NERO
“It’s good to see you, birichino.”
I chuckle as I hug Aldo and clap his back, letting the goofy-ass nickname he had for me when I was six roll over me.
I mean, it’s Aldo.
Aldo and my father were friends even back when my grandfather was running the family, and Aldo’s dad Bruno was Grandpa’s consigliere. When my father, Antonio, took over, Bruno’s son Aldo become his consigliere.
Aldo never had children, though. Never even got married.
Dom, being one of my best and oldest friends—albeit one who doesn’t share my part-time affinity for adjudicating and sentencing the accused in a clandestine secret society—was obviously chosen by me to be my consigliere. But I still call Aldo in when I can’t think through a problem or need some advice that only comes with decades of experience in this game.
Aldo pulls away from me and smiles as he embraces Dom, patting his back as well. We all move into my office, Aldo and Dom taking seats on the couches as I move to the bar cart.
“Drink, Aldo?”
“Sí, grazie,” he nods. “Fernet, please.”
“Dom?”
My consigliere makes a face. “Literally anything but Fernet, thanks.”
Hey, not everyone’s a fan of something that tastes like cooking herbs and Jägermeister served out of an asshole. But unlike Dom, I happen to share Aldo’s affinity for the admittedly foul-tasting Italian aperitif.
I grin as I pour Dom a whiskey and then grab the Fernet bottle for Aldo and me.
“Salute,” I say as the three of us raise our glasses. Then I settle in on the couch across from the two of them.
“So,” Aldo nods. “Leo Debolsky.”
Dominic glowers as I exhale slowly.
“Immediate thoughts?” I ask.
Aldo’s nose wrinkles. “He’s a prick and a drunk. With no class whatsoever,” he mutters.
Dom spreads his arms. “Exactly.”
“To be fair,” I say, “he’s apparently no longer a drunk. He’s sober these days.”
Aldo lifts a shoulder and grunts. “Still a classless prick. However…” He clears his throat. “The Debolsky Bratva is on the rise—considerably so over the last few years. Vladimir cashed in some favors and bought himself a seat on the Aviation Council in Moscow, which basically means he gets the privilege of policing himself in terms of exports.” Aldo snorts. “As you might imagine, this has made him an extremely wealthy and powerful man quite quickly.”
I nod, my brows furrowed. I don’t have any interest in marrying my fucking sister off like a bargaining chip. We don’t live in the eleventh fucking century. But I do want Aldo’s take on this, because it could be that the Debolsky family wants to figure out a way to do business with us that does not include my sister having to learn how to speak Russian.
Aldo eyes me as he takes a slow sip of his Fernet. “You’re not really looking to marry Gabriella off.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
I shrug. “Would my father have?”
He chuckles deeply. “If Vladimir Debolsky had come to him with the power, influence, and money he has now?” He grins. “Maybe?”
Dominic scowls, slugging back the rest of his drink at once. “Nero’s not doing that.”
“Why don’t we let the king speak for himself, Mr. Caruso,” Aldo says quietly. “Maybe he does have his mind made up. I will say, though, a partnership with the Debolsky Bratva would be extremely advantageous to this family. There’s even talk of Vladimir making a play for a seat on the Bratva High Council. I don’t have to tell you that is no small thing.”
He’s not wrong.
Various criminal organizations have a way of putting together their own pseudo-legislative bodies to keep the peace between the biggest fish, and guarantee that a rising tide lifts all ships. The Irish have their Council of Clans. Us Italians have The Commission, which I sit on with the Barone, Amato, Scaliami, and Marchetti families.
The Russians have two groups, because they’re fucking Russian and of course they do. There’s the Iron Table, which includes Kir with the Nikolayev Bratva, Yelizaveta Solovyova running the Solovyova Bratva, Roman’s father helming the Nikitin Bratva, Bane’s father at the head of the Antonov Bratva, and Drazen Krylov. There’s also the Bratva High Council, which includes Mikhail’s aunt Anastasia leading the Javanović Bratva, along with the Kashenko, Volkov, and Tsarenko Bratva families.
…And the Kalishniks.
My thoughts are suddenly far, far away from Leo’s absurd proposal to marry my sister.
And squarely on her.
Milena.
An angry, sharp feeling surges inside me. Not directed at her, or the completely innocuous word she said that set me right the fuck off the other day.
No. It’s because she’s not with me right now.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt it. It’s been creeping in there ever since that first night when she walked into Greymoor not having a clue what was waiting for her.
The annoying reality is, I like Milena being around.
A lot.
I like the way her presence makes my blood roar a little louder. The way her scent curls in my senses, hair, and skin and just fucking stays there, haunting me.
The flicker in her eyes that takes me far, far away from the pain, the darkness, and the demons prowling inside me.
I like talking to her, and I don’t really like talking to most people. That says a lot.
And yet, I walked away the other day. I didn’t look back, didn’t call, didn’t text.
…Mostly because I’m a fucking idiot with issues.
That’s the annoying part: I can sit here stewing and moping as if she’s the one who left me in that bedroom all I like, but it was me who walked away from her.
I scowl into my Fernet, tuning Aldo and Dom completely out as they start to bicker about what would actually happen if Gabby were to marry Leo.
I walked away from her.
A lot of that—okay, most of that—is because of my fucking issues with intimacy. With sex, specifically. It’s why I chase, but release as soon as I catch. Why I humor the girls at the Black Court when they giggle and ask me to show them what’s inside the labyrinth.
Surprise! It’s me and my trailer full of hangups.
Sex is a line I don’t cross, though. I don’t think anyone realizes that, not even those closest to me in the Court.
I haven’t allowed myself to go there—sex, that is—in quite a while. Not since that night.
