Chapter 17
Raze
I don’t like owing people.
Favors have weight. They linger. They collect interest.
But there are moments when information is worth more than pride, and the Russians trying to carve out a drug trade in my territory qualified.
So I made the call. To another Russian.
Archie “The Pope” Popovich didn’t hesitate.
He arrived late in the afternoon, the sun cutting through the tall windows and laying long strips of gold across the marble foyer as he stepped inside. His gaze swept the space automatically—assessing, cataloguing—because men like him didn’t enter unfamiliar territory casually.
He’d never been here before. Not many had.
This house wasn’t a clubhouse or a neutral meeting ground. It was mine. Reserved for a very short list of names I trusted enough to let past the front gate—my inner circle, and no one else.
But answers had weight. And what happened to Izzy carried more of it than my preference for privacy.
So for once, I made an exception. And I invited the devil into my home.
He walked in with that same uneven gait—measured, deliberate, the limp subtle enough to pass unnoticed by most. But it was there.
A fractional delay in one step. A stiffness that didn’t quite belong to a man his age.
You wouldn’t see it unless you were looking.
I was looking. Three years ago, my cousin Gianni put two bullets through his knees in a gunfight that had meant to kill Archie.
But Archie had survived. Not because Gianni had missed. Gianni never missed. He survived because my other cousin Atlas stepped in.
Atlas had needed him alive at the time—needed his connections, his leverage, his particular brand of ruthless intelligence to untangle a problem no one else could solve.
Mercy, in our world, was rarely sentimental. It was strategic.
He held on to a cane, although it seemed more like a prop than a necessity.
What was Archie up to now?
He paused just inside the doorway—not out of hesitation, but reflex. His eyes moved before the rest of him did, sweeping the foyer, tracing the line of the staircase, dissecting my home.
That kind of awareness didn’t come from paranoia. It came from survival.
Always the professional.
The bullets had altered his stride, but they hadn’t softened his instincts.
Tone chose that exact moment to descend the staircase, keys spinning lazily around her finger, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She moved with that effortless confidence of someone who’d never once doubted her right to take up space.
Her heels hit the marble in sharp, precise bursts. Rata-tat-tat. Rata-tat-tat. You could set your watch by that sound.
For someone who spent most of her waking hours elbow-deep in human anatomy, saving lives, stitching arteries, and bossing death into submission under surgical lights, Tone had an almost aggressive commitment to sky-high heels.
Not sensible heels. Not modest heels. These were weapons of mass destruction.
She was halfway down the stairs before she registered the man standing in the foyer. She slowed.
Archie stood perfectly still, alert in a way that felt almost mechanical. His weight transferred subtly onto his good leg, shoulders straightening, gaze locking onto her with steady recognition.
The air tightened between them.
And for the first time since he’d stepped inside my house, he stopped assessing the architecture. He was assessing her.
I watched recognition spark in his eyes—quick and unmistakable—before it settled into something warmer. Something brighter. Sharper. Very close to delighted.
Tone, on the other hand, blinked at him like he was just another well-dressed stranger occupying her foyer. A stranger in a tailored suit and expensive shoes. Another man with history written into the set of his shoulders.
She hadn’t placed him yet. And the imbalance amused me far more than it should have.
“Yes?” Tone probed, one brow lifting as if she were entertaining the possibility that he’d wandered into the wrong house.
Archie placed a hand over his chest in theatrical reverence. “You don’t remember me.”
Tone tilted her head, studying him with polite detachment. “Should I?”
A low chuckle rolled out of him, warm and amused. “You stitched me back together,” he reminded her. “After your charming cousin shot me in both knees.”
Her eyes narrowed, scanning her mental archive of bullet wounds. She’d treated dozens of men. Trauma blurred and faces faded. Blood was blood.
Archie tapped his cane against the marble—tap, tap. “Gianni Cavalho. Warehouse in Amiata. Atlas intervened.”
Recognition sparked slowly.
“Oh,” Tone breathed, lips parting. “The outspoken Russian.”
Archie’s smile widened like she’d just handed him a prize. “The very same.”
She looked him over properly now—broad shoulders, tailored suit, the faint rigidity in his stance. Her gaze lingered just long enough to make my insides lurch. No fucking way.
“Well, you seem to have healed well,” she observed clinically.
“I had exceptional care,” he returned smoothly, like he was discussing fine wine instead of reconstructive surgery.
Tone rolled her eyes. “Yes, I remember you clearly now,” she commented, squinting.
Archie glanced at me, then back at her. “I didn’t realize the angel who saved my legs was not only Gianni’s cousin… but your sister.”
If he could have purred the word angel, he would have.
Tone snorted softly. “I’m nobody’s angel.”
“That’s disappointing,” Archie murmured, voice dipping. “I’d grown rather fond of the image.”
She folded her arms, weight tilting to one hip. “I’m not particularly fond of Russians.”
His brow lifted with mock offense. “For obvious reasons?”
