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15

ROMIRO

T he air is thick with smoke and sweat as I make my way down the narrow, dimly lit stairs, the distant sound of fists meeting flesh echoing through the metal walls. The underground fight scene is buried deep beneath Cincinnati, hidden in the bones of old buildings where no one but the desperate and the ruthless dare to tread. It’s the kind of place where rules don’t apply, where money changes hands faster than punches, and where information is the most valuable currency of all. I’m deep in the Outfit territory. I’d managed to get through their half of Ohio and sneak into one of their fight clubs.

I step through the doorway into the pit, immediately swallowed by the noise—jeers, shouts, and the dull roar of a crowd thirsty for blood. The space is dark, the only light coming from a few flickering bulbs that cast shadows across the cold steel walls. The makeshift ring at the center is barely held together by rusted chains and metal posts, the canvas stained with years of spilled blood.

I keep to the edges, moving slowly, my eyes scanning the crowd. I’m not here to watch the fight. I’m here for something else—for the whispers, the secrets that slip through clenched teeth, the rumors that ride on a drink too many or a threat too few. I need to know where the Outfit is, and what they’re planning. I need to know why the hell they’ve been so quiet… until now.

The crowd parts for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of the fighters in the ring. Two men, both battered and bleeding, their faces twisted in a mix of pain and fury. One of them, a stocky guy with a broken nose and blood streaming down his face, is driving his opponent into the ropes, his fists beating into his opponent. The other guy is struggling to stay upright, his eyes glazed, his mouth slack. The crowd is on its feet, shouting, screaming for more.

But I’m not interested in the fight. I turn my attention to a group of men huddled near the back, speaking in low, urgent tones. I drift closer, trying to catch their words over the noise.

“…Moretti’s lost control,” one of them mutters, his voice just loud enough for me to hear. “The brothers are fighting, tearing each other apart. Word is the old man’s out of commission—paralyzed.”

I freeze, my heart pounding in my chest. The old man. Val’s father. He’s alive? The Capo. Alive but paralyzed. I push closer, pretending to be interested in the fight, keeping my ears open.

Another man, taller, with a scar running down his cheek, shakes his head. “I heard he’s alive but barely. Some say it’s because Emiliano took Val back to New York. The Moretti brothers are losing their shit, fighting over who’s in charge now.”

There’s a low chuckle from another guy, a thin man with a snake tattoo crawling up his neck. “Yeah, and now they’re planning something big. Some attack. But who the hell knows where or when. Just rumors, right?”

My mind races, piecing together the fragments. Val’s dad is alive but paralyzed. After we took Valentina back to New York, Eli went face to face with her father and the Capo of the Outfit. Iit ended badly, both were shot. We thought we had killed him—and left the Outfit in disarray, the Moretti brothers tearing at each other for power. It makes sense—their Capo is out of commission, and they’re trying to fill the vacuum. And we are expecting an attack. But when? And where?

I edge a little closer, trying to catch more of their conversation. The taller guy glances around, and I look away, pretending to watch the fight, my hands in my pockets, my shoulders hunched. I can feel their eyes on me, but I keep my face blank, uninterested. No one knows me, so I’m in the clear.

“I don’t know, man,” the scarred one mutters, lowering his voice. “But if they’re going for the Folonari’s, it’s going to get messy. Real messy.”

I grit my teeth, my jaw tightening. Of course, it would be the Folonari’s. The Outfit has always had a hard-on for us, always looking for a reason to make a move, to take us down a peg. And now, with their own house in chaos, they might be desperate enough to try something stupid.

I step back, blending into the shadows, my mind whirring. I need to get more information, to figure out exactly what’s happening, and who’s pulling the strings. Right now all I have are whispers and rumors—nothing solid.

I make my way around the edge of the crowd, my eyes scanning for familiar faces. I spot a few low-level guys, faces I recognize from past dealings, but none of them look like they’re in the know. I keep moving, slipping through the throng, my ears tuned to the conversations around me.

