I drag my feet through the filthy puddles of the industrial district, ignoring the greasy rainwater seeping into my shoes.
It’s been seven days without her.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours of purgatory, searching every shadow and doorway in this godforsaken city.
My body moves on autopilot while my mind replays the fact that she walked away. She wasn’t taken. She left.
Still, I search.
What else can I do? The emptiness she left behind consumes me from the inside out, and only finding her will stop the bleeding.
The alley narrows between abandoned warehouses. Rusty fire escapes zigzag up the walls like fossilized skeletons. A cat hisses from atop a dumpster.
I barely notice. My focus stays razor-sharp on one thing: finding Aria.
I know I’m just wandering in circles and have no real clue where I should go. But the truth is, if I’m not doing something, I’ll go stir-crazy.
In seven days, I’ve lost weight, sleep, and whatever tenuous grasp on sanity I once possessed.
I push through a rusted gate that groans in protest, stepping into a narrow passage between buildings that doesn’t appear on any city map. This is where information flows, where whispers travel between the city’s forgotten corners. Where someone might have seen a beautiful blonde woman and her twin sister.
My phone vibrates for the tenth time today. Nicolo. Again. I let it buzz until it stops, then continue walking.
It rings again immediately. Persistent bastard.
“What?” I snap, my voice hoarse from disuse and too many cigarettes.
“Boss, we need you at the docks.” Nicolo’s voice is tense, professional. “The Colombians are threatening to pull out of the deal. Their representative is demanding to speak with you personally.”
“Handle it,” I growl, kicking aside an empty bottle that shatters against the wall. “Offer them an extra five percent on the next three shipments.”
“I already did. They’re not budging.” He pauses. “Marco, you need to come in. It’s been a week. The business is suffering. Your father has called twice asking—”
“I don’t give a fuck what my father wants,” I cut him off, venom dripping from every word. “And the business can burn to ashes for all I care. Find her, Nicolo. That’s your only job now.”
A heavy sigh crackles through the speaker. “We have every available man looking. You think I’m not trying? But you’re going to get yourself killed prowling these neighborhoods alone. Some of these gangs would love nothing more than to catch a Bianchi without backup.”
“Let them try,” I mutter, fingers instinctively touching the gun concealed beneath my jacket. “Maybe it’ll make me feel something.”
“Jesus Christ, Marco, listen to yourself. This isn’t you. Come back to headquarters, regroup. We’ll form a new strategy.”
I laugh. “A new strategy? It’s been seven days, and your men have found nothing. Not a single trace of her. Your strategies aren’t worth shit.”
“She doesn’t want to be found,” Nicolo says, his voice softening marginally. “You know that, right? After what happened, after what she learned—”
“I know exactly what she learned,” I snap, my chest tightening with a familiar pain. “And I know she’s out there somewhere, thinking she has to face this alone. But she’s wrong. She’s so fucking wrong, and I need to tell her that.”
“Marco—”
“I’ll call you later,” I say, ending the call before he can respond.
I continue deeper into the labyrinth of back alleys, where the city’s refuse collects like silt in forgotten corners. A group of men huddle around a barrel fire up ahead, passing a bottle wrapped in brown paper. Their heads swivel in my direction as I approach, faces hard and suspicious.
“Looking for something, suit?” one of them calls out, straightening to his full height—still several inches shorter than me.
“Information,” I reply, not slowing my stride. “About a woman. Blonde, beautiful. Might be with her identical twin.”
They exchange glances, silent communication passing between them.
“Haven’t seen no twins,” the apparent leader says, scratching his unkempt beard. “But The Watering Hole might have what you’re looking for. All kinds of talk flowing through there these days.”
I pull out a thick fold of bills, peeling off several hundreds and holding them out. The man’s eyes widen slightly before he can control his expression.
“For your trouble,” I say.
He hesitates, then snatches the money. “Back entrance is through the loading dock on Saint Claire. Tell ’em Marty sent you.”
I nod once and continue on my way, following the maze of alleys until I find myself facing the grimy loading dock of what was once a textile factory. A single red bulb illuminates a metal door, its surface dented and scarred. I knock, three sharp raps.
