Page 24

“Romano wanted blood, he didn’t care whose. Their parents were collateral.”

Silence stretches around us. “The next day Dante found Sergio. Hiding like a rat in Trapani.” I add, my voice colder now. “We brought him to Oscura.”

Neither my brother nor father of speak.

They don’t need to.

They’re both waiting for the same thing... the fate of the man who thought he could touch a Russo and live. “First, I got the name, then I slit his throat. Watched him drown in it.” Beside me Enzo flinches and Luciano doesn’t even blink.

“Romano’s not stupid. He’ll know the body’s ours, Ares.”

I nod. “He already does.”

Luciano’s eyes sharpen and he leans forward. “Che cossa hai fatto?”

“I had Dante leave Sergio at Romano’s gate,” I reply.

“Strung him up by his heels. Let the blood run down his steps and pool at the door.” I explain evenly.

“I wanted him to understand it wasn’t just a warning.

It’s a promise.” I pause. Not for effect, but control.

“It was a consequence. You come after a Russo; you don’t get to die clean. ”

Luciano leans back slowly, eyes narrowing through the smoke curling off his cigar.

There’s no shock on his face. Just satisfaction.

“Bene,” he says simply. “He needed to be reminded what kind of blood runs in this family.”

Enzo’s still pacing. He stops with a sharp exhale, running both hands through his hair like he’s trying to hold something in.

“Jesus, Ares.” He shakes his head. “You didn’t just send a message. You declared war.”

I glance at him, calm and controlled. Hell, the corner of my lip even twitches.

“War?” I tsk. “No. I’m going to rain hell on those bastards, and I won’t stop until every last one of them remembers who these streets belong to.”

I take a step forward, my voice dropping an octave. “First, I’m going to gut Romano. Strangle him with his own intestines. Then I’m going after Luca Moretti.”

I don’t even finish the sentence before Luciano slams his palm down on the desk.

The sound echoes.

Enzo flinches. I don’t.

Luciano’s eyes are piercing now, no longer calm, no longer composed. There’s something colder behind them. Fear. Or something close to it.

“You touch Luca Moretti,” he says, voice low and taut, “you ignite a war we can’t contain, Ares.”

I say nothing.

Only watch him.

He leans forward, cigar forgotten, fingers tightening on the edge of the desk.

“Nicolai’s father agreed to peace,” he continues. “We gave him our word. The docks, the routes...everything we’ve spent the last five years stabilising depends on that treaty holding.”

I tilt my head, my eyes narrowing. “That treaty broke the moment his dickhead of a son passed laced drugs around under my roof and almost killed Jordyn.”

Luciano’s jaw twitches.

“I’m not saying we let it go, figlio.” he snaps. “But killing Nicolai’s son will bring the weight of their entire family down on us. And they don’t play like they used to, Ares. Nicolai will burn every alliance to the ground to avenge his blood. Just as we would.”

Enzo sits now, quiet, eyes darting between us like he’s watching the wires tighten around a live bomb.

I step closer to the desk, my movements slow and deliberate, exuding a calm intensity as I press my palms firmly against its polished surface and glare at him with a fiery intensity.

“So, what do you suggest?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Shall we invite Nickolai over for a glass of wine? Perhaps we should toast to near-misses and the tragic fate of dead girls?”

Luciano stands now too, the tension thickening the air between us as he leans in, his face mere inches from mine. “You act like this is personal—” he begins, his voice attempting to remain steady.

“It is personal.” My words are low, laced with a dangerous finality that hangs in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

“She may not be blood, but Jordyn is one of us. She’s family, and that little twerp almost killed her by giving her a laced pill.

They found her sprawled on the cold bathroom floor, foam on her lips, barely breathing.

” The memory ignites a simmering anger that prickles at the back of my neck, a visceral reminder of how close I came to losing her.

“Had I got there a minute later, she would be dead.”

A deafening silence blankets the room, thick and suffocating. The only sound is Luciano’s heavy breath through his nose as he struggles to hold his composure.

“Luca sealed his fate the moment he stepped into my club with a pocket full of laced drugs.”

“Ares, if you kill him—” he starts, but I’m already gone. My mind’s too far ahead. Already mapping out every brutal step.

“Killing him would be too easy,” I say, voice low, unflinching. “I’m going to hunt him down like a dog, peel the skin off his bones, stew him into spezzatino and spoon-feed the little shit to his father.”

Hm, it’s a little twisted, but I’m not completely against that idea.

Luciano says nothing. His face gives nothing away, but his eyes, those cold, calculating eyes flash with something I haven’t seen in years. Not doubt. Certainly not fear. It’s...recognition. The kind a man has when he realises the monster he built has outgrown its leash.

Enzo, for once, is silent. He just stares at me, like he’s really seeing me for the first time, not as his brother, but as the weapon my father made me. Neither of them speaks.

Because now they know. I’m not just willing to go to war.

I am the war.

I pause, the rage in my blood still simmering just below the surface.

Then I glance at my father, my voice dropping to a murmur, a sharp reminder from the past, drawn straight from the man who made me.

“What is it you always say, Papá …?” I probe.

“Una volta che tocchi un Russo, hai firmato la tua condanna.”

Once you touch a Russo, you’ve signed your death sentence.

I don’t wait for permission. I don’t need it. I turn on my heel and walk out, boots heavy on marble, blood still roaring in my ears. Rage coils in my chest like something alive. Romano. Luca. Nicolai. I’ll bury them all. Burn their legacies to ash.

As I round the corner with speed, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched, I collide with someone. The impact is sudden and jarring. She stumbles back with a startled gasp, teetering on the brink of losing her balance. Instinctively, my hand darts out, gripping her arm firmly before she can fall.

Jordyn.

Fuck me. The harder I try to avoid her, the more she pops up from every corner.

She stands there barefoot, her eyes wide with surprise, swathed in a sea of fabric.

My hoodie.

She’s wearing my goddamn hoodie. Fuck.

For a second, just one, it scrambles everything. The rage, the focus. The kill-list running through my head. All of it short-circuits.

She gazes up at me, her lips parting slightly as if she’s about to speak, but I cut her off. “Watch where you’re going,” I say, the words tumbling out harsher than intended, clipped and razor-sharp. My hand remains clasped around her arm, firm and unyielding.

And I don’t let go.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft, a gentle whisper that barely cuts through the cacophony of sharp, chaotic feelings inside me.

I hesitate, silence stretching between us like a fragile thread. I should shut it down, sever this connection, and walk away. It’s what I’ve always done, my tried and true method of self-preservation.

I let go of her arm, retreating half a step, creating a sliver of space that feels both too much and not enough. It’s a distance that allows for neither comfort nor ease of breath.

“It would do you good to keep that pretty little nose of yours out of matters that don’t concern you.” The words slip out, each syllable cold and deliberate, designed to push her away, to send her fleeing.

Yet, she remains rooted in place, her gaze steady and unwavering. She looks at me, truly looks, without a hint of fear of what she might uncover.

You’re not afraid of me, are you?

And that’s when my resolve falters. My eyes drift downwards, landing on the hoodie she’s wearing. My hoodie. Not his. Her fingers clutch the hem with a possessiveness that speaks of defiance, as if she’s aware she shouldn’t have it, but refuses to let go.

A slow, smouldering heat ignites beneath my ribs, an unbidden warmth that spreads through my chest. I lift my eyes back to her face, searching for something, anything. “And if I say no... that I’m not okay… are you going to do something about it, bambina?”