22. Lucrezia
Chapter 22
Lucrezia
T he night air is cold enough to sting my cheeks. I pace the perimeter of Raiden’s backyard, boots crunching over dead leaves, and stand under a sky full of silent stars. Something is wrong; I can feel it in my bones.
As if answering my unspoken plea for answers, my phone begins to vibrate against my hip. I fumble with cold-numbed fingers to pull it from my pocket, and the screen glows bright enough to make me squint, with the name Matteo Silvestri emblazoned across it like a warning. My stomach twists into knots. If he’s calling me at this hour, it’s not to exchange pleasantries or catch up on old times. This is what’s wrong; this is what I feel deep in my bones, that sixth sense screaming that something terrible is about to happen.
I swipe to answer, lifting the phone slowly to my ear. “Matteo,” I say, voice low and carefully controlled despite the thundering in my chest.
“Lucrezia.” He says my name carefully as if tasting something bitter. “I’m calling on behalf of your brother.”
The air tightens in my lungs, turning to ice that spreads through my chest. Which one? Do the others know? Do they suspect that what happened to Saverio was my doing? “What does my brother want?”
A pause, a subtle inhale on his end that seems to stretch for an eternity. When he finally speaks, Matteo’s voice is edged like a sword. “He survived, Lucrezia,” Matteo says. “Saverio’s alive.”
For a heartbeat, the world stands still. I can almost hear my blood roaring in my ears. Saverio survived the bomb that was supposed to end him. Everything we orchestrated—the infiltration, the carefully placed device, the precise timing down to the second—reduced his house to ash and smoke, and yet he lives. Impossible, and yet here we are. My fingers grow numb where they grip the phone.
My voice is steady when I speak again, though I’m shaking inside. “How?”
“Luck, maybe,” Matteo says, voice calm and measured in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Or fate. Either way, he wants an audience with you. He’s at the hospital right now under heavy guard, but he’ll be out in the morning. Burns and broken bones, but nothing permanent.”
I grit my teeth until my jaw aches. I am a failure; my plan failed. “An audience,” I echo, the word like acid on my tongue. “He expects me to come running?”
Matteo’s tone never wavers, professional to the core even now. “If you don’t meet him, he’ll find you on his terms. We both know how that would end, and it won’t be pretty. This is your chance to control the narrative, Lucrezia. To walk in there with your head high instead of being dragged.”
I want to say I control the narrative just fine. I want to laugh at the sheer gall of it all. Instead, I swallow my anger until it burns like bile in my throat. “When and where?”
“I’ll text you a location and time,” Matteo replies. “Tomorrow, after dark, probably. Come alone.” His tone brooks no argument, leaving no room for compromise.
Before I can argue or demand more details, the line clicks dead. The finality of it stings —no room for negotiation, no hints of weakness—just cold, hard terms.
I lower the phone slowly, exhaling through my teeth until my lungs feel empty. Saverio survived. It infuriates me beyond reason, beyond rationality. The anger coiling in my chest is cold and consuming. My fingers tighten around the phone until they ache, and for a moment, I consider hurling it against the house just to hear it shatter.
I head back inside and call Raiden. The television, which has been tuned to a local station all day, has a breaking news banner scrolling relentlessly across the bottom of the screen. MANHATTAN, KS BOMBING: ONE SURVIVOR. The red letters burn into my retinas, mocking me. The words make me furious, and so does each ring before Raiden picks up, each electronic tone driving my blood pressure higher.
“What happened?” He answers, voice tight with tension. He must already know—the news is everywhere, spreading like wildfire through every channel and network.
“Saverio survived.” My stomach churns; I’m going to vomit.
His reaction is immediate; I can hear it over the phone. His fist comes down on a table with a thunderous crack, and there’s shouting in the background; he must be with his men. Muffled curses and the scraping of chairs echo through the connection. “That’s not possible.”
“Yet it is.” He’s not the only one who’s upset. I’m distraught. And I’m still in shock, the reality of my brother’s survival refusing to fully settle in my mind. “Someone from the Family called. Saverio wants to see me.”
Raiden doesn’t make demands of me. We’ve been working together long enough for him to know that I won’t listen—I never have, not even when his instincts were right. But tonight, he doesn’t care about our usual dance of suggestions and deflections. His voice carries an edge of steel I rarely hear. “You’re not going. It’s a trap. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
A bitter laugh escapes me, hollow and mirthless, echoing in the tension-filled space between us. “A trap or not, if I don’t show up, he’ll hunt me down. This isn’t over just because his house is a pile of sticks. He’ll come after me, Kristopher, you, Daniela, after anyone he thinks helped.” My throat tightens painfully, the muscles constricting as fear claws its way up from my chest. I don’t care about Kristopher or Raiden; they’re both dangerous men who can handle themselves in a fight. But Daniela—poor, sweet Daniela with her gentle smile and trusting nature—I suckered her into this mess with pretty words and half-truths, and she’ll pay with her life if Saverio finds out she was involved.
