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Chapter Ten

Angelo

The streets of New York blur by as the car speeds through the city.

I sit in the backseat, my mind a battlefield of thoughts, every detail of the day replaying in my head. The feel of Sophia’s hand in mine, the taste of her lips, and the weight of Franco’s scrutinizing gaze all linger in my mind.

I have always prided myself on being in control—of my emotions, of my surroundings, of my life. But since Sophia showed up, everything has felt just a little more precarious.

Franco is silent beside me, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I know that won’t last long. The man is like a hawk—always watching, always assessing. I can practically feel the questions brewing behind his cool, dark eyes.

Finally, after several blocks of tense silence, Franco shifts in his seat, turning to face me. “What are you doing with her, Angelo?” he asks, his voice low and steady, cutting straight to the point.

I don’t look at him, keeping my gaze on the passing cityscape. “You know why she’s here. We’re protecting her.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it,” he replies, his tone sharp. “If this is about keeping her safe, then fine. But if you’re just fucking her because she’s convenient or you think she’s hot, then we’ve got a problem.”

My jaw tightens, and I finally turn to meet his gaze. “And why’s that?”

“Because there are plenty of hot women out there with a lot less baggage,” Franco says bluntly. “You don’t need to get mixed up with her if that’s all this is. She’s got enough shit to deal with. If you’re not serious, walk away.”

Anger flares in my chest, a cold, controlled burn that I barely keep from showing. “She’s not just some woman, Franco. She’s important to me.”

Franco doesn’t flinch, doesn’t back down. “If she’s important, then treat her like it. Because if you’re not ready to deal with the fallout of all of this, you need to back off now.”

I lean forward, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re overstepping.”

Franco’s expression remains impassive, but I can see the tension in the set of his jaw. “Maybe. But someone’s got to say it. You’re not thinking straight when it comes to her, and that’s dangerous—for both of you.”

I glare at him, my fists clenching in my lap. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He raises an eyebrow, his gaze piercing. “Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you’re letting her get under your skin. And that’s going to complicate things.”

I hold his gaze, the car engine the only sound in the confined space. Franco is loyal, I know that, but he’s also pragmatic—brutally so. He isn’t afraid to speak the truth, no matter how much it stings.

“I’m handling it,” I say finally, my voice cold as ice.

Franco studies me for a long moment, and then nods once, a subtle gesture of acquiescence. “Fine. But just know this—if you screw this up, it’s not just your ass on the line. It’s hers too.”

Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket, interrupting the moment. I pull it out, glancing at the screen. The number is blocked, but I know exactly who it is.

“Costa,” I mutter under my breath, the name tasting like poison on my tongue.

Franco’s eyes darken, and he leans in slightly, listening as I answer the call.

“Angelo.” A slick, oily voice oozes through the line, sending a shiver of disgust down my spine. “I hear you’ve been busy. Bringing dear Sophia back into the fold, hmm? How touching.”

“Costa,” I greet him, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I’d say it’s nice to hear from you, but I’d be lying.”

Giuseppe Costa chuckles, the sound smooth and pleasing. He has always been too slick by half, too inviting, too charming. His honeyed words and beautiful face have always been the perfect cover for his evil heart. “Come now, is that any way to greet family? After all, you’ve brought my sweet little niece home. I’ve missed her, you know.”

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to smash the phone against the dashboard. “She’s not your niece, Costa. She’s Carlo’s daughter, and you’re nothing to her.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong,” Costa purrs, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’m all she has left of her dear papa’s legacy. And I’d like to have a little family reunion, don’t you think?”

I glance at Franco, who is watching me intently, his jaw clenched. He can hear every word, and I know he is already calculating the implications of this call.

“What do you want, Costa?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Costa replies smoothly. “Control. Power. And right now, that little bird of yours is sitting on a very valuable perch. I want her, Angelo. Send her to me, and we can all walk away from this with our heads still attached.”

“You know that’s not going to happen,” I say, my voice low and lethal. “She’s betrothed to me. Her father left her as the family heir, and I will give her the license to claim it.”

Costa sighs dramatically as if he’s disappointed. “I had a feeling you’d say that. Which is why I’ve decided to give you a little incentive.”

The line goes silent for a moment, and then I hear it—a scream, muffled and distant, but unmistakable. My blood runs cold.

“Who is that?” I demand, my voice sharp.

“Just a little friend of yours,” Costa says, his tone sickeningly sweet. “Consider it a reminder that I’m not someone to be trifled with. You have until tomorrow to send her to me, Angelo. Or I start sending you pieces of what’s left of your friend.”

I feel a surge of rage, a white-hot fury that made my vision blur at the edges. “If you touch her, I swear…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Costa interrupts, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “But accidents happen, you know? It would be such a shame if anything were to happen to someone you care about.”

“I've never expected much from you, but even you should know what a mistake it would be to mess with me. I'm sure tales of my possessiveness have spread far. You think touching anything of mine is a good idea?”

