Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ALESSANDRO
I can still smell her on me.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
My gloved fists collide with the heavy leather bag hanging overhead, the echoing cracks bouncing off the walls of my private gym. I’m drowning in sweat, the drops flying off my brow with every sharp, violent snap of my wrists.
I’ve been down here for over two hours now, pushing my body to its absolute limits, burning and sweating, but the phantom scent of her skin won't leave my lungs.
It’s been hours.
Hours since I caught Sienna spying on me at the mall. Hours since I’ve been hiding away in my office, sniffing her damp panties like a fucking addict desperate for his next hit of crack. I’m such an idiot. A depraved, unhinged bastard.
But what the hell am I supposed to do? I crave it.
Now, it’s like her specific, intoxicating smell is permanently engraved in my brain, driving me mad from the inside out.
I stop my assault on the bag, catching it with both forearms as it swings back toward me. I lean my forehead against the cold leather, my chest heaving as I curse myself. Why didn’t I just taste her right there on those godforsaken stairs?
Why didn't I just take what was mine and eat her out until she screamed? Maybe it would have assuaged some of this relentless hunger. Maybe it would have taken the edge off.
God. I’ve never panted for a woman so desperately in my life. It’s sickening. It’s like I need her more than I need air.
"Fuck," I growl into the empty room.
I look around my sanctuary, but even the familiar, spartan surroundings offer no distraction tonight.
My home gym is an expansive, brutalist concrete bunker built into the basement of my estate, lit only by harsh, cold LED strips embedded in the ceiling.
It’s packed with state-of-the-art weights, heavy iron chains, and high-end training gear. It’s a place meant for pure, unadulterated focus. Usually, the scent of rubber, old iron, and hard labor is enough to clear my head.
This evening, it just feels like a cage.
I tear my gaze away from the mirror, unable to look at the sheer desperation written across my own face, and launch myself back into motion.
I continue boxing, throwing a vicious combination of hooks and jabs, feeling my muscles scream in protest under the strain.
Good. I want the pain. I need the exhaustion to drown her out.
I hear the heavy thud of footsteps echoing down the concrete corridor, but I don’t stop. I don’t even turn my head.
It’s Valerio. He’s the only one who has the authority to walk into this gym when I’m using it. Everyone else in my security detail knows better; this is the one place I demand absolute solitude. No exceptions. No matter what.
Valerio appears in my peripheral vision, stepping onto the rubber mats. His expression is grim, stripped of its usual casual ease.
“Alessandro, we have news.”
Something about the way he says it makes my fists freeze against the leather. I lower my arms, panting heavily, my chest heaving as I glare at him. He opens his mouth to speak, but I lift a single finger, cutting him off. I need a second to pull the monster back under the surface.
I peel the sweaty boxing wraps off my hands, letting them drop to the floor.
I grab my silver water bottle from the bench, cracking the cap and chugging the ice-cold liquid down my throat.
The burn in my chest slowly begins to settle.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and give him a sharp nod.
"Talk," I rumble.
Valerio takes a step closer, crossing his arms. “The weapons shipment coming through the eastern docks, it’s gone.
Two hours ago, a customs team that wasn't on our payroll intercepted the containers before our guys could even clear the perimeter. But they didn’t seize them, Alessandro.
The moment the doors were broken open, a fire broke out.
The entire yard went up. The crates, the manifests, the trucks, everything was reduced to ash within minutes. ”
He pauses, his jaw tightening. “Our inside guy at the port said the team had precise coordinates. They knew exactly which warehouse to target and which seals to look for. It wasn’t a random inspection.
It was a targeted execution. We both know who holds the keys to those customs routes and who has the authority to leak those exact manifest numbers. ”
He looks me dead in the eye, his voice dropping an octave. “The financial loss itself is heavy, but it's not the worst part. The real damage is political. A hit like this makes us look compromised. It makes you look weak, exposed, and utterly laughable in front of the elders.”
My jaw tightens, a blinding surge of fury replacing the exhaustion in my muscles. I know exactly how true his words are.
We have four sitting elders in the Gallo organization: Vittorio Moretti, Salvatore de Luca, Nino Romano, and Enzo Bellandi.
These old bastards helped build this bloody empire from the ground up alongside my grandfather. They guided my father when he took the reins, and they were standing right there when my brother, Matteo, took over.
Now that Matteo is dead, they fully expected Luca to step into the vacancy. It made sense to their traditionalist minds; Luca has been a pillar of this family since my father was breathing. He was running crews before Matteo was even handed the title of Don.
And where was I? I was thousands of miles away in Italy, exiled by a father who didn’t give two fucks about my existence.
Now I’m back, sitting in a seat they think belongs to someone else. The elders don’t believe I have the stomach, the power, or the experience to rule a city like this.
They haven’t had the balls to say it to my face yet, but I’m not blind, I know their loyalties lie with Luca. If I let Luca continue to chip away at my authority like this, it’s only a matter of time before the elders find their voice, step across the line, and demand my removal.
I finish the last drop of water, slamming the bottle down onto the bench.
My blood is boiling, screaming for violence.
It would be so simple to slide a clip into my Beretta, drive over to Luca's estate, and put a bullet between his eyes the next time I see him. But a true Don doesn’t rule through desperate, sloppy assassinations.
If I kill him without justification, I create a martyr and trigger a civil war with the elders.
No, I have to play this smartly. I have to find concrete evidence on Luca.
I need to uncover something so damning, so treacherous, that it proves to the entire syndicate he is actively betraying the family.
I have to show those four old men that Luca doesn't have the interests of the organization at heart, that he only cares about his own pathetic ambition.
Once I have that, I won't just kill him. I'll destroy him with their full blessing.
