Page 27

I stare at Romano while he hangs from the ceiling like meat.

Chains bite into his wrists, arms stretched above his head, his feet just barely touching the concrete floor. Blood drips from his jaw, slow, steady, an almost meditative rhythm.

Dante stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with a cigarette burning between his bloodied fingers. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t really have to. His work is already written across Romano’s face.

I step into the room, letting the heavy steel door slam shut behind me.

Romano lifts his head. Barely. Both eyes are almost swollen shut, yet they track me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of death he’s earned.

He won’t have to wait long.

“Ares…” Romano croaks, voice shredded to a whisper.

I click my tongue, slowly. “If I were you, I’d savour what little breath you’ve got left, Romano.” I walk forward, calm, gloves in hand, my expression carved from stone.

“I'm not here to negotiate. I’m here to finish what you started. You didn't just cross a line. You carved your name into it. And this? This is your reply.” I slowly roll my sleeves up to the elbows, revealing forearms taut with determination.

The room seems to hold its breath along with me, the air thick with tension and anticipation, as if the walls themselves are leaning in to witness what comes next.

“What was it?” I murmur. “You thought my absence was an opportunity to strike? That you could take over while I wasn’t looking?

” I smirk darkly and tut. “You’ll snap your ankles trying to walk the road I’ve paved. ”

He groans, something broken.

I lean in slightly, voice a notch lower.

“I may have been absent…” I say, “…but I’m always watching.”

I let the words sink in, then straighten.

“And you...along with every other bastard who’s forgotten what it means to cross a Russo—” I unclip the blade from the holster at my hip, no flourish, no threat. Just the quiet, clean sound of steel sliding free. His breath stutters. “—are about to be reminded.”

“This is for hurting what is mine.” I see the panic in his one good eye when I grip the blade. “For every breath she lost screaming for her parents, this is your price.”

Then I drive the blade into his gut, just below his navel, and slice upwards with deliberate care.

The motion is slow; every inch of the cut is made with intention.

The steel sinks deep into the flesh, precise in its trajectory, cleaving through muscle and sinew.

His scream shatters the silence of the room, a raw, piercing sound that echoes off the walls as his stomach splits open, releasing a tide of warmth and terror that cascades down his front, pooling onto the cold, unyielding floor.

His body convulses violently, legs flailing feebly as his innards slide out, as if desperately trying to flee the confines of his body.

I stand there, watching the life drain from his eyes, my face a mask of calm indifference. There is no fury behind my actions, no wild abandon. This is not an act of anger. This is a ritual, an exacting ceremony performed with the precision of an unflinching hand.

That was more satisfying than I anticipated.

Romano’s body sags in the chains, what’s left of his insides spilling onto the concrete like overfed rot. His head lolls forward, lips still parted like the scream hadn’t finished leaving his throat.

I calmly wipe my blade on his shirt, taking my time in the silence. Then I turn my attention to Dante.

“Wrap his entrails around his neck,” I command, my voice slicing through the air like sharp glass.

“And hang him up like an exhibition in the heart of Messina.” Dante raises an eyebrow, not out of scepticism, but out of respect.

“Let everyone witness the consequences of defying me. I want them choking on the stench of his bravado.”

Dante nods once and gestures with his head for the two other men in the room to unchain Romano.

This isn’t just about revenge.

This is the opening salvo.

I peel off the gloves and drop them by the door without a word.

The scent of blood still clings to my skin as I step into the cool night air.

The silence out here is different, cleaner, but no less charged.

My Ducati waits at the curb, all matte black steel and aggression.

Pulling on my helmet, I swing my leg over, grip the throttle, and in one sharp roar, I’m gone, slicing through the Sicilian dark like a shadow on fire.

The engine screams beneath me, the night air biting against my skin as I tear through the winding coastal roads like a man possessed.

Wind whips through my hair, salt and asphalt thick in my lungs.

The Ducati roars, all black muscle and fury beneath my hands, eating up the silence I couldn’t find in blood.

I take every turn too fast, every stretch of road like it owes me something.

I lean into the rage; let it bleed through my fingertips and burn behind my eyes until there’s nothing left but the cold.

By the time I roll back through the gates of the Russo estate, it’s morning, and my hands have finally stopped shaking.

