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ENZO

K endra’s already left for work and I'm still reeling from the shift in our relationship after she stayed over again when my phone buzzes—not the casual vibration of a text, but the insistent rhythm of a call. Kendra's warmth still lingers on my skin as I check the screen, something uncomfortable settling in my chest when I see Rome's name flashing up at me.

Rome doesn't call unless it's important. More significantly, Rome doesn't call at this hour unless something's wrong.

I press the phone to my ear, listening to his rapid breathing before he even speaks. "Boss, we need to meet. Now."

"What happened?" My voice drops to that dangerous register that usually makes my men stand straighter.

"Can't say over the phone. It's urgent." There's something in his voice—tension, fear maybe—that sets my instincts on high alert. "The old Bianchi warehouse on 47th."

The location alone sends warning signals flaring through my system. Abandoned. Isolated. Perfect for an ambush.

Perfect for a betrayal.

"I'll be there in twenty." I end the call, already calculating angles, risks, possibilities.

I shoulder my holster and grab my jacket. This isn't something I can delegate. Rome is one of mine—one of the few who followed me from the Cappallettis to the Mantiones. If he's in trouble, I handle it myself.

If he’s causing trouble, I’ll end it myself.

The drive to the warehouse is tense, my mind cycling through scenarios, preparing for whatever's waiting. I park two blocks away, approaching on foot, senses heightened. The building looms against the night sky, all rusted metal and broken windows, a shadow of its former purpose. I circle it once, noting exits, entrances, places where someone might hide.

Everything about this feels wrong.

I enter through a side door, gun drawn, moving silently across concrete floors stained with years of industrial use and neglect. The air smells of dust and metal and something else—something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Fear. It smells like fear.

The main floor is cavernous, moonlight streaming through broken skylights, creating pools of silver amid the darkness. And there, in the center of one of those pools of light, is a sight that turns my blood to ice.

Kendra.

She's bound to a metal chair, wrists secured behind her back, a gag cutting into the corners of her mouth. Her business attire is rumpled, tear tracks cutting through her makeup. But it's her eyes that stop me cold—wide with a genuine terror I've never seen in her before. This isn't Kendra the marketing executive or Kendra the sharp-tongued woman who challenges me at every turn.

This is Kendra stripped of all her armor, vulnerable in a way she would never willingly allow herself to be.

For a heartbeat, I forget every rule of survival I've ever learned. I forget to check corners, to assess threats, to maintain distance. All I can think is: get to her .

That's when Zenon's voice slices through the silence, stopping me in my tracks.

"Did you really think she was yours?"

My brother steps from the shadows, that familiar smirk playing across his lips. He's dressed impeccably as always—dark suit, polished shoes, hair slicked back with precision. The gray eyes that mirror my own are cold, calculating, filled with a malice that's startlingly personal.

In an instant, everything falls into place. The urgent call. Rome's strained voice. This wasn't just business—this was Zenon making his move.

And he's used the one piece on the board I never expected him to touch.

I don't move, hand still gripping my gun but caught in that dangerous moment of hesitation. My brother circles Kendra like she's a trophy, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous warehouse. Each click of his Italian leather shoes against concrete makes the muscles in my jaw tighten.

"She's quite convincing, isn't she?" Zenon's voice carries that familiar lilt—the one that always made our father smile and always made my skin crawl. "The way she looked at you. The way she made you believe she was choosing you."

My eyes never leave Kendra's. Her head shakes violently, desperate denial in every movement, tears streaming down her face and soaking into the gag. She's trying to tell me something, but doubt—that poisonous, insidious thing—has already started to seep in.

"Tell him how long we've been planning this," Zenon continues, stopping behind her chair, placing his hands on her shoulders. His fingers dig into her skin, and I watch her flinch. "Tell him how you sought me out after Skye's wedding. How you knew exactly what you were doing when you took his deal."

Something cold and heavy settles in my stomach. "You're lying," I say, but the words lack conviction.

"Am I?" Zenon's smile is all teeth. "Who do you think got me an in? Told me when you’d be alone? Arranged to meet up with Ercole? She played her part beautifully, didn't she?" His fingers trail up her neck to her face, wiping away a tear with mock tenderness. "Poor Enzo, so desperate for something real he never questioned why a woman like her would choose a man like you."

Kendra's eyes are wild now, pleading. She makes muffled sounds against the gag, thrashing in her restraints.

And for one heartbeat—one fucking heartbeat—I hesitate.

That's all it takes.

The shot rings out—not from my brother, but from somewhere to my left. Pain explodes in my abdomen, white-hot and searing. My gun clatters to the floor as my hand instinctively presses against the wound, blood seeping warm between my fingers.

My knees hit concrete. Hard.

Through the haze of pain, I see Ercole step from the shadows, gun still raised, satisfaction etched into his brutish features.

"Uncle," he says, the word a mockery.

Zenon sighs, shaking his head as he steps around Kendra's chair. "You were always too sentimental, brother. It's what made you weak." He straightens his cuffs—a gesture so trivial, so ordinary while my blood pools on the warehouse floor. "A shame, really. You had such potential."

Ercole moves closer, towering over me, that familiar smirk twisting his face. "A fitting end for both of you." He kicks my gun further away, then glances at Kendra. "She might have been worth keeping, but damaged goods are damaged goods."

My vision blurs at the edges, but I force myself to focus. Kendra. I need to get to Kendra.

Zenon watches me struggle, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You know what they say about Zeus and his divine lightning, brother." He pulls something from his pocket—a lighter, the flame catching as he flicks it open. "The gods always punish those who betray their family."

With a nod to Ercole, he tosses the lighter toward a pile of debris. The flames catch immediately, hungry and eager, licking at the dried wood and years of accumulated dust.

"Goodbye, brother." Zenon's voice floats back as they walk away, unhurried, confident. "Perhaps in the next life, you'll choose more wisely."

The smoke rises faster than I expected, thick and choking. But I have to get us out of here.