks him out with the butt of his gun. No sound. No flourish. Ghost work.
"Not bad, Conti," Oksana murmurs.
He glances back at her over his shoulder, calm as a man correcting a line of code. "Trying to impress you."
"It's working," She grins back at him.
I groan quietly. "Please shoot me."
"Keep talking," Raffael mutters, "I might."
We move. The inner courtyard opens before us, vast, moonlit, framed by arches and broken fountains. Beautiful. Deadly. A kill zone disguised as elegance. Waiting for us at the far end, stepping into the moonlight like a man welcoming guests into his home, is Silvestre Valverde, a rifle slung over his shoulder. A smirk in place. He knows he's surrounded. He knows he's lost. His guards are dead, and he's one of the last men standing. Tall and proud. Old school. If he hadn't laid hands on my son, it would be admirable.
Gunfire echoes deeper in the compound, short, violent bursts. Our men are tearing through what's left of his crew. Silvestre spreads his arms. Mock-grand. "Welcome, friends."
Conti stiffens. DeSantis goes still. Oksana whistles. I snarl low in my throat. Silvestre's gaze slides to me, assessing, measuring. He holds his rifle loosely, like this is a negotiation instead of an execution waiting to happen. I don't wait. I push past all of them, fury rolling off me in waves I don't bother containing.
"Where is my son?" I demand.
Silvestre lifts his rifle. The barrel settles against my chest. My men tighten their circle, metal whispers from holsters, safeties click off. The night compresses, breath held by too many killers in too small a space.
"I have no beef with you, Manetti." Silvestre sounds surprised to see me here. Whatever calculation I walked in with incinerates.
"You have my son," I snap.
Silvestre blinks with raw emotions; he's not posturing now. Real confusion creases his face. "Your… what?"
I step forward. I don't care that the muzzle presses harder into my chest.
"Senator Kingsley's grandson," I spit. "And his son-in-law."
I watch it land. Confusion first, then recognition. Then something close to horror.
"Massimo," Silvestre pronounces slowly, each word placed like a brace against collapse. "I swear to you, I had no idea."
Gunfire rattles again in the distance. I wait until the echo fades. Then I laugh. Once. Low. Empty.
"Why the fuck would that matter to me?" I growl.
I draw my gun, and it hits him in the forehead hard enough to snap his head back an inch. No warning. No hesitation.
