Page 17

I watch her for a moment longer than I should.

Making sure...making goddamn sure. Because part of me still doesn’t believe it. That I got to her in time. That she didn't fucking die in my arms.

I push up from the chair, my joints stiff. There’s too much shit I need to deal with today, starting with Matteo for not watching out for her like he was supposed to.

But for a minute, just one fucking minute, I let myself stand there and look at her. Imagine what it would feel like to slide under that blanket with her and gather her into my arms.

She has no idea the storm that’s coming. No clue that her name is already etched into my bones, like a scar that’ll never fade. I turn away before I do something stupid, like sit back down and stay there like a fucking dog on a leash.

Instead, I head to the door, yanking it open with more force than necessary.

One of my men is already stationed in the hallway, standing ramrod straight.

“Coffee,” I snap. “Black. Strong.”

He nods and hurries off without a word. I scrub my hands over my face again, my pulse still hammering like I haven't slept at all. Because I haven’t.

Because sleep isn’t a luxury you get when someone tries to poison what's yours.

And make no mistake...Jordyn Windslow might not realise it yet...but she’s mine to protect now.

Whether she likes it or not.

I’m halfway down the hall when Dante catches up to me, silent as a shadow and hands me a cup of coffee.

“Morning,” he says quietly. “We have eyes on what went down last night.”

“Talk,” I bark without slowing.

Dante matches my pace, voice low and tight. “Jordyn’s drink wasn’t spiked. She accepted something willingly. From...Luca Moretti.”

The name slams into me like a steel fist straight to the gut. Moretti.

Of fucking course. Moretti swine. They’ve been pushing the boundaries for months, running guns through Russo territory, skimming from our protection cuts, disrespecting every silent rule that’s kept a decade of peace.

But this? This was deliberate. This was a message. A message received loud and fucking clear.

“She didn’t know what it was,” Dante continues. “Word is he offered her a pill, told her it would make her feel good. Looked like ecstasy. Could’ve been laced and where she’d been drinking and never taken anything before...”

I grind my teeth, the taste of blood metallic on my tongue.

“And Matteo?”

Dante’s jaw ticks once. “He wasn’t there when it happened.

The kid left her alone and was busy charming some broad with more tits than brains.

He should’ve known better.” A dark, cold rage spreads through my chest, slow and venomous.

She trusted the wrong person for one fucking second, and it almost cost her everything.

“Watch Luca,” I growl. “I want him alive. For now .” Dante nods once. No questions. He knows what I mean. “Where is Matteo?” I question.

“He’s at the manor. Thought you’d want to deal with him personally.”

Smart man.

I nod once, sharp and deadly. My mind is already spinning through the ways the night could’ve ended. Should’ve ended. If I hadn’t gotten to her in time, if she’d been another body on a cold slab, I would’ve buried the Moretti’s under their own fucking club tonight.

And Matteo? That little shit is family. But even family bleeds if they fuck up badly enough. I turn sharply toward the stairs, Dante a silent shadow on my back. As I cross the ground toward the Russo manor, murder pumps through my veins like second nature.

The manor is too quiet when I get back.

Like the walls themselves can feel the wrath searing under my skin.

I stalk through the halls, my steps heavy against the marble, until I find Matteo exactly where Dante said he’d be, sitting outside, hunched over a cigarette he isn’t even smoking, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the stone.

He looks up when he hears me. And I see the colour drain from his face.

Good. I would be scared too, if I were him.

I don't say a word. I just stand there for a long moment, letting the silence stretch so tight it hums. When I finally speak, my voice is low and sharp enough to draw blood.

“How is sh?—”

“You left her alone.”

Matteo flinches, trying to recover. “Zio, I didn’t know, I swear. I left her for a minute with my friends, I thought she was fine?—”

“You thought ?” I cut him off, stepping closer. “You thought wrong, ragazzo.”

He scrambles to his feet, cigarette forgotten on the ground. “I didn’t see anyone give her anything, I swear?—”

I grab him by the shirt, yanking him closer, close enough that he can see exactly what’s simmering in my eyes. “You let a Moretti scumbag get close enough to put a pill in her hand in my club,” I snarl. “On my turf. Under my roof.”

Matteo swallows hard. His hands tremble at his sides.

“And while you were off chasing drinks and pussy,” I hiss, “she was lying on the fucking floor of my club, half dead. What the fuck is the matter with you? Did it not even occur to you to go and check if she was okay? Is this how you treat someone you care about, because you seemed to be fucking pretty close while you were dry humping her on the dancefloor?”

He opens his mouth, maybe to apologise, to beg, I don’t give a shit, nor do I want to hear it.

I shove him back hard enough that he stumbles, catching himself on the edge of a chair.

“Grow the fuck up, Matteo,” I snap. “This city isn’t your playground.

It’s a fucking war zone.” I step closer again, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

“You think you’re invincible because you carry the Russo name?