And then Milena happened.
When she slipped into my world it pushed away the confusion, at least for a while. Until she called me “troublemaker”.
She couldn’t possibly know that word had such razor-sharp edges for me. But hearing it, taken together with the sex and the tangled bodies and limbs, shook something loose inside me that I’ve worked very hard to keep locked down for years.
Hence, my fucking walk-out.
“No, you listen to me, Aldo,” Dom snarls, standing abruptly. “I’ll humor your fucking hypotheticals to a fucking point. But there isn’t a reality where Gabriella gets married off to that fuck-head—”
“We get the idea, Dom,” I growl quietly, raising a hand.
He glares once more at Aldo, then exhales.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I got…”
“Passionate,” Aldo nods with a smile. He reaches over and pats Dom on the shoulder. “We are on the same page, my friend, and the same team.”
Dom nods, still looking pissed.
Passionate indeed.
“I think we’re done here for today,” I grunt, glancing at the time. Honestly, all of this was just to get Aldo’s take on the situation.
But also, I have someplace to be.
And if it doesn’t clear my head?
I’m fucked.
“Guilty.”
The finality of The Stag’s tone seals the fate that Tony DiCorzo honestly already had when he walked in here tonight.
Changing your name and moving to Europe might seem like a good idea if you’re Tony and trying to weasel out of a blood marker you signed eighteen years ago.
But when your grand escape plan involves moving in with your fucking cousin in Piedmont, where everyone back here fucking knows your family is from?
That’s just lazy.
And tonight, Tony’s going to pay for that laziness with his life.
I know that some people view the Black Court as pure vigilante anarchy. That we’re a bunch of bloodthirsty psychos running around in masks in an underground cathedral doling out sentences and executions like the Spanish Inquisition on acid.
But the truth is, the underworld needs us.
The criminal world we all exist has few rules, but nature. But there are ones that will not and cannot be broken. Blood markers are one of those rules.
Two parties, one promise, signed in literal blood. You don’t break one of those. You don’t joke about breaking one of those.
Because without it, and without the basic foundation these simple rules of our world create, the whole thing devolves into actual anarchy.
You’re fucking welcome, criminals of the world.
The Raven rolls his neck as he rises from his seat next to me and descends from the dais. He stands in front of a stricken-looking Tony and tips his head to the side.
“Fight, or flight.”
The whole cathedral space falls silent. Like the onlookers are holding their collective breath, waiting to hear what’s next.
The Raven points to the table laden with axes, knives, swords, clubs, brass knuckles and more.
“You can fight,” he murmurs, “Or…” He turns and gestures at the stone arch leading into the labyrinth. “You can take flight. What’s it going to be, Tony?”
Tony turns and eyes the table of goodies with a hollow, pale face.
Swear to fuck, if another fucking Barone brother gets to use those dueling pistols before I do—
“Flight.”
Interesting. I didn’t see that coming.
Tony’s a brawler type, a tough guy, and he’s got a brawler’s physique: shorter, wider, a bit barrel-chested.
Not exactly the long legs of a runner, if you know what I mean.
The Raven exhales like he’s annoyed. “Just pick fucking fight, asshole.”
Tony trembles. “Y-you said I had a choice!”
“I mean, you do,” Nico sighs. “I just don’t fucking feel like running tonight.” He exhales heavily and swivels to me. “Wolf, help me out here.”
My pulse quickens.
Excellent.
Nico and I trade places. He returns to his seat as I walk down to the main floor. I step closer to Tony, eyeing him through my mask.
“Last chance,” I mutter.
“Flight,” he blurts. “I choose flight.”
I frown. “Did you notice the dueling pistols?”
“Wolf,” The Bull grunts. “He’s made his choice.”
Blue-balling little fucker.
I escort Tony over to the archway. I give him the usual rundown: it’s a labyrinth, you get a head start, maybe you’ll get out, blah blah fucking blah.
He won’t. Get out, that is.
He takes off, his panicky, frantic breathing almost louder than his footsteps. I give him a minute, then dive in after him, my senses tuning. My skin tingling.
Every nerve jangling with the hunger I’ve never been able to control.
The thrill of the fucking hunt.
Gradually my pace slows, though, until I’m at a dead stop in the middle of the maze, glaring at a wall.
The thrill isn’t as good.
Not without her.
It feels cheap by comparison. A shitty imitation.
I don’t hunger for this hunt like I do when it’s Milena. I don’t feel the same hounding sensation at my heels, spurring me on.
I exhale and run my hand through my hair.
I need to figure my shit out. I need to go to her. I need to—
“I—I think I see the way out!”
I’m ripped back to reality when I hear Tony’s voice.
“I-it’s real!!”
Fuck.
It’s not bullshit. When they’re given the option to run, we hint that they might survive the labyrinth, that there might be a way out. There really is one.
By the sounds of it, this motherfucker is closer to it than anyone has ever been allowed to get.
Can’t have that.
I take off at a dead run, bolting down corridors and rounding corners so hard I slam into the wall.
Tony may be near the exit, but I know this fucking maze like the back of my hand. Roughly eleven seconds after the moron called out, letting me know exactly where he was, I round another corner and smash into him from the side.
He grunts as he hits the wall next to him so hard that blood splatters the stone. He wheezes and whimpers, dropping to his knees and holding his cracked skull.
“I—I’m so close…please…”
“Not close enough.”
My knife cuts cleanly through his jugular, spilling a river of blood onto the stone floor. He jerks, gurgles briefly, then falls face down into it and goes still.
I glance up and frown.
Shit, he really was close.
Too close.
I’m losing my edge, and I know damn well why.