“…can’t trust Moretti’s youngest,” a voice says nearby, low and sharp. “He’s too hungry for power, thinks he can step into his brother’s shoes.”

“Yeah, but his brother’s no better,” another voice replies. “He’s losing control. Too much bickering, too many alliances breaking apart. Now, the old man’s just a ghost, stuck in a chair.”

I pause, leaning against the cold steel wall, pretending to adjust my coat. I need to know more, to confirm if it’s true.

I spot a familiar face—a guy named Jaco, who’s been known to run messages for the Outfit. I sidle up to him, keeping my tone casual. “Jaco,” I say, nodding in greeting. “Heard some interesting things tonight. Thought you might be able to clear them up.”

Jaco’s eyes flick to mine, wary. “Romiro,” he says slowly, his expression guarded. “You shouldn’t be here, and I don’t know anything worth telling.”

I shrug, playing it cool. “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m hearing talk about old man Moretti. Is he really alive?”

Jaco hesitates, glancing around. “That’s the word,” he says finally, his voice low. “But he’s not the man he used to be. They say he’s paralyzed. Can’t move. Just sits there, staring at the walls.”

I nod, trying to hide my reaction, my mind racing. “And the brothers?” I press. “What’s going on with them?”

Jaco shakes his head. “It’s a mess,” he admits. “They’re tearing each other apart, trying to prove who’s stronger. The youngest wants control, but the older one… he’s not letting go that easy.”

I nod, processing the information. “And the attack?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

Jaco shrugs. “Rumors,” he says. “But where there’s smoke…”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “There’s fire.”

I thank him, slipping back into the crowd, my thoughts spinning. If Val’s dad is alive and the brothers are at each other’s throats, it means there’s a power vacuum, a struggle for control. It’s what we wanted, but now that they might be planning an attack on us, they could be trying to unite under a common enemy… us.

I need to get this information back to Eli, to Dominico. We need to be ready for whatever’s coming. I turn, heading for the exit, my heart pounding in my chest. The underground is alive with danger, with threats lurking in every corner, and I can’t afford to stay here any longer.

I push through the door and out into the cold night air, my breath coming in sharp bursts, my mind racing with possibilities, with fears, with plans. The Moretti’s are fighting with each other, Val’s dad is alive, and the Outfit is planning something big.

And we need to be ready when they make their move.

* * *

The sounds of the roulette wheel spinning, chips clinking, and muffled laughter fill the air as I walk through the back room of the Camorra’s base. I’m back in New York. The place is alive tonight, filled with gamblers and shadowed figures, their faces half-lit by the dim overhead lights. The room is thick with cigar smoke, the scent mingling with expensive cologne and the underlying tang of desperation. I make my way past the roulette tables, where hands move quickly over the green felt, placing bets, testing fate.

I spot Emiliano at the far end, lounging in one of the deep, leather-lined booths, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He’s talking to Dominico, whose eyes are focused on something distant, his expression unreadable. I catch Eli’s eye, and he gives a quick nod, signaling for me to come over. I weave through the crowd, slipping past the waitstaff carrying trays of drinks, my footsteps barely making a sound on the plush carpet.

As I approach, I see Dom lean in, speaking quietly, his voice low, his expression tight. He’s always like that—calculated, cool, the kind of guy who measures every word. Eli looks more relaxed, but I know better. He’s always coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap. Even when he looks laid back, his mind is working a mile a minute.

I slide into the booth next to Eli, across from Dom. Eli’s eyes flick to me, his smile tight, a hint of tension in his gaze. “Romiro,” he greets me, his tone light but there’s an edge to it. “What did you find out?”

I take a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Val’s dad,” I say slowly. “He’s alive. Paralyzed, but alive. The Moretti brothers are tearing each other apart, fighting for control, and there’s talk of a planned attack. Rumors mostly, but enough chatter to suggest it’s serious.”

