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The man falters, but only slightly, his grin wavering just enough. He shifts his stare from Livia to me, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“Just making a joke, man. No harm meant.” The words come out rushed and nervous now, but it’s too late.

I don’t give him time to explain further. I close the gap between us and lower my voice to a deadly whisper, “You have about thirty seconds to apologize before I take the gun from my holster that’s underneath this suit and shove it so far down your throat that you’ll choke on your blood before you even have a chance to beg for mercy.”

His eyes widen, panic creeping in as he stammers out a half-hearted, “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” I step closer to him, my presence imposing, pressing him further down. “Let this be the last time you ever open your stupid mouth and embarrass a lady, no matter what she’s done.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I was just hurt. She lied to me. She told me she was dating her boss, Remo Callegari, and used that to scare me off. I swore I’d get her back.”

The mention of my name hits me like a bullet to the chest. I see it—the moment he says it. I see the flash of recognitionin Angelo’s guards’ eyes. It’s a split-second reaction, but it’s enough.

The guards immediately go on high alert. One of them murmurs into his receiver, and I barely have time to shove the man aside before chaos erupts.

The shots come so quickly. The room explodes into chaos, with people screaming, running, and diving behind tables and chairs for cover. The explosion of violence is the last thing I expected, but it’s the first thing I know how to handle.

I shove Livia behind me. Marco is already on the move, covering me from the side. Gunshots echo through the room, but it’s nothing new to me. This is the world I know, the one I’ve been living in for years. The only thing that matters right now is survival.

I catch a glimpse of Livia. Her hands are pressed against her ears, her eyes wide and distant. She’s lost, shaken.

“Pull your freaking self together and shoot!” Marco yells at her, tossing a gun into her hands.

The room erupts in a storm of bullets as Angelo’s men swarm us, and we’re left fighting for our lives. It’s all instinct now, the kind of violence that has become second nature.

The wedding’s clearly over. The reception is now a war zone. People scramble for cover behind overturned tables and broken chairs, and windows shatter as people dive through them, desperate to escape.

Screams fill the air, chaos reverberating off the walls.

I drop three men before Marco even moves, though his shots are just as fast and precise. The three of us are a well-oiled machine, trained to fight, to kill, to survive.

I reload my gun. My eyes continue to scan the room, scanning for any threat, but it’s Angelo I spot. There, hiding behind the makeshift throne, the pathetic little coward.

The bastard didn’t cost me much, just a little betrayal. Snitching to the police over one of our previous powder shipments. He set off a chain of investigations that had me burying operations for months, compromising intel, and feeding it right to the enemy. I didn’t have the time to hunt him down before, as it was buried in the mess that came with getting everything back on track.

But now? I’m done waiting. I don’t do “later.” I take care of shit when it’s in front of me. And right now, Angelo is in front of me.

I give Marco a brief glance, signaling him to cover me as I move toward the other side of the room, where the rat’s hiding. He’s too distracted by his own fear to see me coming, too wrapped up in his pathetic little world to notice that death’s coming for him.

I get to him quickly and silently. I knock the groom out with the back of my gun, and the loud thud of his head hitting the ground is enough to rattle the bride. She looks up, and fear immediately spreads across her face.

“Dad—” she starts, but I don’t hesitate. I knock her unconscious too. A bit of generosity, given the occasion.

“Wait, Remo. Let’s talk about this,” Angelo pleads, his voice shaking. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t have a choice. It was either me or you.”

I look at him, and for a moment, I actually think about it. What he’s saying isn’t wrong. It’s instinct, survival. It’s what everyone would do in his position.

“Well,” I say, my voice cold, “it’s normal to put yourself first in such a situation. I completely understand. But you’ve had your turn. Now it’s mine.”

“Remo, wait—” he begs, but it’s too late.

I fire two shots straight to the mouth. And another in the center of his forehead. His body slumps forward, his life draining out of him.

I stand there, staring down at him and the blood pooling around his body. The satisfaction is brief, a flicker that dies before it can even register. I’ve done this a thousand times before, and it’s never different. The feeling never changes.

Victory doesn’t feel like victory after so many years of this.

Nothing really lasts. The power fades the moment it’s in your hands, the moment you realize nothing you do can ever hold it all together.