Chapter 34
Raze
Nathan Azzopardi was on his knees when I left him.
That was how he would live in my memory. Kneeling. Small. Reduced to something that barely qualified as a man.
The club smouldered around us, a gutted carcass of concrete and twisted steel. Smoke clung low to the ceiling, thick and oily, stinging the eyes. The air tasted of gunpowder, melted wiring, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.
Bodies lay where they’d fallen — draped over tables, sprawled across the dance floor, half-hidden beneath debris. Blood slicked the floors in dark, reflective sheets, turning the whole place into a distorted mirror of violence.
By morning, Tuscany would wake to speculation.
A tragic explosion. A faulty gas line. An unfortunate accident in a nightlife venue with questionable safety standards.
There would be condolences. Investigations. Carefully worded statements. But there would be nothing left to investigate. I had made sure of that.
Nathan trembled at the centre of the wreckage, wrists bound tight behind his back, shoulders hunched as if he could fold himself out of existence.
His expensive loafers — the kind men wore when they wanted to look powerful—were soaked through.
Blood and urine pooled beneath him, soaking into designer leather that would never again touch clean pavement.
The sharp scent of fear cut through even the smoke.
His face was drained of colour, lips ghost-white against the red smear split across his mouth.
His eyes were wet and unfocused, darting from shadow to shadow as if he still believed someone might appear and save him.
His jaw shook so violently his teeth clicked together in an uneven rhythm, a small, pathetic sound swallowed by the distant crackle of fire.
He looked breakable. He looked human. And for a fleeting second, I wondered if this was the first time in his life he had ever understood what it felt like to be powerless.
Then he lifted his gaze to mine.
And whatever flicker of sympathy might have existed inside me died quickly where it landed.
He looked pathetic.
“What’s with the crocodile tears?” Archie drawled, coming to stand at my shoulder. He nudged Nathan’s leg with the toe of his boot like he was testing roadkill.
Nathan flinched.
“I—I didn’t know,” he stammered. “I swear to God, Raze, I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”
Archie snorted. “Oh, he’s swearing to God now. That’s adorable.”
I crouched slowly in front of him. Took my time. Let him feel the weight of it. My shadow swallowed him whole.
“Idiot actually thought he could rewrite his future by coming back here. Joining what remained of the Chernov outfit. Dumber still, he’s trying to convince me he was here tonight for no particular reason.” I tilted my head. “And get this — he just dropped in to check on friends.”
Nathan’s eyes darted between us. Searching. Begging.
“Friends,” Archie echoed. “Is that what we’re calling the Russians now?” I didn’t bother to remind him that he himself was a Russian.
“Like I don’t know you were standing there, already making plans for domination of Tuscany.”
“I wasn’t—”
I backhanded him. It was hard enough to send him keeling sideways.
Blood dripped from his mouth onto the concrete.
“Good thing we got here when we did then, isn’t it?” Archie said cheerfully.
“A good thing indeed,” I murmured.
The Russians had been stupid enough to believe they could regroup. To think the breach of my home would go unanswered. They crossed that invisible line. The one that exists only once.
There was no coming back from it. Now they were gone. All that remained was Izzy’s ghost in this man’s past.
I studied Nathan in silence.
On one hand, I wanted to annihilate him quickly. End it. Remove him from existence and be done.
On the other hand…I wanted him to feel my wrath. Every second of it.
“I can think of all sorts of wicked little things to do to him,” Archie marvelled lightly. “But where’s the fun in the little things?”
He crouched beside me and grabbed Nathan’s chin, forcing his face up. “You know what your biggest mistake was?”
Nathan shook his head frantically.
“It wasn’t coming here tonight. It wasn’t the Russians.” Archie smiled thinly. “It was thinking you were still relevant enough for us to let you live.”
I stood.
My chest felt tight. Not from anger alone — but from something darker. More possessive.
I knew Nathan was no longer a threat. He was weak. He always had been. But the thought that this man had once touched Izzy. Had known the feel of her skin beneath his hands. Had thought he owned her. It made something ancient and violent unfurl inside me.
He didn’t get to breathe the same air as her. Not anymore.
“Stand him up,” I instructed.
Archie hauled him upright by his collar. Nathan swayed.
“Raze, please,” he choked. “I made mistakes. I acknowledge that. But I never hurt her. I never—”
I stepped forward and drove my fist into his stomach.
He folded instantly, gasping.
“Never hurt her?” I repeated softly.
Archie gave a low whistle. “Now you’ve done it.”
