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ROMIRO

T he bourbon burns as it slides down my throat, a welcome distraction from the gnawing sense of dread creeping through me. I’m sitting in Emiliano’s apartment, the room dimly lit and heavy with the scent of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey. Emiliano, seated across from me, swirls his glass of dark liquor, his brow furrowed in concentration.

We’ve been talking in circles for the past hour, dissecting every detail of the attack on the Camorra, the hit that took Alessia’s Nonna. It’s all we can think about, even with the liquor coursing through our veins, dulling the edges of our anger and grief.

Emiliano’s voice cuts through the silence. "I'm glad Mara and Valentina decided to check on Alessia. She shouldn’t be alone right now."

I nod, thinking of Alessia. Her fiery red hair and the fierce way she holds herself despite everything. The way she looked at me with determination on Sunday, even as her world crumbled around her. I should have stayed with her, should have insisted. But she’s strong. Stronger than I give her credit for.

I down the rest of my drink and slam the glass onto the table. “This attack was a warning,” I mutter. “And I’m sure it was the fucking Outfit.”

Emiliano pulls out his phone and frowns. "I’ll text one of Valentina's bodyguards—just to make sure everything’s good."

We wait, the seconds stretching into minutes. Emiliano's frown deepens when no response comes. "That’s odd."

“Try another,” I suggest, tension coiling in my voice. “And then the other guards.”

Emiliano does, but the silence from the other end is deafening. My heart starts to pound, an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. They wouldn’t dare...would they? They would. Another minute passes. No answer.

I grab my phone. “I’m calling Alessia.” Eli tries Valentina and Mara, but neither of us gets answer from them.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, rising to my feet. The room feels too small, the air too thick. “We need to get over there. Now.”

We race to Alessia’s apartment, the drive a blur of city lights and tension. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. When we finally pull up to her building and take the stairs two at a time to her floor, the scene that greets us stops me cold.

The door to her apartment is busted wide open, splinters of wood scattered across the floor. Just outside, two bodyguards lie unconscious, tied up like discarded dolls.

“Goddammit,” Emiliano breathes, rushing forward.

We enter the apartment cautiously, our hearts hammering in our chests. The place is empty, not a sound. No sign of a struggle inside, no broken glass, no overturned furniture. Just the chilling emptiness.

But on the coffee table, there’s a note. I snatch it up, my hands trembling.

You thought you could keep them safe? Think again. - H

Fuck. The blood drains from my face. Helen. Of course, it’s her. My mother, the woman who sold me into the Syndicate. I grip the note so hard it crumples in my hand. And then my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a new message. No number. Just a picture.

It’s them. Alessia, Valentina, and Mara. All unconscious, tied up, gagged. Blood drips down their faces. My eyes zero in on Alessia. My Alessia. My heart stops. For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t think. A darkness crashes over me, a wave of panic and rage and something so sharp it feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

“They’re gone,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “She took them.”

“Fuck,” Emiliano snaps, pacing, running his hands through his hair. “We need to move, and fast.”

“We might be able to track the phone through cell towers,” I tell him; Matteo has done it thousands of times.

Emiliano’s nodding. “I’ll call Matteo. He’ll know how to track them. But we need to be quick.”

I’m barely listening. My mind is spiraling. Alessia. I let this happen. I left her alone, and now she’s in Helen’s hands. My mother—if you can even call her that. The woman who thrives on chaos, who won’t stop until she’s taken everything from me.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “We need to get to the club, to the Camorra’s headquarters. Matteo can set up there.”

We rush out, but the car ride is silent, tension hanging thick in the air. I grip the wheel, my mind racing with every possibility, every scenario. My phone vibrates again. Another text.

Uknown Number

You have no idea what’s coming, Romiro. You better start praying. - H

“Nicolo,” I mutter. “I need to call Nicolo. If anyone can help us find Helen, it’s him.”

Emiliano glances over. “Nicolo tends to stay out of the Camorra’s business.”

“Not when it concerns Helen,” I grit out. “He’ll come. He has to.”

I hit the speed dial, my heart hammering as my fingers grip the phone so tightly that the case digs into my skin.

The line rings, once, twice. “Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Pick up. Pick up.”

On the third ring, he answers. “Romiro?” His voice is calm and steady. A lifeline in the chaos.

“I need you,” I say, my voice raw, desperate. “It’s Helen. She’s taken Alessia and the others. I need your help.”

There’s a pause, a heartbeat of silence, and then his voice, firm, resolute. “I’m on my way back to New York, text me your location.”

