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ENZO

I t doesn’t take long to track my brother down. And his arrogance means that it’s not hard for me to confront him either.

I stare Zenon down, the weight of everything leading to this moment pressing against my spine like a blade. My body still aches from the gunshot wound, a constant throb beneath the bandages that reminds me of my own mortality. The blood has stopped, but the memory remains fresh—his smug face as he pulled the trigger, the shock in Kendra's eyes as they dragged her away.

Pain is secondary—revenge is the only thing that matters now.

The warehouse smells of rust and neglect, concrete floors stained with decades of industrial fluids and God knows what else. Dim light filters through grimy windows high above, casting long shadows across the space where Zenon sits like some discount king on his makeshift throne—a weathered office chair that squeaks when he shifts his weight.

His remaining men flank him, five in total. Not the army he'd promised himself, just the desperate dregs willing to follow a sinking ship. They shuffle nervously as I approach, hands hovering near concealed weapons. They've heard the stories. They know what happens to those who cross me. Their eyes dart between us, calculating odds, wondering if their loyalty is about to get them killed. Smart money says yes.

They know what's coming. Retribution.

The Cappallettis and Mantiones were supposed to have a truce, an agreement written in blood and sealed with marriages and territorial concessions. Zenon broke those rules the moment he decided to use Kendra as leverage. He broke them when he put a bullet in my gut. He broke them when he decided his ambition mattered more than carefully negotiated peace.

But my older brother doesn't run—he smirks when he sees me, sipping amber liquid from a crystal glass like this is nothing more than a family dispute. His slicked-back hair catches the light, not a strand out of place even now. That controlled appearance, that facade of calm superiority—it's always been his tell.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," Zenon muses, tossing his glass aside. It shatters against the concrete, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. "Come to kneel before the king of criminals? To settle this matter before I truly end you?"

I don't answer. His arrogance was always meant to be his downfall anyway.

My steel-gray eyes hold his, two mirrors reflecting nothing back. The warehouse falls silent—no breathing, no shuffling feet, just the distant drip of water somewhere in the shadows and the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Let him talk. Let him posture. Men like Zenon need an audience, need to hear their own voice bouncing off walls to convince themselves of their own importance. I've never needed that. I've never needed anything but patience and the absolute certainty that when the moment comes, I won't hesitate.

And that moment is now.

I don't waste another second on words. Words are luxuries for men with time to spare, and Zenon has stolen enough of mine already.

I lunge forward, my body screaming in protest as the stitches pull at my abdomen. The pain is secondary to the surge of adrenaline pumping through my veins. Five against one—terrible odds for them.

The first man goes down with a broken windpipe before he can even draw his weapon. The second catches my elbow to his temple, crumpling like paper. Three remaining men scatter, trying to flank me. Amateurs. I've survived worse odds against better men.

"Is this supposed to impress me?" Zenon laughs, but there's a crack in his confidence now. A thin veneer of bravado over growing fear.

I grab the third man, using him as a shield as the fourth fires wildly. The bullet meant for me finds a home in his friend's chest instead. I let the body drop, sweeping low to take out the shooter's knees. Bone cracks under my boot. His scream cuts short when my fist connects with his jaw.

The fifth man runs. Smart choice.

Then it's just us. Brothers by blood, enemies by choice.

Zenon draws his knife, circling me with the practiced ease of someone who's spent decades perfecting violence. "You were always so righteous," he sneers. "So controlled. The perfect soldier. Did you really think you could escape what we are?"

His blade slices air where my throat had been a second before. I counter, landing a blow to his kidney that makes him stagger.

"I never wanted to escape," I growl, blocking his next strike. "I just wanted real loyalty. I’m not willing to be shoved aside and discarded like you might be."

The fight becomes a blur of movement—brutal, efficient, neither of us holding back. Zenon lands a slice across my shoulder, but I barely register the sting as I drive my knee into his stomach. He's good—experienced and ruthless—but there's something desperate in his movements now.

He fights like a man defending his ego. I fight like a man with everything to lose.

My mind flashes to Kendra—her defiance when facing Ercole, choosing me even when given every reason to run. The way she looked at my dogs, surprised by the glimpse of humanity beneath the monster. The softness in her eyes when she thought I wasn't watching.

That split-second distraction costs me. Zenon's blade bites into my side. Fresh blood seeps through my shirt, warm against cold skin.

"Thinking about your whore?" Zenon laughs, pressing his advantage. "She was so easy to break. Screamed your name until her voice gave out."

The last thread of my control snaps.

I barrel into him with my shoulder, pure rage channeling into one devastating surge. We crash into a steel beam, the impact reverberating through the warehouse like a war drum. My forearm pins his throat, pressing against his windpipe with enough force to make his eyes bulge.

"You touch her again, I'll make the Marquis de Sade look like a fucking amateur," I snarl, blood dripping from a cut above my eye.

Zenon wheezes out a laugh, blood speckling his teeth. Even now, facing death, he clings to his delusions of superiority. "Even if you kill me, you'll always be one of us. Blood doesn't wash clean, brother."

I draw my knife—the same one he gifted me when I turned sixteen, telling me I'd need it someday. He was right about one thing.

"No," I drive the blade between his ribs with surgical precision, finding his heart. "I never was."

Shock registers in his eyes as the steel slides home. His body convulses once, twice, blood bubbling past his lips. The smirk that's haunted me for years finally falters, dissolving into something almost childlike in its confusion.

I lean closer, my lips brushing his ear as his life drains away. "The king ," I scoff, the word bitter on my tongue, "of criminals is dead. Consider this your Titanomachy, brother. See how weak you really are."

I pull the blade free with a sickening sound. Zenon slides down the metal beam, leaving a crimson trail in his wake. His body crumples, eyes fixed on mine until the light behind them fades completely.

Standing over my brother's body, I feel nothing—not triumph, not relief, not even guilt. Just emptiness where a threat once stood, and the burning need to find Kendra.