Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The knife glides like butter through his temple, silent and precise.
For a moment, his eyes go wide with terror, his mouth falling open in a breathless gasp. Then, the light leaves them.
Blood seeps onto the concrete, pooling beneath his twitching body.
I straighten, wiping the blade on his pant leg with cold indifference.
“Put him in the van,” I instruct Matteo, my voice steady and emotionless. “Drive it into the river.”
Matteo nods once, and with Sandro’s help, they haul the corpse into the van like a sack of trash.
Andre pulls up in the black SUV, and I climb into the passenger seat, gun still loose in my hand.
As we pull away, I glance once at the empty white van, a coffin with wheels, knowing it’ll be rusting at the bottom of the river by morning.
A fitting grave for a man who thought he could terrorize my woman with roses and bullets.
When we rejoin Aemelia’s family, I switch cars to slide into the seat beside Carmella, and we drive back to the Venturi building in silence thick with the weight of the night, the faint scent of blood still clogging my nostrils.
Tonight, we put an end to Enzo’s reach.
We snuffed out the man who dared to think he could make our woman afraid.
And when we return, Aemelia will know that whatever life she had before, whatever fears she carried—none of them matter.
She’s one of us now.
We’ll keep her safe.
38
LUCA
TYING LOOSE ENDS
The deserted lot is silent except for the distant hum of the city, the kind of place where deals are struck, and bodies are buried. The headlights cast long shadows across the cracked asphalt, illuminating the other convoy as they pull in—a sleek, black car followed by two more, their windows tinted, their engines humming low.
From the second the doors open, the men on both sides move with precision. My soldiers step forward first, meeting Alphonso’s halfway, weapons visible but not raised, a show of strength without the promise of immediate bloodshed. It’s protocol, a delicate dance of power and caution. I step out of the car and the gravel crunches beneath my polished leather shoes as I walk to meet Alfonso Mesina in the center of the lot.
Mesina rolls his shoulders, his expression impassive but his dark eyes sharp as they fix on me. He’s older, near sixty, with silver at his temples and lines carved deep into his face, each one earned through blood and betrayal. He’s ruled his empire with an iron fist for decades, and he didn’t get here by letting slights go unanswered. My father had a lot of respect for the man but warned me about his temper and his black-and-white thinking.
“Luca.” His voice is calm and measured. “I assume you have an explanation for why my man has disappeared into the hands of your family.”
I hold his gaze, my own mask of indifference firmly in place. “Enzo broke the rules.”
His brow lifts slightly. “And what rules are those?”
“He ordered a hit on my family without consulting you. Without sanction.”
Mesina exhales slowly, shaking his head like a disappointed father. “Enzo was a made man, and the hit was on a member of his family.”
“Enzo doesn’t care about family. He killed his own brother.”
“Carlo?”
“This trouble, it’s Lambretti, not Mesina.”
The older man studies me for a long moment, his face unreadable. “Who killed him?”
I tilt my head slightly, my lips pressing into a thin line. Silence is my answer.
Mesina nods once as if he expected no less. “And what of his crew?”
“Some are dead. The rest are making their peace with God.”
He exhales through his nose, considering his options. He knows I’ve done what had to be done, but there’s still a matter of respect—an insult that needs to be balanced. Blood demands blood, but money? Money can smooth superficial wounds.
I reach into my coat pocket, pulling out a small, folded document. “The Venturi Construction project on the East Side. Five percent of the development profits, untaxed.”
Mesina takes the paper, unfolds it, and scans it with the careful eye of a man who knows every number has meaning. Five percent is generous enough to make him think. It’s enough to keep him away from Aemelia. His silence stretches, heavy in the cold night air.
Then, he folds the document and tucks it into his jacket. “Enzo,” he says after a beat, “will be remembered as a man who broke omertà.”
I nod slightly, understanding. A neat lie. A public reason for his execution that will keep Mesina’s name clean and prevent unnecessary bloodshed between our families. It’s a move that benefits us both.
Mesina clasps his hands behind his back, his eyes flicking to mine once more. “And the girl?”
The temperature drops between us. My body tenses before I can stop it, but he catches the shift, his lips curving in the barest hint of amusement.