Chapter Four – Vieri
The clock strikes midnight.
The sound is soft, but sharp—each chime echoing faintly off the high ceilings of the study.
The reports I asked for are spread across the desk—ledgers, shipment logs, communication transcripts, internal audit slips, payroll records coded under shell corporations. Neat piles, crisp edges. Alfio never disappoints.
My fingers trail over the last rotation schedule, eyes skimming dates and crew assignments. Two names catch my attention—men I don’t remember approving. I underline them quietly with the side of my pen, then move to the next column.
Omero’s anomaly reports are in a separate folder—detailed timestamps, signal inconsistencies, a flagged pattern around the eastern docks. He’s efficient.
I stack the files together with a tap and push my chair back. I grab the gun on the table and slide it into my shirt.
I slide on a coat—black wool, heavy, tailored to my frame. The collar folds sharp against my neck, the lining soft against my shirt sleeves. I button it up slowly and then flick off the desk lamp.
The halls outside are hushed, lit only by the faint wall sconces casting long shadows across the marble floor. The Tavano mansion always settles into this kind of hush after midnight
I walk, hands in my pockets, heading toward the side entrance.
I turn the corner—then pause.
Riccardo’s pressed against one of the walls, half-hidden between two tall columns, and his hands are tangled in the hair of a young maid.
Her dress is hiked up around her hips. His mouth is on her neck, biting softly. Her head is thrown back, lips parted in a quiet gasp as he sucks along the curve of her throat.
His fingers slide beneath her blouse, cupping her breast. She moans softly, arching into him.
I clear my throat.
The sound cuts through them like a blade.
The maid freezes, then jerks away from him, face flushed, eyes wide with horror. She stammers something unintelligible and scrambles to fix her skirt, stumbling back like a frightened deer before bolting down the corridor barefoot, the sound of her footsteps retreating fast into the shadows.
Riccardo leans back against the wall, breathing slow and heavy, still hard beneath his slacks, his jaw flexing with irritation.
“You really know how to kill a moment,” he mutters.
“You really don’t know how to pick one,” I reply coolly.
He zips his pants and straightens his shirt, still watching me through narrowed eyes. “She was willing.”
“She was a maid.”
“So?”
I step past him without pausing. “Don’t fuck the workers.”
“She’s not exactly staff-of-the-year material.”
I stop, glance over my shoulder. “I’m serious. Handle yourself properly next time—or handle yourself alone.”
He scoffs, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Where are you even going at this hour?”
“To clear my head. Pay her four times her severance. And fire her first thing in the morning.”
Riccardo blinks. “You’re kidding.”
“No.”
“You’re the one who interrupted—”
“Doesn’t matter. If she wanted to get fucked in the corridor, she can find another job. Make sure you get your fill of her this night.”
Riccardo lets out a short, low laugh behind me. “You really are colder than before.”
I push through the side door and step into the night.
The air hits sharp—cool, with the faint bite of dew rising from the stone steps. The car’s already waiting near the garage, engine low, headlights dimmed. I slide in and shut the door behind me.
The cabin is clean, dark leather against steel trims. I press the dashboard interface, typing in the destination manually.
CLUB FIORI.
I start the engine. The gates slide open slowly ahead of me.
The gates groan open.
The road stretches ahead, long and smooth, flanked by black railings and tall trees swaying under the wind’s push. The hum of the engine is steady beneath me, a low growl pulsing through the steering wheel.
The city flickers into view in the distance—lights blooming across the skyline like embers glowing beneath ash. Concrete, neon, asphalt.
I pass under flickering streetlamps and faded signage, weaving between sleepy taxis and prowling motorcycles. Familiar intersections blur past, each corner carrying the weight of old blood, old deals, old ghosts.
Thirty minutes later, I pull up outside the club.
The building looms over the street—three stories of glass and chrome, velvet ropes already pushed aside for the night’s crowd. Heavy bass thumps from behind the tinted doors, the kind that pounds through the bones before it reaches the ears. A long line of high-heeled girls and half-drunk men crowds the entrance, but the doormen step back the second they see me.
Inside, the strobe lights pulse in fractured colors—violet, red, electric blue. Bodies move on the dancefloor in a blur of limbs and sweat. The air is thick with smoke and perfume and liquor. Some DJ is shouting something into the mic, but I don’t hear a word of it.
I walk straight in, past the bar, past the grinding couples, past the ones who turn their heads just slightly—sensing something different in the way I move.
I step right into the middle of the room. And pull the gun from beneath my coat and shoot into the air.
The sound of the first shot tears through the club like a bolt of lightning.
A scream follows.
The second shot is louder, closer—ripping into the ceiling tiles and making a shower of dust and debris fall over the chandeliers.
The crowd reacts all at once—scrambling, stumbling, chairs crashing, tables overturned in a heartbeat.
Panic floods the room.
