Page 8

My blood spikes. The name’s like a blade in my veins.Mancini. That name’s poison, tied to every nightmare I’ve got. My fists clench and my manicured nails bite into my palms.
“Riccardo,” I spit, voice shaking. “He’s so fucking stupid!” My voice is laced with venom. At thirty-four, ten years older, my brother’s a hot-headed mess, always acting on impulse, trying to prove he’s better than me. He never hides the fact that he's jealous of me. I honestly don’t understand it. He mockingly refers to me as the “perfect” one. It’s pathetic. He is pathetic. And while I understand he hates Enzo, same as me, I don't see why he thinks it's okay to take it upon himself to act on it.
“What was he thinking?” I demand, standing, pacing the dirt path.
My father rubs his temple. “Apparently, he thought he’d cripple them, Fina. Show he’s strong.”
I laugh, it's bitter. “Strong?” Strong and Riccardo don't belong in the same sentence. “He’s reckless. He’ll burn us all.” My heart’s racing, rage boiling over. The Mancinis would stop at nothing to take everything from us. They would grab the opportunity to ignite a war, and now Riccardo’s lit the match. I want to scream, to smash something, but I breathe deep, forcing calm. It's what my therapist tells me to do every time I feel anger bearing its head. It's stupid, but I indulge.
My father stands, slower now, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “We fix this, Fina. Together.” I nod, my mind racing over thepossibilities of how to fix it. My jaw tight as we start walking, lemon trees rustling around us.
“What do we do, Papa?” I ask, voice steadying.
He taps his cane. It's an indication that he's thinking deeply. “We could negotiate. Offer a truce, something big to cool their blood.”
I frown, hating it. “They won’t bite. Enzo’s a dog.”
He nods. “Maybe. Or we hit back. Make it quiet, show we’re not weak.”
I shake my head. “That’s Riccardo’s way. You know it’ll only escalate things.”
We stop by a tree, its branches heavy. “What about a deal?” I say, mind racing. Yes, that could work. “Something they can’t refuse. Money, territory.”
My father's eyes glint as though he's worming his way into buying the idea. “Or alliance. Something permanent.”
I freeze, not liking his tone, or the way it rubs me. But I nod, anyway. “We’d need leverage,” I say. “Something to make Enzo listen.”
His smile is faint, triumphant as he says, “we’ll find it, Fina. We always do.” His tone is final, hinting at some complex mischief.
My stomach twists, but I trust him. Whatever solution he's thinking, it has to be good, because we both know this war’s coming unless we stop it cold.
3
Enzo
The war room’s thick with frenzy, cigar smoke curling around the long oak table, faces brooding. My associates, twelve hard men with scarred knuckles and cold eyes all sit rigidly voices humming. We’re plotting an attack on those fucking snakes who torched my docks. We're going to hit them so hard and fast, they wouldn't know what hit them.
I lean forward, fists planted on the table, my black tailored suit sticking to my sweat-slicked back. My face doesn't mask my rage. I want blood, and I want it now.
“Diplomacy,” Marco says, his voice cautious, like he’s stepping on shards of glass, knowing very well he'll get wounded. Hecontinues. “We send a message, Enzo. Talk terms. Avoid a full war.” I hear some murmur of agreement. I see a few nods.
To my right, Matteo shifts, his face grim. He’d said the same shit before, and I shut it down.
Diplomacy? With Rossis?
I shake my head, my eyes burning as I sear Marco with a dangerous look. He'd better tread carefully. “No talking,” I blurt. “They hitmydocks. They're aiming for a fight, and that's what we'll give them. We show them what's done to the people who cross us.”
Adriano, my late father's most trusted aide, and by extension, one of mine, clears his throat. He’s at the table’s end, silver hair worn in a stylish fashion, his jagged face carved with years. “Your father,” he says, slow, a smile on his face, “would’ve handled this with grace.”
My blood boils. I slam my fist on the table, glasses rattling. “My father’s dead,” I growl, leaning toward him. “I run this now. You listen, or you’re out.” The room goes dead quiet, eyes dropping. They know now that I mean this. I never snap at Adriano, but today, I'm way over the edge. Adriano’s mouth tightens at my reproach, but he shuts up.
I pace, boots thudding on the tiled floor. “We hit their warehouse,” I say in cold, clear terms. My mind is sharp as I go through the plan I've come up with. “We do it at midnight. Three teams. First cuts their power, second plants explosives, thirdtakes out their guards. Silent, fast. We burn them to the ground.” I point at the map on the table, red lines marking their routes. “No mistakes. We move in, we move out. They’ll know who they fucked with.”
My plan’s tight, every step calculated. I’m the Don after all, and I never miss.
I expect a rebuttal, but no one says a thing, not even a squeak. They know it's better not to fuck with me in the mood I'm in. I sit down, watching in satisfaction as they're all nodding, scribbling notes.
A knock comes on the door just then, and before I can react, Luca bursts in, face pale. “What the hell, Luca? Did you hear me say come in?”