A small viewport slides open, revealing bloodshot eyes.
“Marty sent me,” I say, holding another hundred where it can be seen.
The viewport closes. Locks click, and the door swings open, revealing a burly man with tattoos climbing up his neck like ivy.
“Weapons stay at the door,” he grunts.
I remove my gun and hand it over. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the custom Beretta, recognition flickering across his face. He knows who I am. I keep my expression neutral, daring him to say something. He doesn’t.
The Watering Hole is a misleading name for what is essentially a fight club with overpriced drinks. The basement space thrums with testosterone and desperation. In the center, a makeshift ring holds two men circling each other, fists raised. Blood already paints the concrete floor.
I slide up to the bar, ignoring the stares that follow me. A woman with more metal in her face than a hardware store approaches.
“What’ll it be?” she asks, eyeing my disheveled but clearly expensive clothes.
“Information,” I reply, sliding another hundred across the sticky bar top. “I’m looking for a woman. Blonde, beautiful, probably with her twin sister. They might be reaching out to old family connections. DeLuca connections.”
Her eyes narrow at the name, and I know I’ve struck something. “Don’t know nothing about that,” she says, a little too quickly. “But Joey over there—” she nods toward a thin man in the corner, “—he’s got his ear to the ground these days.”
I take my drink and make my way toward Joey. Before I can reach him, a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I turn to find myself face to face with Vittorio Canzano, one of my father’s former associates who broke away to start his own operation two years ago.
“Well, well,” he sneers, alcohol strong on his breath. “If it isn’t the prodigal son himself. Word is you’ve gone off the reservation, Bianchi. Daddy must be so disappointed.”
I shrug his hand off, every muscle in my body tensing for a fight. “I’m not here for a reunion, Vittorio. Walk away while you still can.”
He laughs, loud enough to draw attention from the surrounding tables. “Heard you’re chasing tail that doesn’t want to be caught. Some little blonde thing got you by the balls, huh? Poor Marco, so whipped he can’t see straight.”
My fist connects with his jaw before I consciously decide to throw the punch. He staggers backward, shock registering on his face for a split second before it morphs into rage. He lunges at me, bringing us both crashing to the floor.
The bar erupts around us. Bottles shatter. Chairs scrape across concrete. Men shout encouragement or curses, depending on their loyalties. I barely register any of it, focusing only on the satisfying crunch as my knuckles connect with Vittorio’s nose.
He fights dirty, jabbing a thumb toward my eye, but I’ve been trained since childhood. I roll, using his momentum against him, and slam his head into the floor. Once. Twice. Blood sprays from his broken nose, spattering across my shirt.
The rage that’s been building inside me for seven days finally has an outlet. I hit him again. And again. Until hands grab me from behind, pulling me off his unconscious form.
“Enough!” someone shouts in my ear. “You want to kill him? Do it somewhere else!”
I shrug free of the restraining hands, breathing hard. The fight crowd has backed away, forming a circle around us. Some look impressed, others wary. Joey, my intended target, has disappeared.
Blood drips from a cut above my eye, mixing with the sweat streaming down my face. I straighten my jacket, wincing at the pain in my ribs where Vittorio landed a solid kick.
“Anyone else feeling nostalgic?” I ask the silent crowd, my voice low and dangerous.
No one moves. No one speaks.
“Good.”
I cross to the bar, leaving Vittorio’s unconscious form for his friends to deal with. The bartender slides a towel across the countertop without making eye contact. I press it to my bleeding eyebrow.
“Joey?” I ask her quietly.
“Left through the back,” she mutters. “Said to tell you the old planning office behind the Chinese restaurant on Fulton. If you hurry.”
I toss the bloody towel and another hundred on the bar and stride toward the exit. My phone buzzes again as I retrieve my gun from the doorman.
“Yeah,” I answer, stepping back into the alley.
“What the hell happened?” Nicolo demands, his voice tight with concern. “I just got a call from a guy at The Watering Hole. They said you nearly killed Vittorio Canzano.”
“He’ll live,” I say dismissively, checking the street before heading toward Fulton. “Unfortunately.”