His laugh is dry and deep, the laugh of a wretched man with almost nothing to lose. In my line of work, I've discovered that everybody has something they want to protect by any means. Money, a loved one, something precious, the list goes on. Guiseppe has always lusted after power, and he will do anything to get it. It is the most precious thing to him.

Power comes from finding that thing your enemy would do anything to protect, and taking it from them, destroying it, or using it to your advantage. It’s a skill I've had years to hone.

“Angelo, you talk too. much. I much preferred your father. He was a brutal son of a bitch, but he had actions. Bring Sophia to me and maybe I won't kill her. Last I saw her, she was beautiful and had tits that would make a dead man hard. I'm sure I could find a use for her here.”

Regardless of how vile this man is, I can't show him how much I care for Sophia. That would only be putting a target on her back. I have to play this smart. Giuseppe is smart enough to know how power works too.

“That’s sick, even for you. But, I guess I shouldn't expect more from someone who couldn't even wait for his brother’s corpse to get cold before trying to take his throne. You're such trash. I wouldn't even let your blood stain my shoes after I killed you.”

The call ends abruptly, the line going dead in my hand. I stare at the phone, my heart pounding, a thousand scenarios racing through my mind.

Franco’s voice cuts through the haze of anger. “What did he say?”

“He’s got someone,” I reply, my voice tight. “I don’t know who, but he’s using them as leverage.”

Franco swears under his breath, his eyes flashing with anger. “We need to find out who and where he’s keeping them. Fast.”

I nod, already formulating a plan. “Get the team on it. I want every possible lead tracked down. No stone should be left unturned.”

Franco doesn’t hesitate, pulling out his own phone and barking orders to the team. The calm, controlled demeanor he usually displays is gone, replaced by the same cold fury that is burning through me.

As the car pulls up to our destination, I feel the full weight of what is happening settling over me. Costa has made his move, and it’s only a matter of time before we are dragged into a full-blown war.

But I’m not going to let him win. Not this time. Not ever.

As we step out of the car, Franco turns to me, his expression grim. “We’re in this now, Angelo. All of us. No turning back.”

I nod, cold determination settling into my bones. “I know.”

And with that, we walk into the building, ready to face whatever comes next. Because this is no longer just a fight for survival, it’s a fight for everything—and I’m not about to lose.

I storm into the building, the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a shot of pure fire. My mind is a battlefield of rage and cold calculation, every thought focused on one thing: making Costa pay.

Franco is on the phone, coordinating with the team to track down every possible lead on Costa’s location. I can see the tension in his posture, the same tightness that is coiled in my gut. We don’t have time to waste. Every second is another moment Costa has to do more damage.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, expecting the worst. But it’s a message from one of our informants, a rat we’d planted in Costa’s operations months ago.

Heard something. The young kid, your guy. He’s in one of Costa’s safe houses near the docks. Not good, boss. Not good at all.

I stare at the message, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turn white. “It’s one of our own,” I mutter to Franco, the anger in my voice barely contained. “The kid I’ve been training, Luca. He’s only nineteen. They’ve got him near the docks.”

Franco’s eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his face. “Shit. Costa’s going for blood.”

I nod, my mind already spinning through options. “We need to move fast. Get the team ready—we’re going to bring him home.”

Franco is already making the call, but I grab his arm before he can head out. “Go to the penthouse first,” I order, my voice steely. “Stay with Sophia. I don’t want Costa making a move on her while we’re out. She’s priority number one.”

Franco looks like he wants to argue, his brow furrowing, but he knows better. He nods sharply, his expression hard. “Understood. I’ll have men on standby to back you up at the docks.”

I clap him on the shoulder, silent agreement passing between us. “Keep her safe, Franco.”

“I will,” he promises, his voice resolute. With that, he turns and heads out, his footsteps echoing in the hallway as he leaves to fulfill his duty. I don’t have to worry about Sophia—not with Franco watching over her.

Now, I can focus on what needs to be done.

The docks are deserted, the cold air biting at my skin as we move in silence, the team flanking me on all sides. The informant’s tip had been good—we’d traced Costa’s men to a run-down warehouse, the kind of place you could burn to the ground without anyone asking questions.

As we approach, I can see the faint glow of light seeping through the cracks in the walls, and I can hear the sound of muffled voices filtering through the night. My blood boils with each step closer, every fiber of my being screaming for revenge.

The kid—Luca—has been with us for barely a year. He’s young, green, but he has potential. I see something in him, something that reminds me of myself at his age. And now, because of Costa, that potential might be snuffed out before it has a chance to flourish.

I signal to the men, and we move in, silently breaching the perimeter of the warehouse. The doors creak as we push them open, revealing a scene that makes my stomach turn.

