Chapter Thirty-Six
Lorenzo
The silk sheets were cool against my skin, but the heat radiating from Zara beside me was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay. She laid curled into my side, her breath slow and even, her dark hair spilling across my chest like a lifeline I didn’t deserve. The ring on her finger caught the moonlight—a simple band of platinum with a single diamond that glinted like a star in the abyss.
I should have been sleeping. Should have been savoring the first real peace I’d felt in years. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the villa’s master bedroom, my mind a slaughterhouse of memories.
This is what you wanted, Lorenzo. A way out. A life beyond the blood.
But the blood didn’t wash off. It never did. It was in my veins, in my name, in the very air I breathed. The Falcone family had ruled this corner of Italy and New York for three generations, and I was the last of them. My father had built an empire on broken bones and spilled entrails. My uncle had pulled the trigger more times than anyone could count—and all of it had been poured into me, shaping me into the monster I was. A monster who had spent the last five years trying to claw his way out of the underworld, only to find that the underworld was the only world that would have him.
Zara stirred, her hand sliding across my stomach, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease for a fraction of a second. She was my anchor. My reason. The one good thing I had managed to keep separate from the rot.
But the rot was patient. It always came back.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—jasmine and something floral, a stark contrast to the copper and gunpowder that clung to my memories. She had said yes. She had agreed to a real marriage, not just a contract, not just a shield. She had looked me in the eye and said she would stand beside me, even knowing what I was.
The villa was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, the kind of silence that preceded a slaughter. I had posted two men at the gate, another patrolling the grounds, but the stillness felt wrong. Like the calm before a bullet.
I forced my eyes closed, trying to match my breathing to Zara’s.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sound ripped through the silence like a gunshot, and I was out of bed before my conscious mind had even registered the threat. My hand found the Glock I kept under the pillow, my body moving on instinct, muscles coiled and ready. The cold steel was familiar, comforting, the only friend I’d ever truly trusted.
Zara gasped, sitting up, her eyes wide and wild. “Lorenzo?—”
“Stay here.” My voice was a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the darkness. I shoved her back onto the mattress, covering her body with mine as I trained the gun on the door. The moonlight painted the room in silver and shadow, and I could see the outline of the heavy oak door trembling from the blows. The wood groaned, splintering at the edges.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
“Lorenzo! Cazzo, open the door!”
Costa. The only man I trusted with my life. But trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now, especially after raising tensions. I kept the gun raised, my finger resting against the trigger guard, ready to blow a hole through the wood and the man behind it.
“What is it?” I called out, my voice low and dangerous, a growl that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Open the fucking door, Lorenzo.”
I glanced at Zara. She was trembling, her hand clutching the sheet to her chest, but her eyes were steady. She nodded once, a silent signal that she was ready. God, I loved her for that. For being brave even when the world was falling apart.
I unlocked the door and swung it open, keeping my body between Costa and Zara, the Glock trained on his chest. Costa stood in the hallway, his face pale as death, his shirt soaked with sweat and something darker—blood. His hands were shaking, and there was a gash on his forehead, blood dripping down his face.
“Tell me.” I didn’t lower the gun.
Costa’s eyes flicked to Zara, then back to me. “It’s your parents.”
The words hit me like bullets. I felt the air leave my lungs, felt the world tilt on its axis. But I didn’t let it show. I couldn’t. Not in front of Costa. Not in front of Zara.
“What about them?”
“They’re dead.” Costa’s voice cracked, broke, bled. “Hitmen. Three of them. They got into the compound through the east gate. Your father’s men—they’re all dead. Every single one of them. The house is burned to the ground. Matteo identified the bodies, Lorenzo.”
I heard Zara’s sharp intake of breath behind me, but I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t process anything except theroaring in my ears. My father. My mother. The two people who had shaped me, broken me, and loved me in their own twisted way. Gone.
“Who?” The word came out as a growl, low and animalistic.
“The Moretti family.” Costa’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting down the hallway. “They’ve been building an alliance with the Russians. They want to wipe out the Falcone name entirely. Lorenzo, there’s more. Someone inside our organization fed them the information. They knew your parents’ schedule. They knew the security rotations. They knew everything. The gate codes, the safe rooms, the escape routes. Someone sold them out.”