I hang up, my heart pounding, my mind racing. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. I’m not going to let her win. Not this time. Not ever.

I take another swig of bourbon from my flask, letting the burning fuel the fire in my chest. We’re going to find them. All of them. We’re going to bring them back. And Helen… Helen will pay for every second she keeps them away from me.

As I look around the darkened room, at the men I’ve come to trust, at the tension etched on their faces, I feel a cold determination settle over me. The stakes have never been higher. The battle lines are drawn. And I will do whatever it takes to bring them home.

* * *

The club is buzzing with low murmurs, the bass of the music throbbing through my veins. I’m back in the dimly lit heart of the Camorra's world. It’s too familiar, the haze of smoke curling up toward the ceiling, the low lights casting long shadows across the polished floors. The red glow from the neon lights on the bar is the only warmth in this cold place. It’s a stark contrast to the icy tension gnawing at my insides.

I pour another drink, the amber liquid catching the red light for a moment before sliding down my throat, burning a path to the core of my turmoil. Nicolo is pacing behind me, his brow furrowed in concentration, fingers tapping against his phone as he examines the CCTV footage from the surrounding area. Matteo sits at the end of the table with his laptop, the screen flickering with codes and images, his fingers moving with a frenzied urgency.

“Matteo,” I snap, my voice harsh, desperate. “What have you got?”

He doesn’t even look up, his focus unbroken. “I’m running an analysis on the metadata from the photos Helen sent. If there’s any geo-location data embedded, we might have a chance.”

I clutch the glass, my knuckles pale, struggling to maintain a shred of control. The room feels too small, the walls closing in, the noise too loud, a pounding rhythm that matches my heartbeat. My mind races, flashes of Alessia’s face, her smile, her laughter, all of it distorted by fear now. I shouldn’t have let her stay alone, but she wanted space to grieve the loss of her Nonna. I shouldn’t have left her unprotected. I should’ve been there to protect her myself. Their guards were clearly useless fucks. What the fuck was I thinking? No one can protect my woman better than me.

Nicolo moves to my side, his gaze still fixed on the screen. “Found something,” he mutters, his voice tight. I lean over, squinting at the grainy footage. There, barely discernible in the shadows, are two black vans parked out back. The image is shaky, the quality poor, but it’s enough. We see figures moving, the girls being dragged out, split up between the two vans.

I slam my fist on the table, making the glasses rattle. “Dammit!” I growl, anger boiling over. “They knew exactly what they were doing.”

Nicolo doesn’t flinch. He never does. His calm under pressure is maddening. “They were prepared,” he agrees, his tone measured, too measured. “And they’re covering their tracks well. Matteo, can you enhance the plates?”

Matteo nods, fingers flying across the keyboard. “I’ll try, but the camera that was used is old and grainy. They were smart and stayed out of the camera’s direct line of sight. This is the best angle we have.”

I down the rest of the bourbon, feeling it scorch my throat, trying to burn away the helplessness. It doesn’t. Nothing does. I glance over at Nicolo, whose jaw is clenched, tension rolling off him in waves. This is different for him. He always keeps his distance and stays out of Camorra’s business. But not now. Not when it concerns Helen. Our mother.

“Nicolo,” I start, my voice strained. “Why didn’t we pursue her harder? Why did we let her slip through the cracks?”

He turns to me, his eyes sharp, unreadable. “Because we thought she was done, Romiro. We thought she’d disappear into whatever hell she crawled out of. We never expected her to come back. And we never thought she could do this much harm.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it, just bitterness, just a gnawing pit of regret. “Well, she’s back. And she’s more dangerous than ever. We underestimated her.”

Nicolo’s expression softens just a fraction, a glimpse of something almost like pity in his eyes. “Maybe. But we’re not done. Not yet.”

Matteo suddenly sits up straighter. “I’ve got something,” he announces. “There’s a slight reflection in the window of one of the vans… it’s faint, but it looks like a street sign.”

We all crowd around the screen, eyes straining to see the tiny details Matteo has managed to pull from the pixelated mess. It’s there, just barely—a few letters, part of a name.

“Matteo, can you enhance it?” Nicolo urges, his voice low.

“I’m trying,” Matteo mutters, his fingers flying over the keyboard, tweaking the image, sharpening the details.

The tension is thick—my breath shallow. Each second feels like an eternity. I’m holding on by a thread, the hope that this might lead us somewhere, anywhere. I can’t lose them. I can’t lose her. Alessia. Her name is a mantra in my mind, a lifeline in this sea of chaos.