Luca is tied to a chair in the center of the room, his face a mess of blood and bruises. He’s slumped over, unconscious—or worse. But it’s his hands that catch my attention. Blood-soaked rags are wrapped around them, but even from where I stand, I can see the damage. Two of his fingers have been cut off, the stumps crudely bandaged in a way that makes it clear Costa’s men wanted to keep him alive, but in pain.

“Bastards,” I hiss under my breath, my vision going red with rage.

One of Costa’s goons turns at the sound, eyes widening in shock as he sees us. He reaches for his gun, but I’m faster. I fire a single shot, and he crumples to the ground, dead before he even hits the floor.

The rest of the team moves in quickly, taking down the remaining guards with brutal efficiency. Within minutes, the warehouse is silent, except for the labored breathing of my men and the faint whimpering from Luca.

I rush to his side, kneeling beside him. His eyes flutter open, glazed with pain and fear, but there is a spark of recognition when he sees me.

“Boss…” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t talk,” I order, my tone softer than before. I reach for the ropes binding his hands, cutting them loose with a swift motion. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Luca’s head lolls to the side, his body limp from exhaustion and blood loss. He’s in bad shape, but he’s alive. That’s all that mattered. “I’m sorry…” he mumbles, his voice cracking. “I tried to…”

“You did good,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “You held on. That’s all I ask of any of your guys.”

I turn to one of the men. “Get him to the car. Take him to Doc—tell him to do whatever it takes.”

The man nods, gently lifting Luca in his arms as he carries him out of the warehouse. I watch them go, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what has been done to Luca. But there’s no time for guilt—only for action.

I stand, the fire in my veins rekindling as I turn my attention back to the warehouse. Costa thought he could get away with this. He thought he could hurt one of mine and walk away unscathed.

He’s wrong.

“Search the place,” I order, my voice cold as steel. “I want to know if Costa left anything behind.”

The men fan out, combing the warehouse for anything of value. It doesn’t take long before one of them calls out, “Boss, over here.”

I walk over to find them standing by a large set of crates, the wood splintered and worn. I recognized the markings immediately—Costa’s usual method of smuggling contraband into the country. He has connections at the ports, enough to get questionable shipments through customs without so much as a raised eyebrow.

“These are his,” I say, my voice dark with satisfaction. “Open them.”

The men pry the crates open, revealing their contents. My eyes narrow as I take in what’s inside. High-end electronics, pharmaceuticals, and—most damning of all—illegal weapons. Guns, ammo, and explosives, all of which were strictly black market. Costa has been preparing for a war, and he has been stupid enough to leave his stockpile unguarded.

I run my fingers over one of the guns, the metal cold and deadly under my touch. Costa has smuggled this shipment in through his usual channels, greasing the palms of customs officials and port workers to ensure it could pass through without a hitch. But now it’s in my hands, and I know exactly what to do with it.

“Millions of dollars, easy,” one of my men mutters, shaking his head as he surveys the contents of the crates.

“And now it’s worthless,” I reply, a cold smile curling my lips. “Set it on fire. I want Costa to know exactly what happens when he crosses me.”

The men don’t hesitate, dousing the crates with gasoline we find stored in the warehouse. The acrid smell fills the air as the liquid soaks into the wood, pooling around the base of the crates.

I stand back, watching as one of the men strikes a match and tosses it onto the gasoline-soaked wood. The flames roar to life, climbing higher and higher as they consume the crates. The fire spreads quickly, licking at the walls and ceiling, turning everything in its path to ash.

Costa’s shipment—his entire investment—is going up in smoke. And with it, any leverage he thinks he has over me.

I watch the flames dance, the heat searing against my skin, but it’s not enough to quench the fire burning inside me. Costa has hurt one of my own, and this is just the beginning. He will keep doing things like this until he gets his way, or we kill him.

Costa has taken something from me. Now, I’m going to take everything from him.

The fire roars behind us as we drive away, the smoke billowing into the night sky like a beacon. I know it wouldn’t be long before Costa gets word of what I’ve done. And when he does, the message will be clear: I’m not someone to be fucked with.

As we make our way back to the city, I pull out my phone and dial Franco’s number. He answers on the first ring.

“Everything secure at the penthouse?” I ask, my voice steady, though my heart is still racing.

“Secure,” Franco confirms. “Sophia’s safe. She doesn’t know anything about what happened yet.”

“Good,” I reply, feeling a small measure of relief. “I’m on my way back. We need to discuss our next move.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Franco speaks again, his tone quieter. “You did the right thing, Angelo, but Costa won’t forget this.”

“I don’t want him to,” I say, my voice hardening. “I want him to suffer.”

And with that, I end the call, leaning back in the seat as I stare out the window. The city lights blur past, a stark contrast to the darkness that still simmers in my chest.

This isn’t over—not by a long shot. Costa has made his move, and I’ve answered. But I know, deep down, that this is only the beginning.

And I’m ready for whatever comes next.