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Chapter twenty-two

Dominic

T he text on my phone doesn’t just confuse me—it pisses me the fuck off. Nobody in my world calls me “friend.” That shit is for civilians and politicians. In my line of work, pleasantries are just pretty wrapping paper on a box full of bullets.

I hope you like my little surprise, friend.

I stare at the message, reading it over and over. It doesn’t make sense because whoever wrote it needs a crash course in how men in the Cosa Nostra communicate. We don’t do warm and fuzzy. We do blood and broken bones.

I know a thousand people in this country, and I own this goddamn city. Nobody—not one single person—has ever called me their friend. Associate, maybe. Colleague, if they’re feeling formal. But friend? Fuck no. Even my own brothers wouldn’t claim that title.

Which is how I know exactly who sent it—Alessa’s uncle. Isabella’s cousin. Raffaele fucking Russo. Some would-be hotshot looking to replace Paolo. Desperate move from a desperate man.

I didn’t even know this prick existed before that meeting. Paolo never mentioned him, and I couldn’t get a read on him or his endgame—whether he’ll help or hinder my path to becoming a made man. The Russos are turning into a fucking nightmare. First, Isabella was tight with my mother. Then Alessa became my final ticket to getting made. Now there’s this Raffaele asshole.

I leave Alessa inside the church to chat with the reverend. I don’t trust her not to try something stupid, but I know she’ll stay put to hear what the priest has to say about her mother. Besides, I’ve got men at every exit. Even if she wanted to run, she wouldn’t make it ten feet.

After a moment’s hesitation, I dial the number, a string of curses slipping through my teeth. The bastard picks up before the first ring completes.

“What the fuck, Raffaele?” I snarl before he can open his mouth. My eyes scan the perimeter, landing on TJ as he strides toward me, speaking into his earpiece. His sharp gaze meets mine—a silent question. I give him a firm nod, which he returns before positioning himself nearby. Close enough to take a bullet for me, far enough to let me handle my business.

“Hello, Mr. Gianelli,” Raffaele purrs, his tone dripping with amusement.

“I’m not here for your fucking games,” I snap.

“Is that the way to greet a friend? And please, I told you, it’s Raffy.”

“Cut the shit. What do you want?” My patience is hanging by a thread. My plate’s already piled high with bodies and blood debts. The last thing I need is another problem to solve—or another grave to dig.

“I see you still go to church,” he chuckles. “For someone with your body count, it’s pretty fucking rich to sit in the front row with my niece. Nice tie, by the way.”

A chill slides up my spine as I scan the area again, refusing to let any sign of unease show. Threats are nothing new—I eat them for breakfast. But Raffy is an unknown variable, and in my business, unknowns get you fitted for a coffin.

The parking lot is crawling with people—all of them likely gossiping about the mysterious woman on Dominic Gianelli’s arm. Families pile into their cars while others stroll toward the gate under the morning sun, oblivious to the predators walking among them.

Raffy’s low whistle hums through the phone, like the sound a snake makes before it strikes.

“Over here, Dominic.” My first name on his lips makes my trigger finger itch. This man is nothing to me. No rank. No history. No power in the Commission. He sure as fuck isn’t Isabella’s caliber—last name be damned.

Something tugs at my attention, and my head turns instinctively. There he is—leaning against a post across the street, grinning like he’s already won something.

The prick is wearing a dark gray wool overcoat over a hound's tooth vest, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a cloud that vanishes above his head. I scowl at the coat—it’s fucking 75 degrees out. The man looks like a reject from Peaky Blinders, playing dress-up in his daddy’s clothes.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.

“What’s it look like? It’s Sunday. Got church obligations too.” He flicks ash onto the sidewalk like he owns it.

“And your little surprise?”

“Oh, that.” He laughs, grinding his cigarette butt under his shoe. “You’ll see in about three... two...”

A deafening boom cuts through the air, shattering our conversation.

Screams tear through the air like souls being ripped from bodies. Women clutch their children with white-knuckled terror. Men throw themselves over their families as if flesh could stop what’s coming. It’s not chaos—it’s a preview of judgment day.