“Marco, for fuck’s sake, get a hold of yourself. You can’t go around beating the shit out of connected men because you’re pissed at the world. You’re making enemies we don’t need right now.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I growl. “I’ve got a lead.”
“What lead? Where are you going?”
“I’ll call you when I have something concrete.”
“Marco—”
I end the call and slip the phone into my pocket. My head throbs where Vittorio landed a punch, but the pain is clarifying somehow.
For the first time in days, I feel something other than the hollow ache of Aria’s absence.
Fulton Street appears ahead, its row of shuttered storefronts reminding all of the city’s economic downturn. I find the Chinese restaurant—Golden Dragon, its neon sign flickering weakly in the gathering dusk. Behind it, a narrow passage leads to what might once have been an office, now little more than a concrete box with a corrugated metal door.
I approach cautiously, hand resting on my gun. The door is slightly ajar, a sliver of light escaping through the crack. I push it open with my foot, staying to the side in case of an ambush.
“You can come in, Bianchi,” a voice calls from inside. “If I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have sent for you.”
I step inside, blinking as my eyes adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting. The room is spartan—a metal desk, a few folding chairs, and walls covered in maps and photographs. A man sits behind the desk, perhaps fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and hard eyes.
“Who are you?” I ask, remaining by the door.
“Someone who knows your wife,” he says simply. “And her sister.”
My heart rate accelerates, but I keep my face impassive. “Where are they?”
“Safe,” he says with a small shrug. “For now. But that’s not why I reached out.”
“Then why did you?”
He gestures to the chair opposite him. I remain standing.
“Suit yourself.” He pulls a leather-bound book from a drawer and places it on the desk. “Recognize this?”
I step closer, examining the book without touching it. It’s a ledger, handwritten in a feminine script I immediately recognize as Aria’s. My throat tightens at the sight of her handwriting.
“What is this?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady.
“The beginning of your nightmare,” he replies. “Your wife isn’t hiding, Bianchi. She’s recruiting.”
She walked away from me—but not blindly. She’s walking toward something. Something bigger than us. Than revenge. Than love.
He opens the ledger, revealing pages of names, addresses, resources. Family names I recognize from the old days, before my father’s purge of rival organizations.
“DeLuca loyalists,” I murmur, the implications hitting me like a physical blow.
“She’s found seven families so far,” he confirms. “Small operations, mostly, but together? They’re a force to be reckoned with. Especially with a DeLuca at the helm.”
“Why are you telling me this? Why betray her?”
He laughs, a short, humorless sound. “Betray her? I’m not here to betray anyone. I’m delivering a message, one she knew would reach you eventually.” He leans forward. “The DeLuca resurgence starts now. The twins are reclaiming what was stolen from them.”
The words land like body blows, each one forcing the air from my lungs.
“She’s starting a war,” I say, the realization both terrifying and somehow, perversely, exhilarating.
“She’s finishing one,” he corrects me. “One that your father started twenty-five years ago.”
I stare at the ledger, at Aria’s handwriting sprawling across the pages. Proof that she’s not cowering in some hidden corner, but actively working against my family. Against me.
“Where is she?” I ask again, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Beyond your reach,” he says, closing the ledger and returning it to the drawer. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
He studies me, his gaze assessing. “Unless you’re willing to make a choice, Bianchi. A real one. Your father or your wife.”
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications.
“Tell her I’m coming for her,” I say finally. “Tell her hiding behind these minor players won’t protect her from me.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I’ll deliver your message.”
I turn to leave, pausing at the door. “And tell her one more thing. Tell her I have a choice to make. And I’ve already made it.”
I step back into the night, my mind racing with new purpose. For seven days, I’ve been chasing Aria’s shadow, desperate for any sign of her. Now I understand—I’m not chasing her anymore. I’m catching up to her.
She isn’t fleeing from me in terror or grief. She’s marching toward me with vengeance in her heart, gathering an army at her back.
I have preparations to make. Calls to place. Resources to gather.
If Aria wants war, I’ll meet her on the battlefield.
But unlike my father, I don’t intend to destroy what I love.
