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Alessio

The funny thing about loyalty is that it's only as strong as the next man’s fear of dying.

I roll the thought over in my mind as I crouch in front of the traitor, the warehouse air thick with his fear. His face is a ruined canvas of blood and regret, the result of my careful hands and a touch of persuasion.

He wasn't supposed to break this easily. Wasn't supposed to cry and beg like a street punk when he’s worn the Calviño crest for five damn years.

"What disappoints me most?" I ask, my voice low and nearly disinterested. "You had the chance to come to us. You could’ve confessed. Instead..." I tilt my head, observing how his bruised lips quiver. "You traded us for a handful of filthy cash and empty promises from the enemy."

He mumbles something wet and pathetic against the gag.

I sigh and signal Vittorio, who steps from the shadows and rips the cloth away.

"Please..." the man gasps, voice raw. "I didn’t have a choice. They said they’d kill my sister—"

"They will now," I cut in smoothly. "Collateral."

Tears streak through the blood on his cheeks.

I slide a knife from my jacket pocket—a small thing, barely longer than my palm, sharp as betrayal itself. I twirl it once between my fingers.

"Who else?" I murmur.

He shakes his head frantically. "Just me! I swear it!"

I press the blade lightly against the meat of his shoulder, a lazy threat. "You're lying."

"No—please—"

The knife carves a shallow line without hesitation. He howls, thrashing against the duct tape binding him to the chair.

Vittorio watches impassively. There’s no mercy in this room. No last chances.

"Who helped you sabotage the shipment?" I say, voice dropping to a low rasp. "Who inside Calviño’s house?"

Because someone had. Someone bigger than this snivelling worm had to be aware of the details.

The man whimpers, his head lolling forward.

"CapoSal Vieri..." he chokes out. "He said... said it was time for new blood."

I smile without humor.

Vieri. A name that matters in the inner circle. Giancarlo and his second in command, Fabio Greco, has trusted that bastard to move arms and money for the last decade.

"Thank you," I say, smoothing the man's blood-matted hair like a father calming a child.

Then I draw my pistol and put a silenced round through his temple.

One clean shot. One less liability.

Vittorio steps forward immediately, reaching for a tarp to roll the body as two of our men begin meticulously cleaning up the scene.

I light a cigarette as I turn for the exit, the cold coastal air stinging my lungs. Vittorio follows, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure everything is clean. When he catches up to me, he speaks low.

"You going after Vieri?"