Valerio shifts his weight, his eyes darkening with a fresh layer of concern. "There's more. Luca is making a move this weekend. He’s confirmed to attend a get-together at Belvedere Manor."
I pause, my interest piqued. "Belvedere Manor? That's neutral territory. Who else is on the guest list?"
"The Kuznetsovs are attending in full force," Valerio says, his voice dropping.
"The Carusos were invited too, but you know Massimo, the bastard hardly ever leaves his fortress for parties like that, so they probably won't show.
But here's the real kicker: the Gallos weren't invited at all.
The hosts completely froze us out of the official list."
A cold smile touches my lips. "And yet, Luca found a way onto the floor."
"Exactly," Valerio nods, his jaw tight. "He bypassed the family entirely to secure his own invitation.
If he's sneaking into a high-profile gathering packed with Russians and rival syndicates behind your back, he’s likely planning a secret meeting, a major deal, or a direct power move to solidify his position. "
I grab my gym bag from the floor and fling the strap over my shoulder, heading straight for the heavy metal door of the gym.
“I’ll find a way in,” I say, my mind already calculating the security blind spots of Belvedere Manor. “But that’s not important right now. We have another package coming in tonight, don’t we?”
“Yes,” Valerio answers immediately, his boots clicking against the concrete right at my heels as we exit the bunker.
I give a sharp, final nod. “Good. I’ll be there to see to it myself.”
That night, the air down by the industrial canal is thick with the stench of low tide and rotting wood. Fog rolls in off the water, swallowing the headlights of the black SUVs we parked two blocks back.
I stand in the shadows of an abandoned warehouse, the cold metal of my Beretta a grounding weight in my palm. Valerio stands a few paces to my left, his eyes scanning the dark perimeter.
I’m damn glad I decided to see to the incoming package myself.
My instincts were dead on. The rusted fishing trawler carrying our shipment hasn't even cut its engines when the headlights of three unmarked vans pierce the fog from the eastern entrance of the docks. They don't belong to customs. They don't belong to the port authority.
As the side doors slide open, the dim amber warehouse lights catch the unmistakable profiles of Luca’s personal enforcers. The bastards came to finish the job.
They think I'm still back at the estate, nursing my wounds from the morning's loss, completely blind to the fact that they are trying to choke out my remaining supply lines.
They came to intercept this drug package too, ready to burn it down and leave me looking like an incompetent child in front of the elders.
Not tonight.
"Ambush," Valerio breathes, his weapon drawing in a smooth, practiced motion.
"No," I rasp, a feral smile cutting through the darkness as I step out of the shadows. "An execution."
Before Luca’s men can even establish a perimeter around the dock, we strike.
A brutal, chaotic firefight breaks out, the deafening cracks of gunfire shattering the midnight silence.
Muzzle flashes light up the fog like strobe lights, bullets tearing into the brickwork and shattering the windshields of their vans.
They weren't expecting a fight, and they certainly weren't expecting the Don to be on the front lines, trading lead in the dirt. One of his men lunges toward the first crate pulled from the boat, but I drop him with two clean shots to the chest before his boots can even unevenly hit the wood.
The air fills with the smell of cordite, screams of agony, and the sharp tang of fresh blood. If Luca wanted a war for the throne, he just officially got one.
"Left flank!" Valerio shouts over the deafening roar of a shotgun blast echoing off the metal containers.
I pivot, aiming my Beretta to squeeze off another round, when a shadow detaches itself from the darkness behind a stack of wooden pallets. I don't hear him over the chaos, I only catch the wicked, silver glint of a hunting knife slicing through the heavy fog.
Instinct makes me throw my weight backward, but I'm a fraction of a second too late. A sharp, searing heat explodes along my left forearm as the blade rips through the fabric of my jacket and deep into the flesh beneath.
Fuck.
I grunt, the white-hot pain flashing behind my eyes, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins overrides the shock.
Before the bastard can pull the blade back for a fatal plunge into my ribs, I drop my gun, grab his wrist with my good hand, and twist it until the bone snaps.
He screams, dropping the knife, but I don’t give him a chance to breathe.
I drive my knee directly into his chest, forcing him back, and plunge my fingers into his throat, slamming him onto the concrete until he goes limp.
Across the dock, Valerio eliminates the last two standing men, the sharp cracks of his weapon fading into a heavy, suffocating silence.
The theft is stopped. The drug package is secure. But the cost is dripping steadily onto the cold ground. My blood.
I lean against a shipping container, clutching my forearm.
Blood—dark, thick, and hot—is pouring from the gash, soaking through my torn sleeve and staining my fingers.
My breath comes in ragged, uneven hits, my heart hammering against my ribs as the initial rush begins to clear, leaving behind a raw, pulsing agony.
Valerio jogs over to me, his face pale under the amber dock lights as he sees the state of my arm. He immediately pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and presses it hard against the wound.
"Jesus, Alessandro. That's deep," Valerio mutters, his brow furrowing as the fabric instantly turns crimson. "We need to move. Now. I’ll call the house doctor to meet us at the estate to stitch you up before you bleed out in the car."
I shake my head, a harsh, jagged growl ripping from my throat as I shove his hands away. "No. No doctor at the estate."
"Alessandro, you're losing too much blood—"
"I said no!" I snap, my eyes flashing with a dangerous light.
Valerio purses his lips at me. “So, what do you plan to do?”
Bleeding, exhausted, and absolutely furious, a dark, reckless idea begins to take root in my mind.
The vulnerability of the injury, combined with the pure, unadulterated rage of Luca's constant disrespect, pushes me past the point of reason.
I don't want a clinical, sterile doctor patching me up while I sit around waiting for the next strike.
I want to test the boundaries of the girl who claims to hate me. I want to see if she'll break.
I decide to take a risk.