Chapter Eleven – Vieri
Bugatti hisses as the doctor presses a gauze pad against his arm, soaking up the blood seeping from fresh teeth marks. His face twists in pain, his other hand gripping the edge of my desk like he’s debating whether to strangle someone.
"Piccola bastarda," he grits out, switching to Italian as his temper flares. "That girl—she's rabid. Like a fucking wildcat. Who bites someone like this?"
The doctor murmurs something about holding still, dabbing disinfectant onto the wound. Bugatti jerks his arm away with a sharp glare but lets the doctor finish.
I barely hear them.
My mind is elsewhere, replaying the last few minutes.
I never expected a violent resistance. At most, I thought of a desperate prayer thrown into the void. But I hadn’t expected this.
She was all softness and trembling hands. And yet—when she lashed out, she wasn’t prey.
She was feral.
The ache in my scalp where she’d torn at my hair is a dull, pulsing reminder. The girl fought with everything she had. And Bugatti has the mark to prove it.
I exhale slowly, rubbing my jaw.
"A wolf in sheep’s clothing."
"That should do it," the doctor says finally, patting Bugatti’s arm with clinical indifference. The bandage is tight, the wound cleaned, but the man still scowls as if he’s been gravely wounded.
The doctor packs up his supplies and gives me a short nod before slipping out of the study, the door clicking shut behind him.
Bugatti flexes his hand and mutters another curse under his breath before turning toward me.
"What next? We got the girl."
I shift my gaze to him, leaning back in my chair. "I'll handle her," I say, voice calm, measured. "You focus on finding Mother J’s son—dead or alive. We need leads."
Bugatti exhales sharply. "And the girl?"
I flick my wrist, dismissing the question.
"I said I'll handle her. Just make sure the old lady isn’t tattling to anyone.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing as if trying to read something between the lines. But he’s not foolish enough to push.
Bugatti nods, rolling his shoulder before turning toward the door. Just as he reaches for the handle, it swings open from the other side.
Enzo and Alfio step in, their conversation cutting off abruptly as their eyes land on Bugatti’s bandaged arm.
Enzo arches a brow. "Madonna, what happened to you?"
Alfio tilts his head, lips twitching in amusement. "You get into a fight with a dog?"
Bugatti scowls, pushing past them without a word.
Enzo watches him go, then turns back to me with an expectant look. "What happened with him?"
I don’t answer.
Alfio lounges in the chair across from me, his posture deceptively relaxed. One arm draped over the backrest, the other tapping idly against the armrest. Enzo, never one to sit still, leans against the bookshelf, rolling an unlit cigarette between his fingers.
They give feedback on their work and I nod absently, absorbing their words but barely hearing them.
“A wildcat,” I murmur under my breath.
Enzo catches it. His sharp gaze locks onto mine. “What?”
I glance up, tilting my head slightly. “How do you get rid of a wildcat?”
Alfio huffs a laugh. “Didn’t know you liked cats, fratello.”
Enzo doesn’t share his amusement. He straightens slightly, eyes dark with something more serious. “You just got out of jail, Vieri. You don’t need to get your hands dirty.”
The grandmother.
Carmela Fiore.
She's well-connected, and she has Lena and Vasco’s money. If one hair on that girl’s head is harmed, Carmela will raise hell.
I sigh. Maybe taking the girl was a mistake.
I'm still no closer to recovering my stolen diamonds.
But I can't let her go.
Not until I find what's mine.
Then, and only then, I’ll decide what to do with her.
Alfio shifts in his seat, watching me carefully. “You with us, fratello?”
I snap out of my thoughts, my expression carefully neutral. I have to keep my brothers in the dark.
They can't know about The Six.
Can’t know about the missing loot.
Can’t know about her.
But how the fuck am I supposed to hide her in a house full of nosy bastards?
Before I can answer, a voice shatters the stillness.
"Jesus fucking Christ!"
It’s Riccardo.