Eli’s smile fades, his face hardening. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the information settle. Dom leans back, his fingers tapping on the edge of his glass, his eyes narrowing slightly. He’s listening closely, always weighing every piece of information like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve.

“The old man being alive changes things,” Dom murmurs, his voice calm but sharp. “If he’s paralyzed, he’s a weak figurehead. But he’s still the Capo in the eyes of many. The brothers fighting… it’s a power vacuum, and that makes them unpredictable.”

Eli nods, his jaw tightening. “And if they’re planning an attack, it could mean they’re trying to solidify their position, unite under a common cause. Or it’s a smokescreen for something bigger.” He pauses, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, staring into it like he’s trying to read the future in its depths.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “Are you going to tell Valentina?”

Eli’s head snaps up, his gaze piercing. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, just watches me, assessing. “No,” he says finally, his tone firm, brooking no argument. “She’s not… she’s not in a good place right now. She’s been struggling, mentally. I don’t want to add to that. Not until she’s a bit more stable.”

I nod, understanding, but a part of me is uneasy. Val has a right to know, doesn’t she? But Eli’s protective, fiercely so, and I know he’s not saying this lightly. Still, I have to push, just a little. “She’ll find out eventually, Eli. Better it comes from you.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, looking older than he is for a moment. “I know,” he mutters. “But not yet. Let her get stronger first. Then I’ll tell her. Right now, she needs to feel safe. She needs to feel… like she has some control.”

Dom nods in agreement, his gaze steady on Eli. “He’s right. If we tell her now, it could set her back. She’s been through enough. We need to handle this carefully.”

I glance between them, feeling the weight of their decision. I get it. But it doesn’t make it any easier. Val’s been through hell, and knowing her father’s alive, it could break her.

Eli downs the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, slamming the glass down on the table with a soft thud. “Keep your ear to the ground, Romiro,” he says, his voice tense but controlled. “Find out if these rumors have any teeth. And if they do, we need to be ready.”

I nod, my mind already spinning with possibilities, plans forming and reforming. “I’ll find out,” I promise. “And I’ll make sure we’re not caught off guard.”

Eli leans back, his expression hardening, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Good. Because if they’re coming for us… we’ll make sure they regret it.”

* * *

I take a steadying breath as I make my way down the hall, my footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. Her door opens before I even have a chance to knock, and she's standing there, eyes bright and inviting. I hardly have a second to take her in before she pulls me in.

The door barely has time to close behind me before her hands are on my chest, pulling me down into her. I take a step forward, and her back hits the wall, a soft gasp escaping her lips. I’m on her before she can catch her breath, my mouth capturing hers in a hungry kiss. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding me tight, and it only fuels the fire that’s been building inside me all night. I pull back, my fingers trace the flimsy see-through nighty she’s wearing. Leaning down, my lips trace the outside shell of her ear as I whisper, “Did you wear this”—my fingers trace the hemline of the nighty—“for me?”

Her fingers dig into my shirt, and she lets out a breathless, “Maybe.” With one swipe, I tear the flimsy thing off her body, a low curse escaping from my lips when I can finally see her whole body, she’s fully naked. Alessia isn’t wearing any underwear.

Pushing her back into the wall, I feel her body press into mine, the heat between us undeniable, like something electric coursing through my veins. Her hands slide up to my neck, tangling in my hair, and I can feel her heart pounding against my chest. My lips find hers, and I take my time as my thumb traces her hard nipples, toying with them, drawing out breathy moans. I groan against her lips, biting down, and when she gasps, I thrust my tongue into her mouth. The kiss deepens, urgent, full with a hunger that’s been simmering for too long.

“Romiro,” she breathes, my name a desperate whisper on her lips, and it’s all I need to hear. I pull her closer, lifting her slightly, and she wraps her legs around my waist, her body arching into mine. I feel her shiver under my touch, her breath hitching as my hands roam, exploring every curve, every soft line. She arches her back, and I can feel her wetness soak the front of my pants.

