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“They brought me the intel. Turns out, the Volkovs want to tie up loose ends. Sophia’s just leverage. If we give her up, it settles the blood feud. Shows I can broker peace.”
My teeth grind behind a calm mask. “You’re planning to hand her over?”
“She’s one girl.”
“She’s not yours to trade.”
Gabi grins. “She’s not yours either. Everything’s mine, Ricci. Even you.”
As the silence stretches, heat crawls up my spine and my vision blurs at the edges. I resist the urge to pummel his face.
I back up and bow my head. “Understood.”
Somehow, that word makes me feel like I’ve betrayed Sophia and agreed to hand her over like livestock to an abattoir. As her face flashes across my mind, my right hand folds into a fist.
She’s no longer a prisoner. She’s been molded into something worse…a currency to serve Gabi and then the Volkovs.
If Gabi thinks I’ll stand by while he sells her to Volkov…
He doesn’t know me at all.
I’m halfway down the hall when Nonna Rosa’s voice stops me. “Enzo.”
I pivot to see her hovering in the doorway to the dining room, small and fragile in her black dress. She looks like every other grandmother might, but her eyes are sharp.
“Mangia con la famiglia.” She waves toward the table behind her. “Just tonight. For me.”
I open my mouth to refuse.
“Not tonight, Nonna.”
She raises one gnarled finger. “For your Nonna. Please.”
The guilt—that mix of love and obligation only Italian grandmothers can weaponize—hits like a punch.
I close my eyes and exhale. “Why?”
She exhales slowly. “Another time, then. See you later, son.”
I just keep walking. Lying to her would sting more than a bullet, and I don’t have the stomach to serve her the truth tonight.
Dinner with the family? When the girl downstairs waits for a walk that won’t come and the boy I once was screams inside me?
Not when I’m starting to question whether I even still belong at this table.
I head to the gym beneath the villa that’s on the same level as Sophia’s room but in the opposite wing.
The space features concrete walls and cracked mirrors. Overhead, fluorescent lights buzz, casting everything in a sickly glow. The place smells like sweat, blood, and old iron. Exactly what I need right now. Heavy bags hang from chains, and free weights scatter across rubber mats. A boxing ring sits in the corner, the ropes frayed from years of abuse.
I wrap my knuckles, tightening the tape until it bites into my skin.
The heavy bag takes the first hit. Then the second. Somewhere around the tenth, my knuckles scream, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop. Pain anchors me, and anchors become necessary when the world starts to shift beneath your boots.
Every punch echoes Dante’s death. The brother I couldn’t save. He rotted in a cell for eighteen months while I worked every angle I had to get him out—and on the day I finally had the leverage, the paperwork, the right man in the right pocket—he was already gone. Twelve hours. I was twelve hours too late. I’ve never forgiven myself. Never will. Every jab reminds me of Vincent’s betrayal, the years of lies cloaked in a father’s smile.
Every uppercut carves out Sophia’s face. Those damn green eyes. The way they light up when they land on me, like I could mean something. Like I could be more than blood and bullets.
She’s burrowing under my skin. Dangerous territory for a man like me.