A half-second later, a high-pitched scream follows.
Enzo straightens immediately, cigarette forgotten, his fingers already reaching for the gun at his waist.
The screams continue—panicked, sharp.
Alfio and I exchange a look and we get up.
Our boots pound against the hardwood floor, the echo of our footsteps colliding with another choked-out scream. Then something twists in my gut when I realize where the sound is coming from.
I shove past Alfio, moving faster now, my body coiling with tension.
We reach the door at the same time.
I shove it open, and the sight inside stops me dead.
A half-naked blonde stands near the doorway, silk sheets clutched to her chest, her mouth open in a horrified scream.
Riccardo stands near the bed, his shirt undone, belt unbuckled, his face frozen in absolute shock.
And in the center of the room—
The girl.
Lying still.
Her dress is soaked in blood.
Her curls cling to her damp forehead, her skin pale, unmoving.
Enzo lets out a quiet curse, his gun still raised. Alfio stiffens beside me, his jaw clenched.
I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face. Of course the nosy fools found her before I even got the chance to hide her.
"Madonna santa."
Omero’s voice cuts through the tension as he rushes up behind us, breathless. “I heard screams, what happ—”
He stops short.
His gaze locks onto Lunetta’s unmoving form.
His expression hardens.
"What the fuck?"
*****
The doctor mumbles under his breath, words I barely catch. Something about extra pay, not signing up for this shit, and mafia bastards who think they can do anything they want.
He threads an IV into the girl’s arm with practiced efficiency, his fingers moving with tired precision that suggests this isn’t his first time dealing with a mess like this. The clear tubing coils down to the bag of fluids hanging beside the bed, slow droplets forming and slipping into the line.
The girl lies still, her body half-curled on the mattress, her blood-soaked dress twisted around her. Her bare arms are smudged with dried crimson, and her lips are dark with blood—some of it her own, some of it from Bugatti’s arm.
I take a slow breath.
My brothers aren’t looking at her.
They’re looking at me.
Omero, Alfio, Enzo, and Riccardo stand around the room, each one glaring at me with varying degrees of anger and disbelief.
Then—
"Were you going to leave her in there to die?" Enzo demands, his voice sharp with anger.
I drag my gaze to him. “She just passed out. Relax.”
"She could have fucking died!" Omero snaps, his fists clenching at his sides.
“She didn’t,” I reply, voice clipped.
Alfio exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose before fixing me with a hard look. “Why is she here, even? Who is she?”
Before I can answer, Riccardo scoffs, throwing up a hand. “Do you know how hard it was to get that blonde chick to come home with me?”
I barely turn my head. My patience is already worn thin.
“Why were you in that room?” I snap.
Riccardo shrugs, unfazed. “Because that’s my fuck room. The ladies love a squeaky metallic bed in a scary room.” He gestures vaguely, then scowls. “But thanks to you, I’ll never get laid by that woman.”
"For heaven’s sake, shut up," Alfio snaps at him, rubbing his hair before turning to me again. His eyes are sharp, demanding. “Tell us why she’s here.”
I hold his gaze, weighing my options.
There’s no escape from this.
No way to spin it without making things worse.
So I lie.
“She’s my girlfriend.”
Riccardo lets out a short, sharp laugh—but it dies when he sees my face.
"What?" Omero asks, his brows furrowing.
I inhale, then double down. “I saw her. I fell in love with her. I brought her here.”
Enzo snorts, shaking his head. “And you beat her up?”
“She attacked me,” I reply. “She almost bit off Bugatti’s arm.”
“The guy at your study, the one with the band aid? I thought a dog clawed him. Jesus,” Enzo mutters.
Alfio folds his arms, studying me like he’s trying to crack through my skull and see what’s inside. “If she is fighting this hard, then obviously, she doesn’t want to be here. Let her go.”
I meet his eyes.
“No,” I say simply. “I want her. She’ll be here, and that’s final. Get used to seeing her.”