The blast slams into me with physical force, like taking a shotgun blast to the sternum. The concussion wave crushes my lungs, making each breath feel like swallowing broken glass. My ears pop and fill with a high-pitched whine as the ground bucks and rolls beneath my feet. The church—MY fucking church—convulses like a dying animal. Those massive oak doors don’t just break—they disintegrate, becoming a storm of wooden daggers that slice through anything soft. Flesh. Eyes. Throats. Blood mists the air. The stained-glass windows—the ones my grandfather commissioned with blood money—explode into kaleidoscope shrapnel, each jagged piece catching sunlight as it slices through the faithful below. The sound batters my eardrums—glass shards tearing flesh, bones snapping like wet kindling, and the raw animal noises people make when death is reaching for them.

TJ’s on me before I can process what’s happening. Two hundred pounds of muscle and instinct slamming into my side, driving me into the pavement. My head cracks against concrete as gravel bites into my palms. Through the ringing in my ears, Raffy’s words cut sharp and clear:

“First fucking warning, Gianelli. Give me my niece, or I’ll turn everything you love into ash and bone.”

The phone skitters across asphalt as TJ’s weight crushes the air from my lungs. His arm clamps around my skull, shielding it with his own flesh—exactly how my father trained him from the day he joined our family. The loyal bastard would take a bullet to the brain before he’d let one scratch my suit. Not just duty. Not even gratitude. Protecting me is carved into his DNA now.

Despite the ringing in my ears and the weight on my chest, only one thought pounds through my skull.

Alessa. Alessa. Alessa.

“Get the fuck off me,” I growl, shoving against TJ’s solid mass. Christ, the man’s built like a brick shithouse. He exhales sharply, his heart hammering against mine, but he rolls off after a beat.

TJ’s on his feet in seconds, eyes scanning the area with lethal precision, barking orders into his earpiece.

“Boss, we gotta move. These fuckers always plant a second one to catch first responders—”

I cut him off by standing, ignoring the throb in my skull and the ground that still feels unsteady beneath me. My once-pristine suit is covered in dust and grime as I survey the carnage around us.

The crowd is pure chaos—people screaming, sobbing into phones, begging for help. Bodies lie scattered on the pavement, some moving, some not. Sirens wail in the distance, promising help that will come too late for some.

My eyes snap to the post where Raffy stood grinning seconds ago. Gone. Like the devil after making his deal.

Rage rushes through me like wildfire, scorching everything in its path. I don’t think—I just move, instinct overriding logic.

I sprint toward the church.

“Call Gabriella! Tell her to be at the safehouse in five minutes!”

“SIR—”

I don’t hear the rest as I shoulder through the panicked crowd and leap over chunks of debris. Smoke pours from the entrance—ground zero for the blast. It tells me everything I need to know.

The bomb was strategically placed. Small enough to leave the structure standing, but powerful enough to create maximum carnage. Pews are splintered into jagged spears. Pillars are fractured, with cracks snaking through the stone. Sacred statues lie in pieces on the floor, as broken as the bodies around them. Groans and muffled cries fill the smoky air, punctuated by sobs and prayers.

My vision tunnels when I spot a small green figure crumpled near our pew. The reverend lies a few feet away, face-down on the marble floor.

I can’t breathe as memories flood my mind—memories I’ve spent decades trying to bury. Glass and wood crunch under my shoes as I sprint toward the altar, not giving a fuck if there’s another bomb waiting to finish the job.

My knees hit the floor beside Alessa, and I barely register the glass shards cutting through my pants and into my skin.

“Fuck,” I hiss, hands frantically running over her body, searching for wounds or breaks that might explain why she’s not moving. Finding nothing obvious, I press trembling fingers to her neck, desperate for a pulse. It’s there—faint and thready, but there. She’s alive. She’s fucking alive.

“Alessa,” I whisper, my voice raw as I gently turn her shoulders. My calloused hands cup her soft cheek, giving it a light shake. “Alessa, can you hear me?”

When she doesn’t respond, I pull her against my chest, one arm cradling her head while the other wraps around her back. I can feel her shallow breath against my neck—barely there, but fighting. Her body is limp, completely surrendered to my hold. All that fire and defiance gone, replaced by this fragile stillness that scares me more than any gun ever could.

“Stay with me,” I growl against her hair, the words more command than plea. “Don’t you fucking dare check out on me now.”

In my line of work, death is a business partner. I’ve handed it out more times than I can count. I’ve stood over bodies, watching the light fade from eyes that begged for mercy I never gave. Most of the time, it’s just another day at the office.

But when death comes for someone I care about—that’s when everything changes.

