I step forward. He meets me halfway. My brother is faster than most people, stronger too. His fist comes toward my side, I take it, the impact sharp but manageable. The pain grounds me in a way that almost helps.
Almost.
We circle each other. Measured. Controlled. Then her voice cuts through again.
You’re worse than nightmares.
My jaw tightens. I move.
My fist comes up fast, aimed higher than it should be. Raffaele barely dodges the punch, jerking his head back as it grazes too close for comfort.
“Hey,” he snaps, stepping back immediately. “What the hell was that?”
I stop. The shift is immediate. Silence settles over the ring.
“Face is off limits,” Raffaele adds, irritation flashing. “You trying to rearrange it?”
I exhale slowly. “Sorry.”
Raffaele studies me for a second longer, something sharper creeping into his expression.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You better be.”
“Enough.”
Salvatore’s voice cuts through the space, calm but final. I step back, lowering my hands. Raffaele does the same. We climb out of the ring, the air cooler outside of it. I grab a towel, dragging it once over the back of my neck before tossing it aside. My pulse is still elevated, but the edge hasn’t dulled.
We take off the boxing gloves and head upstairs.
The transition is immediate, concrete and shadows replaced by polished floors, clean lines and controlled luxury. Raffaele’s living room is exactly what you’d expect. Expensive and unnecessary. We take our places without discussion.
Salvatore sits first. Elio drops into the chair opposite him, still watching me like he’s trying to piece something together.
Raffaele pours himself a drink while I remain standing.
“What’s going on with the Bratva?” Salvatore asks.
Straight into it, then.
Elio’s the one to reply. “A lot. And not all of it makes sense.”
Salvatore’s gaze shifts to him. “Explain.”
“On some level, it’s going as we planned. One of their shipments disappeared last week. Our men stole it right from underneath them; they never even knew they were there,” Elio says. “Another two never made it to the port.”
“So everything’s going according to plan?”
“Not exactly. One of the Pakhan’s lieutenants, Morozov, was eliminated on Saturday.” The words settle into the room heavily. I say nothing. I barely even blink. “No witnesses. No trace. Whoever did it knew exactly how to cover their tracks.”
Raffaele exhales, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Was it internal?”
“I don’t know,” Elio replies. “It doesn’t fit, though. There’s something going on. Something else.”
His eyes flicker to me briefly. Silence follows.
“So there’s someone else working on dismantling them?” Salvatore questions. “And we don’t know who.”
I lean back slightly against the edge of the table, arms folding loosely across my chest. The movement is measured, detached.
