Page 1 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

ROCCO

F or twenty years, I’ve waded through rivers of blood, left traitors smoldering in ash, and carved my name into the bones of enemies—to earn the power that comes with being Consigliere of the Romano Crime Family.

Betrayal stopped surprising me a long time ago—it’s the currency we trade in.

But nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the level of fucked up I’ve uncovered in the last forty-eight hours.

Two days ago, my uncle, Don Thomasso Romano, sent me to New York on a fact-finding mission. A whisper reached his ear: there was a rat among us. One of our gun shipments vanished from our docks in Chicago and ended up on the streets of New York with the Colombians.

Theft happens, but this one? It stank of betrayal.

Clean timing. Inside knowledge. No sign of struggle. It had our fingerprints all over it—just not the right hands.

And the Colombian Cartel isn’t that stupid or that smart.

My orders were simple. Find the rat. Kill the rat. Make a spectacle of it so the rest of the family remembers what disloyalty costs.

I had to move carefully—New York isn’t our turf, but stealth fits me like a second skin.

After kidnapping and torturing a few unfortunate souls, I managed to identify from the security cameras at our docks, but I didn’t find a rat.

I found a fucking snake.

Leo Romano.

The Don’s son. My cousin. Blood of my blood.

He planned the heist. Funded it and pulled it off with a crew of mercenaries he’d been stockpiling like weapons, right under our noses for the past three months.

And he didn’t just steal from the family.

He’s desecrated the sacred oath of “la familia” and made a mockery of the blood that built our empire.

Once the informants used their last ragged breath to whisper his name, rage ignited inside me—pure, primal, and blinding. I wanted to find Leo and gut him like the scavenging bottom-feeder he is. No questions. No ceremony. Just justice—swift, sharp, and final.

But I’m not the Don.

And Leo’s not my son.

So, today, I do what a Consigliere does—I bring the truth to the throne.

Adjusting the lapels of my black Tom Ford suit, I inhale once, steady and cold, before knocking on the polished mahogany door.

“Come in,” Thomasso’s voice calls, deep and even from his office.

I step inside—and find the bane of my fucking existence.

Leo

He’s lounging against the wall beside his father’s desk like he owns the place. He looks like rot wrapped in designer wool, oozing arrogance from every pore. His sneer is sharp enough to cut glass—and twice as toxic.

“Well, look who graced us with his presence,” Leo slithers, voice slick with venom. “The crown prince of nothing. Tell me, cousin… how does it feel wearing a crown that doesn’t belong to you?”

The poison in his voice isn’t new, but today it seeps deeper—because now I know what fuels it. It’s not jealousy. It’s entitlement—warped into arrogance and flung like a blade by a traitor who truly believes he should be Don.

The delusion would be pathetic if it weren’t so fucking dangerous.

I step to him—slow and deliberate—until we’re nearly chest to chest, close enough that he can feel my calm like a blade at his throat.

“Feels lighter than betrayal,” I say, voice like ice. “Funny how easy it is to wear what you earned.”

I reach out, almost casually, and adjust the collar of his expensive jacket—just enough to remind him I could just as easily snap his neck.

Leo’s smirk falters, his jaw tightens. He’s not used to being touched without it leading to blood or surrender. That flicker of unease? I pocket it—ammo for later.

Before either of us can move further, Thomasso’s voice cuts through the room, calm but laced with command.

“Enough.”

We both turn. He’s still by the bar, swirling his gin, but his eyes are locked on us—sharp, unblinking.

“I won’t have my blood tearing each other apart in my office like rabid dogs,” he says coolly.

“If either of you steps out of line, I’ll bury the problem—family or not,” Thomasso says, voice like steel wrapped in silk. His gaze doesn’t waver. “And Leo… watch your mouth when you speak to Rocco. He’s earned more in this family than you ever have. I’ve let your disrespect slide for too long. ”

He sets his glass down with a soft click, the sound final as a gunshot.

“Now, Get out. We’re done for today.”

Leo straightens, jaw tight. “But—Father?—”

“I said we’re done.” Thomasso’s tone doesn’t rise, but the air in the room shifts—sharp, suffocating. “You keep pushing, I’ll start treating you like any other soldier. Is that what you want?”

Leo hesitates, just for a second. Then he backs off and walks out, tension bleeding from every step.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Thomasso exhales once, measured, cold. Then he looks at me.

“Talk.”

I nod. “Your son is the rat.”