Alfio shakes his head, disgust twisting his features. “I cannot believe you.”
He turns and walks out, shoulders tense.
Omero and Enzo exchange a look before following him, Enzo muttering something under his breath as he disappears through the doorway.
That leaves Riccardo.
He just watches me, arms folded, mouth curled in between amusement and disbelief. Then, he lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“Bullshit,” he says. “She isn’t your girlfriend.”
I don’t answer.
Riccardo smirks, stepping closer, tilting his head. “You could’ve come up with something better. You’re slipping, fratello.”
I flex my fingers. “Don’t make me hurt you, Riccardo.”
His grin widens. “I’ll figure out why you’re keeping her.”
Then he turns and strolls out like this is all some entertaining soap opera.
The second the door shuts behind him, I exhale, rubbing a hand down my face.
Fucking hell.
The doctor clears his throat.
I look at him.
“I need her sedated,” I say, voice firm. “Keep her asleep for the next twenty-four hours.”
The doctor gives a short nod, adjusting the IV drip to administer the dose.
I glance at the girl one last time.
Her face is slack, peaceful in unconsciousness, but her fingers twitch slightly, like even in sleep, she’s still fighting.
I sigh and leave the room.
The moment I step back into my study, I sink into my chair, pressing my fingers to my temples.
I exhale slowly, staring at nothing.
Then I mutter to myself.
"Fuck my life."
My jaw clenches at the thought of the girl.
My phone buzzes sharply, dragging me from my thoughts. The screen flashes Bugatti’s name.
"What?" I snap, pressing the phone to my ear.
There’s a pause. Just the sound of breathing—uneven, strained—before Bugatti finally speaks, a tight edge in his voice.
“The autopsy results are in. DNA confirms it. The dead man is Mother J’s son.”
I go still, my fingers frozen against the polished surface of my desk. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he replies. “The tissue samples matched with what we collected from her estate. No doubt. It’s him.”
My jaw clenches. “Cause of death?”
“Severe internal trauma from blunt force,” Bugatti says grimly. “Multiple contusions—ribs broken, face fractured. And a deep stab wound to the abdomen. The coroner says he bled out internally. It was brutal.”
I lean forward, voice sharp. “Where did this happen?”
“He died inside Carmela Fiore’s café,” Bugatti answers, tone darkening. “Her granddaughter was closing up after the night shift when he stumbled in. Reports say she was alone.”
My pulse kicks up. “She called it in?”
“Yeah,” he confirms. “She reported a stranger stumbling into the café, covered in blood, barely able to speak.”
I fall silent, suspicion already coiling in my gut. “Did he say anything?”
“No,” Bugatti says quietly. “But the report mentions he tried. Mouth moving, struggling to speak. He was trying to say something before he went.”
I sit back, heart thudding. "I think he was trying to tell her something. It can't be a coincidence."
My mind ticks through scenarios—each one worse than the last. How much does this girl know? How much did Carmela tell her about Lena and Vasco’s fortune—the diamonds? How much did Mother J’s son tell her?
My grip on the phone tightens, knuckles turning pale. "If Mother J’s son is truly dead, we need to find anyone and everyone connected to the Six. Tear apart this city if you have to. I want anyone who might know about those diamonds found—immediately."
Bugatti hesitates briefly, his breathing heavy. "Understood, boss."
"And Bugatti," I add coldly, voice low, "I’ll handle every warehouse in Melbourne myself, it could be stashed. Leave no stone unturned."
I end the call abruptly, dropping the phone carelessly on the desk. I rise from my chair, pacing restlessly across the study.
I pause, turning towards the window, hands clasped behind my back. The city lights blink slowly in the distance. My heart rate settles, resolve forming like ice in my veins.
The girl is of no use alive—better dead, better erased. Carmela Fiore could rage but without proof, her grief is meaningless. But first, I need answers. I need to know how much the girl knows—about what she was told that night when he walked into the café.
And after that, I’ll silence her forever.