Raiden walks away from the background noise of wherever he’s at. I hear it fade to nothing, just the dull sound of an HVAC unit cranking out heat. “He’ll kill you.”
I raise my chin, undeterred. “He can try.”
“Don’t do this alone. Let me come with you.”
His offer is more than I expect. I expected him to yell, to demand I stay put, to curse me for my stubbornness like everyone else always has. Instead, he’s volunteering to walk into the fire at my side, to face whatever consequences may come. It rattles something inside my chest, something buried deep beneath years of carefully constructed walls, something I didn’t realize could still be moved by another’s courage.
“Sure, if you want to commit suicide, come along. Saverio’s expecting a one-on-one, not a unit of Destroyers marching into his domain. He’ll have men - seasoned killers who won’t hesitate to pull the trigger. He’ll have guns. He’ll have traps laid out like landmines under a thin sheet of civility, waiting for the slightest misstep to tear us apart. The moment we walk through those doors together, we’re as good as dead. If you come, you’ll die beside me. Is that really what you want?”
There’s a pause, followed by the faint hum of static on the line. I imagine Raiden standing somewhere quiet at the Destroyers clubhouse, considering my words while men and women chain smoke outside the door and do shots of whiskey. “I’m not afraid of death,” he says finally, his voice unwavering. “And I’m sure as hell not letting you face Saverio Castiglione alone. I didn’t agree to help you out of the goodness of my heart, Lucrezia. I did it because no one should face the injustices you faced, because some wrongs need to be put right no matter the cost. I won’t let you die alone for something we both did. That’s not how this works.”
Those words slip under my armor like a blade between ribs. I’ve seen men puff out their chests and claim fearlessness before. I’ve seen them crumble when the knives come out, and the bullets start flying, when their bravado melts faster than ice in August. But something about Raiden’s tone tells me he means it. It’s not a bluff; he’s not posturing—it’s just a simple, solid truth.
I find myself at a loss for a moment. How do I respond to that kind of loyalty, that kind of reckless bravery? Especially from someone I initially saw as a means to an end—a tool to be used, a convenient alliance in a war I considered mine and mine alone? My cynicism has prepared me for every scenario except this one: genuine, unwavering commitment.
“Suit yourself,” I manage in a soft voice, betraying unexpected emotion. I clear my throat, forcing steel back into my tone and falling back on old habits like a comfortable armor. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a smile that I can hear in his words. Maybe he understands that this is my language—risk, violence, danger, and loyalty. Or maybe he’s just too damn stubborn for his own good.
For a split second, I wonder if I should say something else—some acknowledgment or warning, something more than this standoffish acceptance. The words catch in my throat like thorns, but I swallow them down. “Until tomorrow, then,” I reply briskly as if we’re arranging a casual meet-up, not a deadly confrontation. I pull the phone from my ear, waiting to hear any last protest, any sign of hesitation, but he stays silent. No more questions, no begging me to reconsider. Just steady resolve.
I hang up, and the screen goes dark. The silence rushes back in, heavy and absolute, and I’m alone in Raiden’s living room again. The faint scent of his cologne and cigarettes lingers in the air like ghostly remnants of his presence. It comforts me in a way I won’t admit out loud, this familiar cocktail of smoke and spice that reminds me I’m not completely untethered, even if I sometimes wish I were.
Raiden Drake is a man who isn’t afraid of death, who stares into its depths with unflinching eyes. He’s a man who offers to stand at my side against my brother, knowing full well the odds are stacked against us. I underestimated him and dismissed him too quickly. He’s more than muscle and bravado, more than a biker with a gun and an attitude. He’s stronger than I gave him credit for, made of sterner stuff than most. In the face of my family’s legacy—a legacy that grinds most people to dust, that breaks spirits and shatters souls—he stands firm.
A bitter smile touches my lips, tugging at the corners with equal parts admiration and regret. Let it be so, then. Let him come; let him prove his worth in the crucible of my revenge. Let him show the world what I’ve glimpsed beneath that hardened exterior. And if fate is kind—if there’s still room in this blood-soaked story for something decent or pure—maybe he’ll survive what’s coming next. Maybe we both will. And maybe we’ll find our way together like two puzzle pieces cut from the same picture.