I lay the evidence I hid in my suit jacket upon entering onto my uncle’s desk and explain every damning piece.

The money trail starts in New York and ends in Leo’s offshore bank accounts.

I tell him about the shaky alliances Leo’s formed down the east coast, and the mercenaries he’s recruited that all point to one conclusion: Leo plans to take over our family by force.

We run Chicago for the Sicilian Mafia. Everything west of Lake Michigan to California is ours. At the same time, Matteo Ricci owns the East, from here to New York.

Both families, along with the Russos, La Rosas, and Lombardos, comprise the Commission and answer to the Sicilian boss of bosses, Salvatore Parisi—our capo di tutti i capi.

If the Romanos and Riccis keep the peace and the profits flowing, Capo Parisi allows us to run America.

But peace is just a pause between wars.

Because ambition? It never stays buried.

The unspoken truth is that the Romanos and Riccis both want to reign as the sole Sicilian crime family in the States.

And Leo is setting up the board against his own family.

I’m not surprised. He always was a selfish, entitled prick. My aunt Maria, God rest her soul, spoiled him. In contrast, my uncle had no time for a son who despised hard work.

Uncle Thomasso is quiet while he stares at the evidence like a corpse he’s debating how to dispose of. The silence stretches, thick with the weight of betrayal. His fingers drum against the edge of his desk in that slow, deliberate rhythm I’ve learned to dread.

When he finally speaks, his voice is calm—too calm.

“So,” he murmurs, eyes still on the files. “The little bastard thinks he’s ready to wear my crown.”

His hand curls around his glass of gin, and with a quiet crack, it shatters in his grip. Blood trickles from between his fingers, mixing with the liquor. He doesn’t even flinch.

“I gave that boy everything,” he says, low and cold. “My name. My legacy. A seat at my table. And he dares to build an army behind my back?”

He finally lifts his eyes to mine, and what I see there makes even me stand straighter. Not rage. Not grief. Strategy. Ice-cold calculation edged in steel.

“We won’t move on him yet,” he says. “No fireworks. No warnings. Let him think he’s clever, that he’s still in control.”

He stands, slowly wiping his bloody hand on a white linen napkin—symbolic as hell, considering the blood will never come out. “I want names. Every coward he’s recruited. Every whisper of treason. We won’t just cut off the head—we’ll gut the whole thing, root and stem.”

He pours himself another drink with his uninjured hand and downs it in one swallow.

“He’s my son,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. Then his voice drops into something darker. “But if he wants war… we give it to him. Just not on his terms.”

I nod, already planning my next move.

Leo started this strike against the family.

But I’m going to end it.

I owe my life to my uncle.

Now, it’s time to truly pay my debt to him by terminating his treacherous son.

He can’t put a hit out on him or personally kill him because it would make the family look weak. It would appear that the Don cannot control his son or the rats. Acknowledging Leo’s scheme would give him more recognition than he deserves.

Leo will die, but it will be carefully orchestrated and not at our hands.

I pull the final piece of information I brought for him from the right inside pocket of my suit jacket and hand it to him.

A photograph of the beautiful woman who’s haunted by thoughts since I found out she existed twenty-four hours ago.

The last bastard I kidnapped and tortured for information was Matteo Ricci’s trusted valet. He climbed into bed with Leo for a quick payday—and it cost him dearly.

He begged for his life, offering intel that could shift the tide of our cold war with the Riccis. I told him if it were worth something, I’d let him live… just not speak. He already would never walk again due to the crowbar I took to both his knees.

What he gave me? It was worth far more than his tongue.

I point to the photo, my voice calm but deliberate.

“That’s Matteo Ricci’s daughter.”

My uncle scoffs, waving a dismissive hand.

“Impossible. Everyone knows Ricci was made sterile. Capo Parisi ensured it—part of his punishment for what happened to your parents. The man has no heir. His men are fighting like dogs because they know the top seat is up for grabs.”

I shake my head slowly and smirk.

“No, Zio. That’s what Ricci wants us all to believe. But the truth’s more complicated.”

I pull up a photo on my phone—Chrisette Asare, mahogany-skinned and radiant, her eyes sharp and captivating even in a still frame.

“This was Chrisette Asare. Ricci’s secret lover for years.

She gave birth to a daughter twenty-four years ago, named Lucia.

The child was kept hidden from the world, tucked away behind a fake name and a quiet life.

But Chrisette died last week. Left everything behind—including proof of who Lucia is. ”

I let that settle before delivering the kill shot.