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The sight of it… this pathetic reminder of normalcy triggers something explosive inside me.

I release his throat only to drive my fist into his face. Over and over. The crunch of cartilage is satisfying, blood spraying across the wall as his nose shatters beneath my knuckles.

"FUUUUCK!"

I hit him again. And again. And again and again and again… the roar from my chest growing louder with each hit.

The impact of my fist is a release for the fury that's been building since I watched Luca claim my birthright. Claim the Ravelli throne despite my every attempt to throw him off.

When I step back, my entire body shaking as my chest heaves, he slides down the wall, leaving a smear of blood, his face an unrecognizable mask of bruises and broken bone.

He whimpers, a wet, gurgling sound.

"Clean yourself up," I say, straightening my cuffs. "And if you ever speak of my father with anything less than complete respect again, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to you."

The other men in the room stand frozen, eyes averted, bodies rigid with the instinctive fear of prey animals sensing an apex predator.

As it should be.

"Get him out," I order, turning back to the screens. "And bring me the secure phone line. I've got an empire to take back."

My men drag their bleeding colleague from the room as I focus again on the image of my brother. His face is harder than I remember. He's more like our father's now, like because he has the ring on his hand his body has been carved from the same marble that Vito Ravelli was.

I can't look away. That signet ring that glints on his finger—our father's ring—marking him as the new Don.

It's a ring that should be onmyhand.

The secure phone appears at my elbow, held by my second-in-command, Marco. His face is expressionless, eyes carefully averted from the violence he just witnessed.

"The Volkovs are ready for your call, sir."

I take the phone, watching as the Volkovs themselves appear in the footage I watch from the privacy of my private London hideout. I study them approaching Luca and Bianca with the measured caution of wolves scenting a trap. Dmitri's silver head bows in mock deference. Demyan's eyes linger too long on Bianca, like the filthy fucking inbred he is.

My brother doesn't flinch. Doesn't react.

But I see the tension in his shoulders, the barely perceptible shift of his body to place himself between his wife and Demyan's hungry gaze.

"Leave me," I command, and the main room of my safehouse empties within seconds.

Alone, I make the call.

"Mr. Ravelli," the accented voice answers on the second ring. Not Dmitri or Demyan, but Vladmir, their security chief and my insider for the Volkov family. "We were expecting your call."

"Your bosses played their parts well," I respond, eyes still fixed on the screen where Dmitri now speaks to Bianca, his mouth too close to her ear. "Did they learn anything useful?"

"The security is impressive but not impenetrable. Three weak points identified. And the woman..."

I can hear the smile in his voice, oily and smug.

"What about her?"

"Haven't you heard? She killed your father herself. Bullet to the head."

The image rattles me. "Of course I've fucking heard!"

Vladimir is silent for a long moment before taking a breath. "Of course, sir. Seems Luca Ravelli has found himself a fierce little queen. To shoot the Don, that is no mean feat, even in our world."

Something cold slithers in my gut.