Bodies press toward exits, heels clattering against tiles, voices rising in a confused, terrified crescendo. The music cuts off with a jagged screech, the DJ ducking low behind his booth, whispering frantic curses into his headset.
I stay exactly where I am.
The gun hangs in my hand, still warm.
Soon, the room empties. The scent of liquor lingers, the clatter of glass still echoes. Only the sound of shallow breathing remains—the kind that comes from men trying to stay still without showing weakness.
Seven men remain.
Security, clearly. Poor ones.
And the club’s owner storms out from the VIP corridor, his jacket unbuttoned, gold chain glinting at his throat. His expression is thunder—rage simmering beneath disbelief.
He stares at me as I stand holding the gun, evidently the one who had caused the chaos.
“You crazy bastard!” he snarls. “Do you know what you just did?! Do you have any damn idea who owns this place?!”
His voice booms across the empty club. His men start to circle, hands twitching toward weapons.
He takes two steps closer, nostrils flaring, sweat already forming at his brow. “You just wrecked my bar, scared off my guests—che cazzo ti prende?! What kind of lunatic walks into a full house and starts firing?!”
I raise the gun again and point it straight at his face.
And this time, I let him see it clearly.
The shape of it. The steady grip. The man holding it.
His mouth opens, just slightly. His breath catches. His gaze trails upward—eyes narrowing, studying my face.
Recognition slides slowly. The change is immediate.
His anger falters, then it drains.
His mouth closes—just for a second—then opens again, but nothing comes out. He takes a step back. Then another.
“No,” he breathes.
He looks again, like he’s still hoping he’s wrong—but he isn’t.
His spine curves, legs losing strength. Then, without a word, he drops to his knees on the marble floor. Both hands rise slowly into the air—palms open, fingers spread.
“I—I didn’t know you were out,” he says, voice hoarse, almost a whisper now. “No one told me, I swear—”
I step closer.
“Save the kisses for later, Bugatti.” I pause. “Where are my diamonds?”
****
His meeting room reeks of expensive cologne and stale cigar smoke.
Bugatti’s men are still lingering at the edges, eyes darting between their boss and me, unsure whether to step in or stay put.
“Out,” Bugatti mutters, flicking two fingers toward the door. “All of you. Now.”
The men hesitate—until I shift slightly in my chair, gun still resting casually on the polished table. They scatter without another word, boots echoing across marble as the door clicks shut behind them.
We’re alone now.
Bugatti wipes his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. His collar is damp. His lip twitches like it wants to form a smile, but fear keeps pulling it back into a grimace.
I lean forward, elbows on the table.
“My gold and diamonds,” I say quietly. “Where are they?”
Bugatti swallows hard. “Vieri, listen—”
“My gold and diamonds,” I ask again, calmly resting my elbows on the table. “Where are they?”
He swallows hard. “I don’t know.”
Wrong answer.
My fist slams against the table with a crack loud enough to make the ashtray jump and rattle.
“You don’t lose a hundred million in blood-soaked treasure and say I don’t know, Bugatti.”
“I didn’t lose it!” he snaps—too fast, too desperate. Then his voice drops. “I didn’t touch it. Not one crate. Not one stone.”
“You had one job,” I say slowly. “To protect the fucking stash!”
“I did,” he says, jaw clenched. “I did, Vieri. But things changed while you were inside. Things you couldn’t see from behind bars.”
“Then enlighten me,” I growl. “Start talking before I start carving answers out of your skin.”
His breath leaves him in a rush.
He glances away for a second—then back at me.
“You remember the meeting,” he says quietly. “The first time your father brought you to The Six.”
I was just eleven.
My father had taken me to the backroom of a butcher shop in the old quarter. The smell of blood and smoke clung to the walls. That was the first time I saw The Six—legends. Power in human form. Each with more blood on their hands than a war tribunal.
My father. Bugatti’s father. Mother J—the most feared woman in Southern Italy. And Desmond Volkov—a Russian-Italian hybrid with the smile of a viper and the patience of a guillotine.
The other two were younger and lovers—Vasco and Lena. Quiet but brilliant. They ran the offshore routing systems and controlled the border transfers between Serbia and Libya.
The Six didn’t deal drugs or guns.
They trafficked in something darker—war-torn commodities. Conflict diamonds and looted gold. Everything mined from chaos. Stolen from child soldiers, collapsed governments, mass graves. Packed into crates stamped with fake humanitarian seals. Moved across oceans in cargo labeled as medical aid and school supplies.
Then melted. Cut. Cleaned. Sold.
Clean money, dirty hands.
Each member had a share in the profits—an equal cut of sin.
My father had 20%. Before he died, he passed that share to me and told me to keep it secret from my brothers. The stash wasn’t part of the Tavano family fortune—it was older.
Before I went inside, I gave it to Bugatti. Trusted him to watch it like it was his own skin.
