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I crack the butt of the gun against his skull, hard enough to daze but not kill him. I need a messenger, after all.

“Remember what I said.” I step back, watching as he staggers against the wall. “The girl is under my protection now.”

I leave him with his injured companion and the corpse of the third man, knowing D’Angelo will get the message. I make a quick call to my cleanup crew to deal with the body and any evidence. Out here, I run this part of the city—cops know better than to ask questions when blood shows up where it shouldn’t.

Instead of leaving, I circle back to the café, positioning myself across the street where I can watch the entrance. I need to make sure Chiara gets home safely. It’s just business, I tell myself. I’ve staked a claim now—I need to protect my decisions.

But a voice in my head laughs at my words.

I wait nearly half an hour before she emerges, still in her uniform. She looks tired, shoulders slumped as she scans the street like she’s afraid. She doesn’t spot me in the shadows.

I follow her at a distance, staying far enough back that she won’t notice but close enough to intervene if necessary. In the meantime, I drop my right-hand man a text:Follow D’Angelo’s movements. See what his men are up to. Caught them hunting our grounds today.

She walks four blocks to a dingy, run-down apartment building, climbing the stairs to the third floor. I hate this apartment. She shouldn’t be living in this hotspot of crime. When she’s safely inside, I position myself in the doorway of a closed shop across the street, giving me a clear view of her window.

Just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Nicolo.

“Boss,” he says when I answer. “We’ve been tracking D’Angelo’s movements like you asked. Something’s happening.”

“Explain.”

“His men have been mobilized—armed. A car left his compound fifteen minutes ago, heading toward Sullivan.”

My eyes snap to Chiara’s window, where lights have just come on.

Sullivan. This street. A cold certainty settles in my gut.

I circle the block, cutting through the shadows behind her building—and then I see it.

A black SUV.

Parked by the rear alley entrance. Tucked just far enough into the dark to go unnoticed by anyone who isn’t looking for it.

Military grade. Tinted windows. Engine off. No one inside.

A silent promise of violence waiting to be delivered.

My warning to D’Angelo must have reached him, and this is his response. He’s showing me that my claim means nothing to him. That he can take what he wants, when he wants it.

Fury rises in me—cold, focused rage. D’Angelo has made a fatal mistake. He’s taken something of mine, and now I’ll show him exactly what that means.

3

ARIA

Istare at the microwave, watching a plate of cheap chicken nuggets spin in slow, depressing circles.

The apartment is too quiet.

No Chiara singing off-key in the shower. No one hogging the remote.

It’s been eight days this time.

And something feels different.

Usually, she comes back—for clean clothes, a nap, maybe just to steal the last of the cereal. At the very least, she calls.

But aside from a random text this morning asking me to take her shift, she hasn’t checked in.