Page 54

Not the way she felt in my arms. Not the sounds she made. Not the hollow feeling in my chest when she looked through me this morning like I was nothing but a necessary evil.
I know what I am. What I'm worth.
And it isn't much.
I step into the Feretti mansion, the familiar scent of polished wood and old money filling my lungs. Alessio nods at me from his post by the grand staircase.
"He's in his office," he says, not needing to specify who. "Waiting."
I make my way through the house I know almost as well as my own apartment. These marble floors have seen me covered in blood more times than I can count. These walls have witnessed my transformation from a scared kid to the man they call Il Fantasma.
My footsteps echo as I approach Damiano's office. The heavy oak door stands like a barrier between two worlds—the civilized facade the Ferettis present and the bloody reality of our business.
I knock twice. Firm. Respectful.
"Enter."
Damiano sits behind his massive desk. He doesn't look up immediately, making me wait. It's a power move I've seen him use countless times.
While I stand there memories flood back. My first job for the family—just a simple message delivery that turned into my first kill when the recipient pulled a knife. Damiano had patched me up himself afterward, his hands steady as he stitched the gash in my arm.
Then there was Moscow, three years ago. Four days in sub-zero temperatures, tracking a traitor who'd sold Feretti shipment routes to the Russians. Damiano had been the voice in my ear the whole time, guiding me through unfamiliar territory.
The Ferettis aren't saints. They deal in death, drugs and corruption. But they've been the only constant in my life since my mother's body hit our apartment floor, her blood seeping into the cracks between the floorboards while my father stood over her.
When my father died two years later—a ‘work accident’ that everyone knew was Don Feretti's doing—they took me in. Not out of kindness, but because they recognized something useful in the empty-eyed boy who didn't cry at his father's funeral.
"Noah." Damiano finally looks up. "Sit."
I take the chair across from him, noting the tension in his shoulders. Whatever's coming, it isn't good.
"You look like shit," he says, studying my face. "Trouble sleeping?"
The Ferettis are the closest thing to family I've had since I watched my mother die. They'll never see heaven—none of us will—but they've always had my back.
"I'm fine," I reply, meeting his gaze. "What's the plan for Ivan?"
Damiano rubs his temple, the gesture making him look older than his years. "Ivan called this morning."
My stomach wrings. "And?"
"One of the men you killed that night—the one who tried to take Evelyn—apparently had some final words." Damiano's eyes harden. "Our family name was the last thing he said before dying."
"Fuck." The word slips out before I can stop it.
"Indeed." Damiano leans back in his chair. "Ivan claims this proves we orchestrated the whole thing to steal her from him."
I shake my head. "That's bullshit. I was following her on my own. Those were Ivan's men."
"I know that." Damiano's voice stays level, controlled. "But Ivan is using this to justify what comes next. He's given us anultimatum. Seventy-two hours to return Evelyn Anderson to him or, as he put it, face the consequences."
The room feels suddenly colder. Seventy-two hours. Three days.
"What consequences?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
"War." Damiano stands, walking to the window that overlooks the garden. "Full-scale war between our families."
My mind races through the implications.