Romano’s dead. His body should be strung up for the whole of Messina to see by now. But the fire inside me hasn’t gone out. It’s only changed colour.

I kill the engine and let the silence settle again. Dismount. Walk toward the manor, boots crunching on gravel, jacket heavy with sweat and smoke. I head toward the east wing—where my father and Enzo usually take their early coffee and discuss business—ready to give them the news.

But as I round the corridor leading past the side terrace, I slow.

There’s laughter. Light, hushed. One is Bianca’s voice, and the other, Jordyn’s .

I don’t mean to listen, I tell myself that, but I stop anyway.

There’s something in Jordyn’s tone, soft, uncertain...almost like a confession.

“I’ve just… never done any of it,” she’s saying. “I haven’t kissed anyone. Haven’t… been with anyone.”

Silence. Then Bianca, a smile in her voice. “Jord, are you telling me you’re still a virgin?”

“Well, yeah,” Jordyn answers, barely above a whisper. “And lately it’s like… I don’t know. I’m starting to want things. To feel … things.”

Something twists in my gut.

“You’ve touched yourself though, right?” Bianca asks, casual as you please. “Like had an orgasm?”

“Oh, yeah, I have done…that,” Jordyn replies, quieter. “With my fingers.”

There’s a pause. Then Bianca’s voice drops lower.

“Fingers? Oh, babe, no. We are going out and buying you a vibrator. Enzo used one on me the other night, and I swear for a second my soul floated right out of my body. No one uses their fingers anymore.”

I should leave. I have no business listening to this conversation.

But I’m rooted, I can’t fucking move.

Not when Jordyn’s voice sounds like that.

Not when the image of her sprawled out, slender fingers slowly caressing her engorged clit until she’s trembling while she climaxes won’t leave my head.

“I can’t believe you haven’t kissed anyone. What about that cute boy you were seeing back home? What’s his face... Liam? You never kissed him?” Bianca's voice carries a mix of disbelief and curiosity, as if she's probing an unsolved mystery.

Jordyn sighs, and I can almost picture her biting that bottom lip, a thoughtful crease forming on her brow.

“No. We came close a couple of times, but… I just didn’t feel that spark with him, you know?

I’ve never felt it with anyone, really.” Her words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken longing and a hint of wistfulness.

She pauses, and the silence is thick, as if she's gathering her thoughts from the depths of her heart. “When I kiss someone for the first time… I want it to be monumental. Something I remember forever.”

“Like Mum and Dad?” Bianca asks gently, her voice softening with the tender echo of their parents' love story.

“Exactly. The way she used to describe it, like she was floating.” Jordyn’s laugh is soft, like the gentle rustle of leaves in a summer breeze.

Then, quieter, almost as if she's embarrassed by the depth of her own desires, she confesses, “I know it probably sounds juvenile. It’s just a kiss. But when I do it… I want the other person to want it just as badly as I do.” She exhales, her breath a whispered wish.

“Like we’ll die if we don’t give in and taste each other. ”

“And so you should, because you deserve nothing less, babe.” Bianca tells her, her voice full of warmth and sincerity, “But remember, those breathtaking moments... the ones that make your heart race and your spirit soar, are very rare and often confined to the world of movies and romance books. In real life, the magic isn’t always so grand or perfect. ”

“I know, and I’m aware that it sounds ridiculous… but I’d rather wait for something that feels like magic than settle for something that doesn’t.”

I don’t move. I physically can’t. The world tilts ever so slightly, as if the very foundation beneath me has shifted, like something fragile has broken loose in the frame of reality.

She’s still a virgin. She’s untouched. Pure.

Those words reverberate in my mind, louder and more piercing than they should be.

Like the echo of gunfire ricocheting through my ribs.

I fix my gaze on the rough, cold stone wall before me, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, jaw locked so tightly that I can feel the grind of bone against bone.

That night at the pool... the way she moved against Matteo, the sultry sounds that escaped her lips, the longing look in her eyes.

.. I was convinced she’d surrendered herself to him, believed she’d crossed that irrevocable line.

I told myself it didn't matter. A lie. I assured myself she was merely another name on the endless list of mistakes he’d inevitably make.

Another lie. But if she’s still untouched, if he didn’t take what I thought he did, then what burden have I been bearing all this time?