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Alessio

The funny thing about loyalty is that it's only as strong as the next man’s fear of dying.

I roll the thought over in my mind as I crouch in front of the traitor, the warehouse air thick with his fear. His face is a ruined canvas of blood and regret, the result of my careful hands and a touch of persuasion.

He wasn't supposed to break this easily. Wasn't supposed to cry and beg like a street punk when he’s worn the Calvino crest for five damn years.

"What disappoints me most?" I ask, my voice low and nearly disinterested. "You had the chance to come to us. You could’ve confessed. Instead..." I tilt my head, observing how his bruised lips quiver. "You traded us for a handful of filthy cash and empty promises from the enemy."

He mumbles something wet and pathetic against the gag.

I sigh and signal Vittorio, who steps from the shadows and rips the cloth away.

"Please..." the man gasps, voice raw. "I didn’t have a choice. They said they’d kill my sister—"

"They will now," I cut in smoothly. "Collateral."

Tears streak through the blood on his cheeks.

I slide a knife from my jacket pocket—a small thing, barely longer than my palm, sharp as betrayal itself. I twirl it once between my fingers.

"Who else?" I murmur.

He shakes his head frantically. "Just me! I swear it!"

I press the blade lightly against the meat of his shoulder, a lazy threat. "You're lying."

"No—please—"

The knife carves a shallow line without hesitation. He howls, thrashing against the duct tape binding him to the chair.

Vittorio watches impassively. There’s no mercy in this room. No last chances.

"Who helped you sabotage the shipment?" I say, voice dropping to a low rasp. "Who inside Calvino’s house?"

Because someone had. Someone bigger than this snivelling worm had to be aware of the details.

The man whimpers, his head lolling forward.

" Capo Sal Vieri..." he chokes out. "He said... said it was time for new blood."

I smile without humor.

Vieri. A name that matters in the inner circle. Giancarlo and his second in command, Fabio Greco, has trusted that bastard to move arms and money for the last decade.

"Thank you," I say, smoothing the man's blood-matted hair like a father calming a child.

Then I draw my pistol and put a silenced round through his temple.

One clean shot. One less liability.

Vittorio steps forward immediately, reaching for a tarp to roll the body as two of our men begin meticulously cleaning up the scene.

I light a cigarette as I turn for the exit, the cold coastal air stinging my lungs. Vittorio follows, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure everything is clean. When he catches up to me, he speaks low.

"You going after Vieri?"

I take a long drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke fill my lungs before answering.

"Not yet," I say, flicking ash into the night. "Vieri's ambition will be useful. Better to let the rot fester a little longer, and lead us to whoever he is working for."

“Or maybe just bring Vieri in and make him spill.”

“No, Vieri is hardened. He would rather die than spill. Instead, we will keep our eyes on him, and he will unknowingly lead us to see who the real enemy is.”

Vittorio grunts, the sound half approval, half caution. "Dangerous game."

"The only kind worth playing," I murmur.

Maybe one day I’ll deliver Sal Vieri’s name to Giancarlo Calvino.

He'll see me as loyal.

Useful.

A trusted blade.

Precisely what I want him to see. Because every favor I do for Giancarlo brings me closer to gutting him from the inside out. And when the day comes, allegiances won’t save him.

Nothing will.

The engine purrs softly beneath me as I sit behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over it and the other scrolling through my contacts. The night presses heavily against the windows, thick with salt and secrets.

I find the name I’m looking for and tap call.

Three rings. Then a gruff voice answers, “Yeah?”

“Tell Don Giancarlo the problem’s been handled,” I say, keeping my tone cool and detached.

A pause. I can hear the man’s mind whirring through the silence, calculating.

“Handled how?”

“Permanently. He won’t be a threat to our shipments anymore.”

Another beat. Then a grunt of satisfaction.

“Good work. The Don will be pleased.”

As I am about to drop the call, Fabio Greco speaks up again. “Did he tell you who he was working for?

“No, he refused to spill.”

“You should have made him.” Fabio Greco grunts irritably. “ Capo Vieri, I’m sure would have gotten that information out of him.”

