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Aithan

The cigar between my fingers burns slow, the embers crackling softly in the silence of my office. The dim lighting barely reaches the edges of the room, casting long shadows across the walls. My mind is a battlefield, thoughts colliding like gunfire. Lazaro Galanis is becoming bolder, and that pisses me off.

Leon sits across from me, his posture tense, his expression grim. The news he just delivered has me gripping my glass of scotch tighter than I should.

“Say that again.” My voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that comes before a bloodbath.

Leon exhales, tired in a way I haven’t seen in years. “The warehouse where the latest shipment was offloaded has just been hit. Everything was torched.”

I let the words settle, staring at the smoke curling from the tip of my cigar. This wasn’t just a hit. It was a statement. An insult. And it worked—because my blood is boiling.

“Casualties?”

“Two of our men. The rest made it out before the building collapsed.”

I nod, jaw clenched. Two men. Two lives stolen because someone had the audacity to challenge me in my own city.

“How did we let this happen?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. He shifts in his seat, finally looking me in the eye. “We have a leak. Someone fed them the shipment details, including the exact delivery time and location. We had just finished offloading, and I had barely made it out when the explosion went off.”

“And do we have any cash stashed there?

“Only two hundred thousand, and it is the payment that came in yesterday."

"From?"

"Mario.”

I inhale sharply, rage curling in my chest like a viper ready to strike. “Lazaro may not be the only mole we have. Because this shipment was rerouted and he does not have this current information.”

Leon nods. “And not just any mole. Whoever did this wanted you to look like a careless idiot. The council will not only reject your leadership, they will demand your head.”

There it is. The real hit.

Some of the Greek Mafia elders have been waiting for a reason to question my leadership. Lazaro, or whoever did this, just handed them one.

I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand down my face. My father is going to have a field day with this. But I won't let him.

I have bled too much for this organization to have anyone question my capability to lead it.

“Who knew about the shipment?”

“Only a handful of men. Me, you, the team… and a few key players in the council.”

The council. The same men who pushed for me to get married, and now whispering that I’ve gone soft. That Yelena is a distraction.

Lazaro is playing a long game, and he just moved his knight across the board. But what he doesn’t realize is that I don’t play fair. I don’t follow the rules. I will go after his allies in the council. Those pushing the same agenda as him will surely share in his interest.

I extinguish my cigar in the ashtray, the burn of control anchoring me. “Who’s leading the whispers?”

Leon gives me a knowing look. “Basilis and Orestes.”

Two influential men in the council. Two men who have never fully accepted me as their next leader.

I smile coldly. “Then I’ll give them a reason to shut up.”

Leon’s grin matches mine. “What’s the plan?”

“Simple. We flush the rat out. And when we do, we bleed him dry.”

“We need to find the rat first.”

“Get me the closest men who work directly with Basilis and Orestes. I will start from there.”

“And Lazaro?”

“The bastard is in hiding, but I’ll flush him out soon enough.”

The soundproofed back room in the warehouse smells like piss and gasoline. A single industrial light swings from the ceiling, casting long, menacing shadows over the stained concrete floor. The concrete beneath my boots is wet with sweat, blood, and piss—not mine, of course.

I stand in front of the traitor, my sleeves rolled up, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. The man tied to the chair across from me shudders, his breathing ragged. His face is swollen, his bottom lip split open, and his left eye is so swollen shut that it’s a wonder he can still see me from the other.

I tilt my head, watching him, feeling the slow simmer of rage burn inside me.

Leon leans against a stack of crates, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but eyes sharp. "You gonna talk yet, or are we still playing?"

The traitor’s head sags forward, blood dripping from his nose onto his shirt. I step forward and grab a fistful of his greasy hair, yanking his head back so he has no choice but to meet my gaze. His pupils dilate in fear, the stench of it saturating the air.

“I’m gonna ask you one last time,” I say, my voice deadly quiet like the calm before the storm. “Who the fuck are you working for?”

The bastard coughs, then spits a glob of blood onto the floor between us. He chuckles weakly. “You think you scare me?” His voice is hoarse, trembling, but I catch the hint of defiance in it. “You’re just a spoiled little rich boy playing gangster.”

Leon lets out a low whistle. "Damn, he really doesn't know who he's dealing with, does he?"

I don’t smile. I never smile when it comes to things like this. Instead, I turn toward the table of tools laid out neatly—scalpels, pliers, blades, and…

A pair of rusty pruning shears.

I pick them up, testing the weight in my hand. They feel good. Efficient. Brutal.

The traitor’s breathing hitches. I see the moment his bravado cracks. He knows.

"You know," I say conversationally, "there are two types of pain. The kind that makes you talk. And the kind that makes you beg for death."

I twirl the shears between my fingers, letting the dim light catch the dull, jagged edges. Then, without hesitation, I clamp them down over his pinky finger and snap the blades shut.

The scream that rips through the room is unholy.

The man thrashes against the chair, his body convulsing as blood spurts onto the floor. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his head jerking side to side as he fights against the agony.

“I— I—swear I don’t know," he stammers, but I shush him with a finger to my lips, crouching to his level.

"Shh. I’m not finished yet."

I shift the shears to his next finger. His entire body tenses, sweat pouring down his face.

“Who,” I murmur, “are you working for?”

"I-I don’t— I—"

SNAP.

Another finger gone.

His scream turns hoarse, the pain stealing the air from his lungs. Tears stream down his bloodstained face.

Leon watches, unimpressed. "This is getting a little messy," he remarks. "You sure you don’t wanna just put a bullet in his head and call it a night?"

I ignore him, tilting my head at the sobbing wreck of a man in front of me. “You feel that?” I ask, my voice eerily calm. “That’s your body learning what happens when you fuck with me. We still have eight more fingers to go."

“I—” The man gasps, his entire body shaking violently. “Orestes! It was Orestes! He—he leaked the shipment details—”

My entire body stills. My grip on the shears tightens.

"Orestes," I repeat slowly.

"Yes! Yes!" The man nods frantically, tears mixing with blood. "He—he—he wanted—he said destroying the shipment would seal your fate! I swear, I swear on my life—”

I let out a breath through my nose. Slowly, I rise to my feet, towering over him.

“You swore on your life,” I say evenly, “the first time you told me you didn’t know anything.”

His eyes widen in horror as he realizes his mistake.

Before he can beg, I raise the shears and bury them deep into his throat.

The sound is wet and sickening.

His body jerks violently, a gurgling noise escaping his lips before he slumps forward in the chair, dark crimson spilling down his chest and pooling onto the floor.

Blood splatters onto my forearm. I don’t flinch.

Leon sighs, clicking his tongue. "Well. That was educational."

I grab a clean cloth from the table and wipe my hands, my mind already shifting focus.

"Burn the body," I order. "No trace."

Leon signals to the men waiting outside. They move swiftly, dragging the corpse away while I turn toward the door, already reaching for my phone.

Orestes.

I suspected his loyalty had been wavering for months.

But now, I have proof.

And in my world, there is only one way to deal with betrayal.