The room was dimly lit, bathed in deep amber and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol, mingling with the gentle swirl of smoke. A long mahogany table dominated the center of the room, surrounded by serious-faced men in tailored suits and expensive watches.
Dark wood paneling adorned the walls, with the windows covered by velvet drapes. The private room had only one source of light: the chandelier hanging above, its warm glow casting over mean faces.
This was the Bratva inner circle—lieutenants, smugglers, financiers, enforcers—sharks in suits plotting against the enemy. Suggestions were made as murmurs of agreement rippled through the table. Maps were unrolled, and trade routes were marked in red ink. Fronts, docks, and warehouses were all labeled and waiting to be carved out.
The room hummed with tension, anger, and rage swirling around these powerful men, each one with an ax to grind with Dante Romano. His empire was in grave danger, and everyone in this gathering supported making him suffer. The big question was, “How?”
These men were busy deliberating the best way to hurt Dante Romano, the most effective and gruesome way to make him feel their fury. However, they were all blinded by their rage and failed to see the bigger picture.
They were shallow-minded, unable to see beyond their anger because right now, they weren’t in control; their emotions were. They wanted to make him bleed, to cut him limb from limb. And as exciting as that appeared to be, it was a dumb move, one Romano would see from a mile away.
“The Italians have declared war, and we must act now!” Boris snapped, slamming a palm against the table, shaking the ashtray. “We’ve been here all day, and yet no decision has been made. The longer we wait, the more those assholes have the upper hand.” The anger in his voice couldn’t be any more glaring.
“Boris is right,” Dmitry, more measured, chipped in, leaned back in his chair, fingers toying with a Rubik’s cube. “We’ve waited long enough. I mean, it’s been weeks already.” He set the object on the table’s surface and sat upright, his gaze sweeping across the room. “I say the time to strike is now,” he declared.
“I agree,” Yuri, the one-eyed demon, concurred, his baritone voice deep and even. He smoothed his white hair backward, his black eye patch gleaming in the soft light. “We split his influence in two. Start with Naples, then move on to Rome.” As he spoke, he tapped the locations on the map spread out over the table. He raised his head, shifting his gaze across our faces. “We starve his allies, drain his funding. And then, piece by piece, we break the bastard.”
“Yeah, I like this plan,” Dmitry said, a wicked smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “If executed properly, we’ll burn the Romano empire to the ground.”
The others nodded in affirmation, some leaning in to murmur in one another’s ears.
However, despite their so-called conclusion, I remained silent.
I sat at the end of the table, resplendent in a charcoal suit, the collar of my undershirt crisp, hands clean. I’d been quiet this whole time, listening, my glass of vodka untouched. My fingers drummed a slow, rhythmic tap against the table’s surface.
Noticing my silence, the others turned to face me, suspicion and confusion etched in their gazes. I could almost hear their thoughts—they believed that I was waiting out of caution, and that was why I hadn’t ordered an attack on the Romanos yet.
Fools.
I wasn’t waiting because I was afraid. No. I was waiting because it was the most strategic thing to do. Striking too soon would dull the impact. I knew that. But they didn’t. My silence was not weakness, nor was it hesitation. It was calculation.
Finally, I spoke, my voice low and even. “You talk about cutting off Dante’s arms.” A twisted smirk lined a corner of my lips. “But I want his head.”
They exchanged intrigued glances, their wicked grins widening.
My eyes flickered toward the map for a moment, then to the glass of untouched vodka in front of me.
They wanted war. But to me, this was more than war. It was personal.
My jaw tightened at the thought of the one who’d managed to snake her way into my heart.
Alessia. My Alessia.
For weeks now, she’d been living rent-free in my head after invading me like a fever. Sweet. Dangerous. Fucking addictive. All day, every day, she was all that I could think of, all that occupied my mind. I’d tasted her, explored her body, and now, I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else laying their filthy hands on her. She was mine. Mine alone.
Alessia thought she had escaped me. She believed that crawling through vents and bleeding in the dark signified some sort of freedom. She was mistaken. Alessia was far from being free of me; she was merely running in circles, biding her time for me to tighten the snare. And I would.
I’d warned her of what would happen should she run away from me, yet she chose to challenge me. Now, she and her entire family had my full attention. It didn’t matter where in the world she was hiding. I’d hunt her down, ruin her, break her fiery spirit inch by inch until she regretted ever defying me.
I’d marked her already, and soon, she would remember who she belonged to. Then, I would claim what was mine.
