Page 14

The walls are soundproofed, but I can still feel the bass thudding through the floor under my boots.

The club is alive upstairs, music, lights, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. But down here, in the private rooms hidden below La Notte Oscura, it’s quiet. Cold. The kind of quiet that comes before something violent breaks loose.

I’m standing in the middle of the room, watching the man in front of me.

Sergio Bianchi.

A pawn.

A fucking idiot.

He’s tied to another chair, wrists bound behind his back, ankles lashed to the legs so tight he probably can’t feel anything below his knees anymore.

Not that it matters.

His face is already a ruined mess, one eye swollen shut, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth, a cut splitting his lip clean through. His chest heaves shallow and wet, each breath a ragged wheeze.

“You know why you’re here.” I say, my voice steady and calm, the kind of calm that makes grown men piss themselves. “And you know what I want.” Sergio coughs wetly, his whole body shaking.

“You were aiming for my nephew, Matteo, but you missed.” I inch closer, my boots echoing against the concrete.

“And you caused the death of two innocent people. Extended members of the Russo family. Because of you, a young girl watched her parents die right in front her. You and the son of a bitch that put the hit on my nephew broke her world in half and you’re going to pay for it.

You’re going to pay for every tear that she shed.

” Sergio whimpers something that might be words, or maybe just a broken apology.

I don't care.

All I need is a name.

“Sergio, you’re going to die today,” I say calmly, rolling my sleeves up to the elbows, exposing the tattoos crawling up my forearms. “How you die, is entirely up to you.”

“I can make it quick and painless.” I say, my voice low, almost conversational. “Or I can drag it out for weeks, peel the skin from your bones and ensure you feel everything . Either way, I’m going to bleed the truth out of you.”

Sergio flinches, jerking against the ropes. His fear fouls the air, sharp and acrid.

“Give me a name.” I drawl, stepping closer.

Kneeling in front of him so he can see it, see exactly how this ends for him.

Sergio shakes his head, too fast, too desperate.

I reach for the switchblade tucked in my belt; flip it open with a clean snap.

“No?” I ask, almost curiously. “You think I won’t make you?

” I trail the tip of the blade lightly along the underside of his jaw, feeling him flinch.

“Parlare,” Talk. I say, voice dropping lower.

“Or I start carving the answers out of you piece by fucking piece.”

Sergio tries to speak, tries to plead, but his jaw is too swollen to form real words.

I cock my head to the side, studying him.

Pathetic.

“Non ci sarà redenzione per te,” I hiss, pressing the blade harder against his skin. “Pregherai per la morte prima che io abbia finito.” I smile slow and sinister.

There will be no redemption for you. You'll beg for death before I'm done.

Sergio’s breathing stutters. His good eye goes wide.

Good. I like the taste of fear. It makes this so much sweeter.

I press the flat of the blade under his chin, lifting his face toward mine.

He tries to pull away, but the ropes hold. He starts babbling, spitting blood, choking on the words. I lean in closer. I want him to see exactly how little mercy lives in me.

“Who paid you, Sergio?”

His whole body trembles. Tears cut tracks down his bloody cheeks.

“Alessandro,” he gasps finally. “Alessandro Romano.”

The name hits the air like a gunshot. Son of a bitch.

I smile slowly. Not a nice smile, not a human one, either.

“Good boy,” I murmur, voice low and deadly. Before he can even think about begging for his life, before the panic can fully register in his bloodshot eyes, I slide the blade across his throat. A clean, sharp cut.

Sergio jerks against the ropes, a wet, choking gasp tearing from his ruined throat. Blood pours from the open wound, hot and fast, soaking the front of his shirt, dripping to the floor in steady, sticky splashes.

I don't move. I don't look away.

I watch as the panic flares in his eyes, as his mouth opens and closes uselessly, as he fights for a breath he’ll never catch. I watch the life drain out of him inch by agonising inch. One hand scrabbles weakly at the ropes. A gurgling sound claws its way up his throat.

Then another. Weaker this time.

His body spasms once, twice, and then stills.

The last breath rattles out of him. A broken, hollow sound that echoes in the small room. I wait until there’s nothing left. No twitch. No sound. No fight.

I wipe the blade clean with slow, steady strokes, the white cloth drinking up the blood like it was hungry for it.

When it’s spotless again, I reholster it with a sharp metallic click, the sound cutting through the heavy silence.