I lay her down on the bed, tugging and biting at her bottom lip. I give her a final peck before slowly moving to her neck. I bite down on her sensitive spot, earning me a moan. “Romiro...I—” I don’t let her finish talking, I thumb her nipple, before tugging at it. Unable to resist, I lean in and take the nipple into my mouth, lapping my tongue against it like a teenager with a tit obsession. Her lip’s part. “Mmmm…” The sound goes straight to my dick, hardening it to the point of torture. I bite down on her nipple enough to cause slight discomfort. Moving down her body, I kiss, bite, tug,and take. Fuck she’s heaven.

I pull back, watching her flushed face, her hooded eyes on mine, I take my time parting her soft thighs, pressing a kiss along the inside of her thigh as I make my way toward her heat. I swipe my tongue over her sex before focusing on her clit. I trace my fingers over her wetness, teasing her entrance with them before thrusting my fingers inside her. Christ, she’s soaked.

“Is this all for me, Red?” I ask, my voice sounding foreign to me.

Her fingers tug at my hair, as she chokes out, “Yes, God, yes.” Her breaths come in sharp gasps, and I feel her body tense, arching beneath me. I take my time, teasing her, drawing out every reaction, every sound, until I feel her begin to unravel, her breath hitching, her body quivering under my touch.

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breathless, and I feel a surge of satisfaction at her need, at the way she’s falling apart in my hands. I draw it out, letting the tension build, feeling her tighten, her breath catches, and then I give her what she wants, what she needs. I let her come.

She cries out, her body shuddering, her hands gripping the sheets, and I don’t stop until I feel her relax, her muscles trembling, her breath coming in uneven gasps. I move back up to her, capturing her lips in another kiss, my hand cradling her face, my thumb brushing over her cheek.

She’s still trembling, her eyes wide and dark, and I feel the need inside me rising, demanding to be sated. I move over her, quickly unbuckling and positioning myself, her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer, her nails digging into my shoulders. I meet her gaze, holding it, making sure this is what she wants, what she needs.

And then, in one swift movement, I thrust into her, hard and deep, and her head falls back, a soft gasp escaping her lips. I breathe her in and memorize the complete abandon on her striking features as I fuck her in a rhythm that leaves her whimpering for her release. She comes apart when I pull back, then drive back in.

She tightens around me, her breath uneven, her nails digging into my back, and I drive deeper, harder, pushing us both to the edge. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her body arching, and I physically feel her getting closer, her breaths turning to soft, desperate sounds.

We move together, in a rhythm that feels like a storm, fierce and consuming. And then, she shudders, her body tightening around mine, her fingers clutching her bed sheets as she moans, “Romiro…yes…yes…Romiro…” The sound of her throaty moans sends me crashing into my own release.

I hold her close, feeling her body tremble against mine, her breath hot against my neck. Our body’s covered in a sheen of sweat as we breathe each other in. I press a soft kiss to her temple, my hands gently stroking her back, calming her, grounding her. “You okay?” I murmur, my voice still rough, my heart still racing.

She nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “More than okay,” she whispers, her fingers tracing my jawline.

I pull her into my arms, lifting her gently, and lay her down on the bed, brushing her hair back from her face. She looks up at me, her eyes still a little hazy as she reaches for me, tugging on my arm. “Stay,” she breathes.

I slip out of my clothes, or I should say, what’s left of them, and slide into the bed beside her. She curls against me, her head resting on my chest, and I stroke her hair, feeling the soft strands slip through my fingers. The tension in my body slowly eases, replaced by a warmth that fills the quiet space between us. Her breathing slows, mine follows, and as the world outside fades, I feel something settle inside me—something steady, something real.

I hold her close, my fingers playing with her hair, and I close my eyes, letting sleep pull me under, knowing that tonight, at least, we are safe.