You’re not. The second you slip, the second you get sloppy, people die.

” Matteo’s eyes widen, and I know he’s thinking about Jordyn.

Let it rot in his gut. Let it brand itself into his spine. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re drunk, high, or dead,” I growl. “You don't ever leave family unprotected again. Not in my city. Not in my club.” I step back, staring him down.

“Watch yourself. Next time you slip,” I mutter, voice like ice, “you won’t have to worry about the Moretti’s. You’ll answer to me. Do you understand me?”

Matteo nods stiffly, swallowing back whatever pathetic excuses he wants to spill.

Good.

Because I’m not done yet.

“Get inside,” I bark. “Stay there. And pray I don’t change my mind about letting you walk.” He doesn’t argue, he turns and bolts toward the house like the devil himself is nipping at his heels.

I watch him go, every muscle coiled so tight I could snap bones with my bare hands. Then I turn and walk away, the rage burning slow and deep in my gut.

I barely make it two steps into the main hall before Enzo is in my face.

“What the hell was that about, Ares?” he demands, his voice low and tense, glancing around like he’s worried someone will overhear.

I don’t slow. I don't give a shit who hears. I plant myself in front of him, every inch of me vibrating with rage I haven't burned through yet.

“That,” I snarl, “was me teaching your son what it means to carry the Russo name. Something you should be teaching him.”

Enzo’s brows lower, shadowing his expression. “By humiliating him in front of the staff.”

“That’s right,” I bite out. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before letting a Moretti bastard near one of our own.”

My brother’s brown eyes flash, the first real hint of temper I’ve seen in him in years.

“He’s a kid, Ares,” he snaps. “He’s twenty-one. He made a mistake.”

I take a step closer, my voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “A mistake?” I intone, my fists clenching at my sides. “That mistake nearly cost Jordyn her life.”

Enzo flinches at her name, but he covers it quickly. “Matteo didn’t force her to take the drug, Ares. She made her own choices. She’s grieving, she’s not exactly been thinking straight.”

“Then Matteo should’ve been thinking for her,” I hiss. “He should've been watching her back. That’s what family does.”

Enzo’s mouth tightens into a hard line. “He’s not you,” he says quietly. “You were born for this. Matteo wasn’t.”

“If he’s not built for this life,” I growl, “then he shouldn’t be anywhere near it, Enzo.” Silence crackles between us, heavy, dangerous, while we glare at one another.

I see the guilt flicker across his face.

Because Matteo’s mistake doesn’t just sit on his shoulders, it sits on Enzo’s, too.

“He just fucking left her there. If the barmaid didn’t find her or I got there a minute later, your wife would be burying the only family she has left, and it would have all been Matteo’s fault. Let that sink in for a second.”

Enzo pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales, like he’s carrying the weight of the entire world on his back.

“You’re too soft on that kid,” I say, my voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “You always have been.”

Enzo’s nostrils flare, but he doesn’t argue. He knows it’s true. Deep down, he knows he’s let too many things slide. That every mistake Matteo has made is because no one ever made him pay for them.

“You think being soft is protecting him?” I shake my head slowly, disgust burning low in my gut. “It’s not. It’ll get him killed. Or worse, it’ll get the people around him killed.”

Enzo recoils slightly, like my words split him open from the inside.

I step closer, driving it home. “The boy is a Russo,” I growl, low and lethal, “but he doesn’t carry the name like it means something.

He doesn’t command respect, he just expects it.

He doesn’t inspire fear. And one day, if you don’t fix it, someone out there is going to remind him exactly what it costs to wear our blood without honour. ”

Enzo looks like he’s aged a decade standing there, his hands curling into fists at his sides, the weight of the truth finally sinking into his bones.

“And now,” I continue, my voice dropping to a quiet, deadly promise, “Because of your son’s stupidity. I have to put a bullet in Nicolai Moretti’s son. He’s only eighteen, Enzo.”

Enzo’s head snaps up, eyes wide, but I see the moment he realises there’s no point in arguing. Not with me. Not after what’s happened.

I lean in closer, my words meant to cut bone-deep. “Polish up that million-euro smile, fratello, because this city’s about to bleed. They made it personal. They touched what’s ours. And you know the rules, Enzo. Blood demands blood.”

Enzo swallows hard, but he nods once, tight and grim.

He knows. They all fucking know. But it’s too little, too late. Because the damage is already done.

I step back, my hands flexing at my sides. For a long moment, Enzo just stands there, staring at me like he doesn’t recognise me anymore.

Maybe he doesn’t.

Because the man standing in front of him now, the one named Il Mietitore , isn’t the little brother who used to patch up his knuckles after school fights. No, he’s the weapon our father created. The untamed beast behind the Russo throne.

And the one they’ll regret unleashing if they push me too far.

Without another word, I turn and walk away, leaving the weight of an imminent war to settle like dust in my wake.