I straighten my cuffs, smoothing the blood from my knuckles, breathing deep.

Sergio slumps forward in the chair, lifeless. Just dead weight leaking into the cracks of the concrete floor. I turn toward the two men waiting in the corner, their faces carefully blank. “Dump him on Romano’s doorstep,” I say. “Make sure he knows exactly who sent the message.”

They nod without a word, as always efficient and loyal.

The fear of me still sharp in the air between us. They nod silently and move in.

As I watch them haul Sergio’s body upright, something coils low in my gut, something colder, heavier than simple rage.

Because Sergio’s death doesn’t solve the real problem. It just confirms it.

Alessandro Romano.

The same arrogant prick Luciano warned me about weeks ago. He’s the one causing problems down in Messina, making noise, buying loyalty. Pushing into Russo territory with quiet, surgical strikes. He’s testing limits, forgetting who built these streets before he ever crawled out of his mother’s womb.

I didn’t want to get involved. I told Luciano I was done with this shit. That whatever fires needed putting out in Messina weren’t my concern anymore. He can send Enzo to deal with it, but I was wrong.

Romano didn’t just cross a line.

He slaughtered two innocents. Shattered a girl’s world.

He put his fucking hands on Russo blood. La mia famiglia.

And now? Now he’s going to be reminded of exactly who the fuck I am.

The underworld of Sicily is about to quake. Il Mietitore is back.

And they’re about to remember why they used to whisper my name in fear.

The door to the downstairs room slams shut behind me with a heavy thud, cutting off the stench of blood and fear. I roll my shoulders once, slow, feeling the tension bleed from my muscles in slow, steady pulses.

The club’s music thrums through the walls now, louder, messier, a heartbeat of chaos just waiting to be unleashed.

Dante, my right-hand man, the shadow watching my back falls in step beside me as I move down the hall.

“Ares,” he says, keeping his voice low, “Matteo’s here. Brought a group with him.” I barely react. I was expecting Matteo to show. It's his birthday, and Oscura is family territory. I nod once, signalling him to continue. “And...” A hesitation, almost imperceptible.

I stop walking and turn my head slowly.

“And?” I press, voice low enough to cut glass. He swallows thickly before he answers.

“The girl is with them. Bianca’s little sister.”

For a second, nothing moves inside me. No thought. No breath. Just a cold flash of something I can’t put a name to.

“Upstairs,” he adds quickly. “VIP floor. With Matteo’s friends.”

I don't answer. Just turn and take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the pounding bass, the flickering lights, the sweat-thick air.

The private office sits above the main floor of the club, hidden behind one-way glass.

A perfect view of the chaos below. I step inside, shutting the door behind me with a solid click and cross the room in three long strides.

I look down. At first, the mass of bodies blurs together. Dancers, drinkers, shadows.

Then I see her.

A shock of pale gold hair under the strobe lights. A slim figure in a black dress that’s too damn short, too damn tight.

Jordyn’s surrounded by Matteo’s friends. She’s laughing. Sipping from a glass she probably didn’t even pour herself.

Silly girl.

Looking like she belongs, but feeling, to me, like a fucking target painted in neon.

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I watch her toss her head back and laugh at something Matteo says, the sound lost in the bass vibrating the floor under my boots. They’re standing close, a little too close for my liking.

She has no idea where she is, who’s watching, what this world can take from her if she’s not careful.

Annoyance burns low and hard in my chest.

Matteo’s an idiot if he thinks he can keep her safe in a place like this. A fucking club crawling with snakes who’d eat a girl like her alive.

My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. She’s not supposed to be here. She’s not supposed to be in my world, not where monsters like me walk freely among the sheep.

And yet...there she fucking is.

Smiling beautifully, drinking, sliding closer and closer to danger without even realising it.

I watch her from behind the glass, my heart pounding deafeningly in my ears. And deep in my gut, I know, like a shot fired straight through my ribs that if someone so much as looks at her wrong, I’ll grind their bones and flesh into dust and lay them in the foundation of this fucking building.

But it’s not some random bastard that tightens the noose around my chest.

It’s Matteo.

I watch as he says something in her ear, something low and teasing, and Jordyn laughs, tilting her head back, eyes sparkling under the lights.

Then he grabs her hand and pulls her toward the dancefloor.

I tense, my hands curling into fists at my sides.