I bite my tongue to hold back retorting that their precious Capo has been compromised.

“I deployed every method, but he still wouldn’t spill.”

“If only Vieri weren’t on a different mission, we would have known who our enemy is.”

Before I can respond, the line goes dead without a goodbye.

Typical.

I toss the burner onto the passenger seat, then pull out my personal phone and scroll to find Vittorio.

He answers on the first ring.

“Boss.”

“Confirm the details,” I say. “Double-check every name he gave up. I want it airtight.”

“Already on it.”

“Meet me at the club when you’re done.”

“Understood.”

I end the call and settle back into the seat, watching the black stretch of ocean swallow the horizon.

A thin trail of smoke curls toward the cracked window from the cigarette between my fingers. Everything is falling into place, just as I planned.

I tap ash into the dark, a small, cold smile ghosting across my lips.

The pieces are moving nicely, and even major unexpected players I did not suspect are beginning to surface. Soon, the whole board will be mine.

I end the call and toss the phone back onto the seat, the screen going dark like the night pressing in around me.

Smoke coils from the cigarette between my fingers, staining the air with something sharp and bitter. I roll the thought around in my mind, the same way I roll the taste of gunpowder after a fresh kill.

Sal Vieri.

A name that doesn’t make sense—not yet.

It gnaws at the edge of my patience, like an unfinished job itching under the skin. Why would Vieri betray Giancarlo now?

I know why I’m playing this game. I understand every reason, every scar, every ounce of blood I plan to spill when the time is right. My hatred is clean, forged in fire and years of careful silence. But Vieri? He has been deep in Giancarlo’s inner circle for well over a decade now. He is trusted, respected, and feared.

So why fucking now?

The cigarette burns low between my fingers. I flick it out the window and lean back into the heated leather seat, letting the salt air crawl in and settle heavy in my lungs.

Two years ago, Giancarlo had sent us on a job together.

Vieri and I.

A warehouse raid on the outskirts of Palermo—a shipment of his American rifles that some fool thought he could reroute for his own profit. He’d said that either he is given fifty percent of the value of the goods or the federal government will be notified. Giancarlo wanted it handled quietly. No fireworks. No witnesses.

I remember how we worked—silent, brutal efficiency. We didn't need to talk. We knew exactly where to move, how to cover each other, and how to make it clean. Two bodies in the dark, swift as blades.

The only words we exchanged that night were clipped and functional.

"Left."

"Clear."

"Move."

By the time the sun rose, the bodies were stacked neatly like firewood, and the shipment was already on the trucks, heading back to Naples. There were no mistakes. There was no noise.

Giancarlo had been pleased. Vieri and I never spoke about it again, and we were never paired after that.

Not once.

I wondered sometimes if Giancarlo kept his wolves separate for a reason—never letting two strong men build too much trust between them. Divide and control. It's how a man like Giancarlo survives at the top of a growing empire.

Still, Vieri earned his place—every inch of it. He bled for it. Killed for it. Whatever ambition simmered beneath that cold exterior, he kept it leashed tight.

Until now.

Now he's feeding information to Gaincarlo’s rival—or at least moving pieces in their favor—and the question lingers like the sting of a knife wound.

What changed?

What does Vieri know that I don't?

I reach for another cigarette, lighting it with a flick of my thumb. The flare briefly cuts through the darkness. I inhale deeply and let the smoke burn through me.

Giancarlo trusts him, and that trust might be the crack I need. I just need to know whether Vieri is another pawn, or if he’s playing his own game entirely.

Either way, I can't move yet.

Not until I have every piece lined up. Every weakness exposed. Every betrayal nailed to the wall with iron certainty.

I tap ash into the cup holder and stare out at the ocean, black and endless.

Vieri’s loyalty or disloyalty is a thread I intend to pull—carefully and methodically. And when it unravels, I’ll be standing at the center of the wreckage.

Exactly where I belong.

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the silence, feeling the city buzz beneath the horizon. Everything is unfolding exactly the way I want. I just have to be patient a little longer.

Patience and blood.

Two currencies I know better than anyone else.