"The Rossi family has an arrangement?—"
"The Rossi family has nothing." I cut him off, my voice dropping to something cold and final. "They operate in Staten Island. They have no claim to Brooklyn. And they certainly don't have the right to move product through our docks without our permission."
The stocky guy glances at his companions, and I can see the calculation in his eyes—trying to figure out if they can fight their way out of this, if they can take us and somehow salvage the situation.
They can't.
"Here's what's going to happen." I take another step closer. "You're going to leave those boxes right where they are. You're going to get back in your van. And you're going to go back to Staten Island and tell your boss that if he ever—ever—tries to operate in Ciresa territory again, we're going to burn his entire operation to the ground. Do you understand?"
The stocky guy's jaw tightens, and I can see the fury and humiliation warring across his features. But he's not stupid enough to actually fight. Not when he's outnumbered and outgunned, standing in the middle of our territory.
"We understand," he says finally, the words coming out through gritted teeth.
"Good. Now get the fuck out of here."
They move toward the van, and I think for a moment that it's going to end there. They're going to leave, we're going to collectthe product, and that will be the end of it. But then the stocky guy stops and turns back to face me.
"You know what they're saying about you, right?" There’s a mocking, cruel whine to his voice. "They're saying that Luca Moretti got trapped by the don's daughter. That you knocked her up and now you're being forced to marry her like some kind of fucking chump. They're saying that Romeo's second, the guy everyone's supposed to be afraid of, got played by a spoiled little rich girl."
The words strip away the professional detachment I've been maintaining, exposing the raw wound underneath. And suddenly I'm not thinking about organizational politics or territorial disputes.
I'm thinking about Giulia, and the lies and the betrayal, and the way she looked at me in that club like I was everything she'd ever wanted while she was planning to marry someone else. I'm thinking about how she destroyed everything and trapped me in a life I never chose.
And I'm thinking about how this piece of shit is standing in front of me, mocking me, using my personal catastrophe as a weapon.
The rage that's been simmering beneath the surface for days—the rage I've been trying to control and channel into something productive—explodes. I move before I'm consciously aware of making the decision, closing the distance between us in three long strides. The stocky guy sees me coming and reaches for his gun, but he's too slow. I grab his wrist, twist it until I hear the bone crack, and the gun falls from his nerveless fingers to clatter on the concrete.
He screams with a high, keening sound that's almost animal, and tries to pull away, but I don't let him. I drive my fist into his face, feeling his nose break under my knuckles and the hot spray of blood across my hand.
He goes down, and I follow him, my knee driving into his chest and pinning him to the ground. My fists keep pummeling into his face, his ribs, his stomach, and each impact sends a jolt of satisfaction through me that's almost sexual in its intensity. I can feel myself getting hard, the adrenaline coursing through me.
This is control. This is power. This is the one thing in my life I can actually affect.
"Luca." Vitto's voice comes from somewhere behind me. "Luca, that's enough."
But it's not enough. I grab the stocky guy by his collar, haul him halfway up, and slam his head back against the concrete, once, twice, and then once more. Each impact makes a wet, meaty sound.
"You want to talk about me? You want to spread rumors and make jokes and act like you have any fucking idea what you're talking about?" I hit him again, and this time I feel his cheekbone give way beneath my fist. Blood is pouring from his nose and mouth, and his eyes are starting to swell shut.
"Luca." Vitto’s voice comes again, closer now. "He's done. You made your point."
I look down at the ruin I've made of the guy’s face, at the blood pooling beneath his head. His body has gone limp and unresisting, and something in me finally breaks through the rage.
I stand, my hands shaking and my knuckles split and bleeding, and look at the other four Rossi soldiers. They're frozen in place, their faces pale with terror, their eyes wide as they stare at what I've done to their companion. "Get him out of here. Take him to a hospital. And tell your boss what happens when people disrespect the Ciresa family. Tell him what happens when people think we're weak."
They scramble to obey, two of them grabbing the stocky guy under his arms and dragging him toward the van while the others gather up the boxes of product with shaking hands. Within two minutes, they're gone, the van peeling out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.
The silence that follows is only broken by the lap of water against the docks and a faint wind passing through. Vitto and his crew are staring at me with expressions I can't quite read, tinged with respect and fear both. And I'm standing in the middle of Pier 7 with blood on my hands and the taste of copper in my mouth—and the knowledge that I enjoyed it. I’ve beaten men, tortured and killed them, all for the Ciresa family—but I’ve never taken such thorough pleasure in it before. My entire body is throbbing with adrenaline, hungry for a different kind of release now. My muscles are wound tight, cock hard, satisfaction thrumming through every part of me.
I enjoyed hurting him. Enjoyed the way his bones broke beneath my fists. I enjoyed the power and the control, the way it made me feel like I was in charge of something when everything else in my life was spiraling out of control.
"Get this place secured," I say to Vitto, my voice flat. I want eyes on this pier twenty-four seven. If anyone from the Rossi family shows up again, I want to know about it immediately."
"Yes, sir."
The protection money situation requires a different approach. The three businesses that haven't paid—a restaurant, a dry cleaner, and a small grocery store—are all owned by people who've been paying the Ciresa family for years. They're not trying to challenge us out of ambition or greed. They're scared. They think we're weak, and they're hedging their bets, trying to figure out which family is going to come out on top. I bring Tony and two of his collectors with me, and we start with the restaurant.
It's a small Italian place on Fifth Avenue, a family-owned operation that's been around for thirty years and serves the same recipes that someone's grandmother brought over from Sicily. The owner—a man named Sal Bernardoni—is behind the counter when we walk in, and I can see the fear flash across his face the moment he recognizes me. "Mr. Moretti," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "What can I do for you?"