“I honored that,” Bugatti says now, voice low. “I kept it hidden. I paid the guards myself. I rotated the lock codes every month. But after you were locked up…”
His voice trails off.
“What?” I snap. “What changed?”.
“Desmond happened.”
I narrow my eyes. “Explain.”
He leans forward, voice low, steady now.
“While you were in prison, rumors started circling. Mother J heard something—small whispers at first. That Lena and Vasco didn’t die in a car crash like we were told. That it was a hit.”
“That’s old news.”
The two had died in car crash a year after my father let me know about The Six.
“No,” he says quickly. “Not a random hit. A sanctioned one. Desmond gave the order. He saw their union as a threat—forty percent between two lovers, planning to marry, raise a child. He thought they’d take over the entire stash.”
I stare at him, calculating.
“And you believe this?”
“Mother J did,” he says. “And I do now.”
“Why?”
“Because she started digging. Quietly, ruthlessly. And what she found scared even her.”
I lean back slowly. “Which was?”
“They had a child. Just before they died, Lena gave birth.”
The words settle between us like lead.
“She thought the child was still alive. Hidden. Protected by someone outside the circle.”
“And she started looking?”
“Relentlessly. Pulled every favor, every contact, every whisper in the underground. Not to destroy the stash—but to hand the child their inheritance.”
“And then she died.”
Bugatti nods. “Shot in her own villa. No robbery. No message. Just clean execution. Her son swore it was Desmond’s doing.”
“He told you this himself?”
“Yes. I met him a month after the funeral. He said his mother had uncovered more than she’d told anyone. He didn’t know the child’s name or location, but he swore he’d find them. He said it was the only way to get back at Desmond.”
“And now the son’s missing.”
“Vanished a week later. No phone signal. No trace. Not even a whisper from the street. I’ve looked, Vieri. I’ve really looked.”
“And Desmond?”
Bugatti’s mouth tightens.
“He reached out two months ago. Said we needed to move the stash—claimed the location was compromised. I didn’t trust it. But I went, like an idiot, to supervise the transfer.”
“And?”
“I found his body before I found the crates.”
I go still.
“Stab wound. Deep. Clean. He was lying facedown near the vault doors. No signs of forced entry. No guards. No crates. Not a single bar. Not a single stone.”
“And the vault?”
“Empty. The codes were changed. The security system wiped. Whoever took it knew exactly how to get in—and how to cover their tracks.” He looks at me shaking. “I don’t know who was able to move that much gold or how they did it but it happened. I swear.”
My jaw ticks.
“Why didn’t you tell me any of this when I called you from prison?”
“I didn’t have proof. Not then. And I was afraid you’d come out and think I betrayed you.”
“Did you?”
“No,” he says, meeting my eyes directly. “I didn’t. I swear on my father’s grave.”
I watch him for a long moment.
His hands are steady now. His voice doesn’t shake. There’s fear in his posture—but not guilt. Just dread. And grief. He looks like a man buried under a truth too big to carry, too dangerous to let go.
And that’s what convinces me.
I rise slowly from my chair.
“Find Mother J’s son,” I say coldly. “He’s our only lead.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” I hiss. “Because if I don’t get that stash back, I’ll carve you up and send your teeth to your mother’s shrine. And you know I don’t make empty threats.”
Bugatti nods, pale now. “I understand.”
The chair scrapes back hard against the floor as I push away from the table. I don’t look back.
My hand slams the door so hard behind me that the frame rattles. Wood cracks near the handle.
“Figlio di puttana,” I mutter under my breath, my voice tight with fury.
I stalk down the corridor, footsteps heavy, breathing ragged.
By the time I reach my car, the rage has nowhere else to go.
I kick the front fender—once, twice—then again and again, the toe of my polished shoe slamming into the steel with brutal force. The impact echoes in the cold night air.
I grab the edge of the door and kick it harder, over and over, growling through gritted teeth until the panel bends beneath the pressure.
I throw my head back and let out a raw, guttural scream—a sound torn straight from somewhere deep—animal, furious, hollowed by years of buried rage.
I shove the door open and drop into the driver’s seat, still breathing like a war drum.
Forty percent.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
Forty.
The numbers claw at my mind. That cursed legacy, meant for me and Bugatti once Desmond was dead. But now—if the child exists—he stands to inherit the largest stake of all. My jaw locks.
If the child lives, he’s in his twenties now. Old enough to lay claim. Old enough to show up one day, wide-eyed and righteous, and think he has the right to anything.
My lip curls.
No.
No bastard child of two doomed lovers gets to walk in and claim almost half of everything. He complicates everything.
I drum my fingers along the steering wheel, jaw twitching.
Fine. Let Bugatti find Mother J’s son. Let him do the work.
If her son was still alive and still searching for the child of Vasco and Lena, then he’ll lead me straight to the child.
And I’ll finish the job Desmond couldn’t finish. Erasing the bloodline completely.
My share of the diamonds will be secure and I will call it a day's work.