I grabbed Nathan by the collar and hauled him upright. He stumbled, legs weak, knees buckling under his own weight. Archie caught him on the other side, not out of kindness, but because he didn’t want the man dying before we were finished with him.
“Basement,” I indicated.
Nathan’s breathing hitched at the word.
The stairwell door had been hidden behind a false wall in the VIP lounge — the kind of architectural deceit men like Chernov loved.
Plush indulgence existed above. The real chaos lived beneath.
We dragged Nathan through the wreckage, past overturned tables and shattered glass, his shoes leaving streaks across blood-slick marble.
He started pleading before we even reached the door.
“I can pay you,” he choked. “A lot of money…”
Archie laughed softly. “Oh, sweetheart. If this were about money, you’d already be dead.”
I shoved the stairwell door open with my shoulder. The air that rushed up from below was colder. Damp. It carried a different scent —decay.
We forced him down the stairs. He slipped twice. I didn’t slow. His shoulder cracked against the concrete wall on the way down, a wet grunt escaping him as pain finally overtook panic.
The basement wasn’t a storage room. It was infrastructure.
Banks of monitors lined one wall, screens cracked but still flickering with frozen footage. Metal tables were bolted to the floor. Drains in the centre of the concrete. Chains embedded into support beams.
Archie stepped in, whistling low. “Ah. Basement torture suite. Excellent drainage.” He nodded toward the centre grate. “Practical. You’ve got to appreciate good plumbing.”
Nathan went rigid between us.
He knew.
He hadn’t come back to Tuscany to sip vodka and reminisce. He’d come to align himself with whatever power still lingered and to carve out his own territory with the Russians.
He’d thought proximity to monsters would keep him protected.
I dragged him toward the centre drain and shoved him down. His knees hit concrete hard enough to split skin. He didn’t react to the pain. His eyes were fixed on the chains.
“This isn’t necessary,” he whispered.
I crouched in front of him, close enough that he could see the ash dusting my sleeves, the blood drying across my knuckles.
“Oh, it’s very necessary.”
Above us, the club proceeded to burn.
Down here, it was cold.
And this — this was where the Russians had stripped people of their leverage.
It felt fitting that Nathan would understand exactly what that meant before the night was over.
We stopped beside the steel worktable where the Russians had been assembling weapons.
Explosives.
How poetic.
I shoved him against it.
“You liked power, didn’t you?” I rumbled. “Liked making her feel small and useless.”
“I didn’t—”
I slammed his hand flat onto the table and drew my knife.
Nathan went very, very still.
“Don’t lie to me.”
The blade hovered over his fingers.
“I’m not going to kill you quickly. Quick is for the deserving.”
Archie rested a boot on the crate. “I’ll grab a chair. This looks like it’ll take a minute.”
I pressed the knife down — not enough to sever. Just enough to bite into his skin.
Nathan screamed. The sound echoed through the hollow warehouse.
“You made her feel powerless.” I leaned over him. “So tonight, you learn what that feels like.”
I cut slowly. Precise. Deliberate. Just enough to make him understand that his body was no longer his own.
He sobbed. Begged. Promised money. Property. Information. None of it mattered.
When I was done, I stepped back.
Nathan’s hand was a mess of blood and ruined tendons. He’d never grip anything the same way again. But that wasn’t the point. The point was fear. I grabbed a jerry can from beneath the table.
Nathan’s eyes widened.
“Oh no,” Archie murmured. “He sees it now.”
I poured fuel across the floor around Nathan’s feet. Let it soak into his expensive loafers.
He began to shake violently.
“You wanted to rule Tuscany?” I bit out.
I struck a match.
The flare of orange reflected in his wet eyes.
“You can rule what’s left.”
I tossed the match.
The fire caught instantly — a ring of flame erupting around him.
He shrieked, terrified, as heat licked upward, igniting the gasoline-soaked fabric. Archie stepped back, unfazed.
Nathan tried to run — but the zip ties and his ruined hand made him clumsy. He tripped, hit the ground.
The fire spread fast.
I watched. Not with glee, but with finality.
Archie exhaled slowly beside me. “You’re going to smell like this for days.”
“Suits me,” I told him.
Nathan’s screams dissolved into something wet and broken as I walked back through the wreckage, letting the firelight paint my hands red.
Archie fell into step beside me.
“You feel better?”
“Better than I have in a long time,” I replied.
Outside, the night air hit my lungs sharp and cold. Smoke spiralled upward into the Tuscan sky.
The Russians were gone. Nathan Azzopardi was gone. And I had blood drying beneath my nails.