“For obvious reasons,” she stated evenly. “Bratva and mafia don’t exactly exchange Christmas cards.”
Archie grinned. “You can thank Gianni and Atlas for sparing me. I assume you’ve done so.”
“They spared you,” Tone corrected. “It doesn’t mean I have to like you.”
Archie stepped half a pace closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough to tilt the air between them.
“I’ve always appreciated a woman who mends the broken,” he murmured.
She arched a brow. “Careful. That sounded almost like flirtation.”
His smile didn’t waver. “I assure you, it was.”
The silence stretched—charged. Tone regarded him curiously, then her lips curved faintly.
“Heal properly. I’d hate to have to work on you again.”
And she brushed past him, close enough that her shoulder nearly grazed his arm.
Archie didn’t turn back to me immediately. He watched her go.
I shook my head once. He was still staring at the door when I spoke.
“Watch yourself, Archie.”
He glanced at me, unrepentant. “She’s charming.”
“She’s dangerous,” I corrected.
“I’ve already experienced that family trait,” he breathed dryly. “And while I may be… mildly besotted… I’ve grown rather fond of my limbs. I don’t intend to lose any more of them.”
Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch.
“Good. Let’s talk.”
We walked to my office.
Archie took a seat without being invited. He rested his cane across his knees and surveyed the room like it amused him to be here in my personal space.
“You called about the new outfit.” He got straight to the point.
“Yes. I need to know everything about them.”
“What’s your interest?”
“My interest,” I started, “is in keeping the streets of my city clean. It’s also about protecting those close to me. I believe they were responsible for a recent attack on one of my own.”
Archie drew in air, then let it out slowly. “They’re a relatively small, but ruthless outfit. They’re testing the waters in Siena.”
“They’ve already put hands on someone under my protection. So their testing is not off to a good start.”
His eyes sharpened. “I heard.”
I watched him carefully. “You hear everything.”
“Not everything,” he corrected lightly. “Just what matters.”
“Tell me about them.”
Archie leaned back slightly. “They’re new, but they’re not foolish. Extremely ruthless. Brutal. Not the sort of people you want in your city.”
My jaw tightened.
“Who runs the outfit?”
“Cenk Chernov.”
The name checked out. It was the same one Navarro Nato had scrawled across that blank card earlier today, the ink still fresh in my mind. That alone told me Archie wasn’t bluffing. He knew exactly who he was talking about.
The problem was, the name didn’t come with anything else.
No trail. No noise. No digital footprint worth dissecting. I’d pulled every string I could think of, combed through every channel available to me, and still come up empty-handed. Not even a rumour solid enough to repeat.
Just a name. A nationality. And silence. The kind that happens by design.
“And who exactly is Cenk Chernov?” I pressed.
Archie’s expression remained stoic.
“A man who isn’t interested in diplomacy. He’s interested only in dominance, no matter how it comes about.”
The word settled heavily between us. I held his gaze for a moment, measuring the tone more than the statement itself.
“And what,” I bit out slowly, “do you know about him?”
“Not much is known about him, but what I do know is that he broke from his family in Russia and came to Italy to forge his own way. It looks like he has something to prove, because the man is determined to prove himself to his family. They disowned him.”
“Ahhh… one of those…”
“I don’t know what you have in mind, Cavalho, but a word of warning. I wouldn’t underestimate the man. On byl izgnan iz semyi. Exiled by the family. That’s not a man you want to mess with,” he warned.
“Have you met me?” I deadpanned. “What about Nathan Azzopardi?”
Archie’s gaze held mine. “Word on the street is he hit them up for some product then went running for the hills.”
“How much?”
“That, I don’t know. I can make enquiries.”
I didn’t blink.
He tilted his head slightly. “There’s also something else.”
I said nothing. The air in the room sharpened.
“They’re not in the business of merely hurting people. They inflict maximum damage. And then they pay for the coffin.” He gave a faint shrug. “Just to illustrate how generous they are.”
The implication was undeniable. If they’d only roughed Izzy up… they were sending a clear message.
Silence filled the space between us.
Finally, Archie rose slowly to his feet.
“If there’s anything to be found, I’ll find it.”
“Why?” I was suddenly aware of how helpful he’d been.
“Why what?”
“Why are you so eager to help me?”
“Your sister saved my legs. I owe you more than you owe me.”
He paused at the door.
“And Raze?” His tone lost some of its amusement. “If you’re going to hit them, make sure you hit them hard.”
I met his gaze.
“I don’t do half measures.”
He gave a single nod, the kind that signaled a decision had been made long before the conversation ended, and turned for the door without another word.
It clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound. Silence followed. Suffocating and hollow.
The room seemed to contract around me, the air growing heavier, thicker—like the walls themselves had edged an inch closer when he left.
Russians on my turf. A missing mule. And a girl upstairs with bruises that never should have been there in the first place.
The pieces didn’t sit perfectly. They pressed. Demanded. Connected in ways I didn’t like.
I expelled a breath, dragging a hand down my jaw as the weight of it settled in.