Suddenly, I’m not seeing Alessa. I’m seeing my mother on a cold metal slab, her face pale and waxy, the hole between her eyes turning her into someone I barely recognize. I was nine when they took her from me.

And when death came knocking again, it was for my father. I was fifteen, still wet behind the ears, brought along on my first job. I remember him grinning at me in the car, all pride and big plans. ‘It’s going to be your first real taste of our world, son,’ he said as we drove to meet an Irish crew in Boston. ‘ We’ll be quick. I’ll show you how real men put the fear of God in their enemies.’

He had no clue the mick bastard we were meeting had already sold him out—Someone fed him to the wolves—and it sure as hell wasn’t a stranger. We never figured out who, but it had to be one of the families. Someone let that fucker know we were coming.

I remember walking into that alley, TJ and me right behind him. I couldn’t find the excitement my father wanted me to feel. Instead, my gut twisted with something that felt a lot like dread.

I should’ve listened to it. Because when my father opened that door, twelve rounds tore through him before he could even reach for his piece. One of them found his head, painting the wall behind him with what used to be my old man.

With my father’s blood still wet on my face and my hands shaking with rage, I had to stand before the Commission. Had to relive every moment—tell them what happened, watch their faces as they decided whether the son was worth as much as the father.

And now, with Alessa lying broken before me, I’m right back in that place again.

“Alessa.” My voice is sandpaper, a desperate plea for her to fight, to hold on. I cradle her head with one arm and scoop under her legs with the other, lifting her like she weighs nothing. Each step vibrates with contained fury as I carry her through the wreckage. My blood boils. My vision narrows. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.

No one touches what’s mine.

Raffaele Russo just signed his own death warrant. He crossed me in my territory, on my turf. By the time I’m done with him, death will seem like mercy. I’ll take him apart piece by piece and make sure he stays conscious for every second of it. His pain won’t just be revenge—it’ll be my fucking masterpiece.

TJ paces beside the car, still barking orders into his earpiece. His back straightens when he sees me approaching with Alessa’s limp body. She’s breathing, I remind myself. Still breathing.

Without a word, he opens the car door, and I slide into the back with her. I position her head in my lap, cradling her like she’s made of glass. She’s so pale. Too pale. Every second feels like it’s pulling her further away from me. Her pulse is weak, and the fear that we might be too late claws at my chest.

I stroke her hair, fighting to keep my shit together. TJ shuts the door and climbs into the driver’s seat.

A month ago, she was living her cushy Manhattan life, chasing bylines and sipping overpriced coffee in her penthouse. Clean. Untouched. No blood under her manicured nails. No bodies buried in her past. She was miles from this shit—from the Commission’s reach, from the stink of death that follows me like a fucking shadow.

Now she’s neck-deep in a war zone she never enlisted for. No armor. No weapons. No calluses on that soft heart of hers. This business eats people alive—I’ve watched it happen—and she’s fresh meat thrown to hungry wolves. Seeing her laid out like this makes me want to tear someone’s spine out through their throat. And a cold thought slices through the rage: Maybe my goddamn button isn’t worth watching her bleed out. Maybe burning Alessa’s world to the ground for my own ambition makes me no better than the animals I put down.

“Did you call Gabriella?” I ask TJ, my voice barely recognizable.

“She’s prepping a private room at the hospital,” TJ answers, eyes meeting mine in the rearview. “I filled her in.”

“Good.” I nod firmly. “Find Raffaele Russo. Bring him to me alive.”

“What about Paolo Russo?”

“I’ll deal with him myself.”

The Commission can wait. None of this was part of the plan. Alessa wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Raffy wasn’t supposed to interfere. I don’t know what Paolo has to say about his cousin’s little power play, and right now, I don’t give a fuck. All I want is Raffy’s head on a spike.

For bombing my church. For hurting what’s mine. For knowing the one secret that could destroy everything.

I run my fingers through Alessa’s hair again, wondering what god she pissed off to deserve such shitty luck. I want to hunt down everyone who’s ever hurt her and make them beg for death.

I can’t let her under my skin. But I can’t walk away from her either. Not after watching my mother’s corpse go cold on a morgue slab. Not after carrying my father’s blood-soaked body home in pieces.

The Russo name has already been taken from me once. Now it’s coming back to finish the job. And I’ll be damned if I let Alessa become another body that keeps me up at night.