Chapter Twenty-Seven – Vieri
Chains scrape metal as I shift, the clink echoing in the damp, rotting air of the basement. I’ve stopped counting the days. The routine is the same—drip from the pipe above my head, cold cement at my back, steel shackles biting into skin. Except tonight, there’s a sound I haven’t heard before.
A groan. Low, disoriented. From the next cell over.
Then, hoarse and confused: “What the fuck is going on?”
That idiot drawl.
A short, bitter laugh escapes my throat.
“You’re a two-timing fuck, that’s what’s going on,” I growl into the dark. “How dare you?”
Chains rattle. “Why does everything hurt?”
“Because you were shot, Riccardo,” I snap, tugging at my restraints. They don’t budge. “You don’t remember? Bugatti? Your comrade?”
He groans again, breath labored. “That bastard…”
“He isn’t the only bastard in this equation,” I spit, jaw locked. “You think betrayal comes with a pass because you feel bad about it?”
Then, more quietly: “How long have I been out?”
I exhale through my nose. My neck aches from the position I’ve been forced into. “After they patched your shoulder, you babbled for weeks. Fever. Delirium. They kept sedating you—more than me. Probably figured you’d crack easy. I learned how to fight the dope. You just swallowed it down and cried for your mother.”
A dry chuckle from the next cell, then a groan of pain. “He shoulda just let me die,” Riccardo mutters. Then, louder: “Maybe next time don’t be such a fucking liar.”
I shift again, testing the chain against the bolt in the wall. “What are you whining about now?”
Riccardo's voice sharpens. “When were you going to tell us Dad had a stash? The loot? You were going to take it all for yourself.”
“Really, Sherlock?” My voice rises, frustration clawing up my throat. “And go where? With what army? You think I’d vanish into the tropics while you and the others hunted me across continents?”
Riccardo grumbles, “I don’t know. Maybe Thailand.”
“For God’s sake.” I press my head against the wall between us. The cold seeps through my skin. “It was blood money, Riccardo. People died for it. A lot of people. I didn’t want you, Omero or Enzo or Alfio involved. I’ve already been to prison. I wasn’t going to drag you down too.”
There’s no response.
Then Riccardo asks, quieter this time. “You were going to kill the girl, weren’t you?”
I clench my jaw.
“Did he lie about that too?” he pushes.
“Riccardo…”
“No more lies.”
I let my head fall back against the wall and stare up into the dark. “Yes,” I say. “I was going to kill her.” The words leave a taste in my mouth worse than blood. “Then I changed my mind.” I exhale. “How the fuck did we get here?”
Riccardo shifts again, the sound of chains dragging across concrete. “Bugatti came to me while you were in. Said you were hiding something. Said you didn’t give a damn about us. That you were planning to cut and run with the full share.”
I close my eyes. Of course he did.
“He told me about the loot. That our father passed it to you and you never told us.”
“He told you just enough to get you angry,” I mutter. “And stupid.”
“I was angry,” Riccardo admits. “And stupid.”
I nod slowly, to no one. “The plan was to use me to find the girl. Use you to take me out once I got her. Then—”
“Then take me out too,” Riccardo finishes, bitterly. “Fuck,” he mutters. “We handed him the keys.”
“And he locked the doors behind us.”
Riccardo shifts again, chains dragging like dead weight. Then, softly, “What do we do now?”
I snort. “Don’t backstabbers have some sort of handbook?”
He groans. “Yeah, well… mine didn’t come with a second edition. Vieri…”
I wait.
“I’m sorry. For being a damn snake. For believing him.”
The words hang there.
I answer. “I shouldn’t have trusted Bugatti either. I thought I was being smart… keeping things clean. Truth is, I should’ve trusted my blood more.”
A chain clinks as Riccardo leans his head back. “Do you think the others are searching for us?”
“I know they are.” My fingers curl loosely around my knee. “Before I was brought here, I left a digital trail. Messages. Voice logs. Every wire I ran through Bugatti is documented and encrypted.”
He shifts again.
“What?” I ask, a warning already building in my throat.
Riccardo’s voice is strained. “I deleted them.”
My spine goes stiff. “You did what?”
“When I knocked you out,” he mutters. “I was… I was mad, okay? I thought you were stealing from us.”
“You fucking idiot,” I snarl, the chain biting as I try to lunge forward instinctively. It jerks me back. “You burned the only evidence that could’ve cleared me? Gotten us out of this shit?”
“I know!” He doesn’t raise his voice, but it cracks. “I know. I wasn’t thinking straight. After you went in and Dad died, I started spiraling. Bugatti saw it. He fed me what I needed. Molly. Just enough to blur the edge of everything I didn’t want to feel.”
I breathe hard through my nose.
Riccardo adds, quieter now, “That’s why I believed him. That’s why I let him fill my head with all that shit. I wasn’t thinking, I was floating.”
“How’s your head now?” I finally ask.
“The days I disappeared…” His voice steadies. “I went to see a doctor in Florence. Detox specialist. Dr. Paolo Massini. Said I wanted my brain back.”
“Do you have it?”
“Getting there.”
I lean back, pressing my head against the wall. “Good.”
A moment.
Then I ask, “What about the girl?”
He doesn’t speak for a second. “I returned her.”
I glance toward the darkness where his voice comes from. “To her family?”
“Yeah. Grandmother.”
I nod slowly. “Good. You did right.”
He lets out a breath. “I thought you’d be furious.”
I smirk faintly. “I was going to kill her. Then I couldn’t. You think I want to add that to my ledger?”
He’s quiet.
“Are we stuck here forever?” he asks.
“Of course not.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. “And how the hell do you know that?”
I reach down into the waist of my pants and pull out a thin, rust-streaked key. It’s small, almost invisible in the dark.
“Stole a key from a guard,” I mutter. “Two weeks ago. Slipped it while he bent to drop food. Must’ve swapped to a backup before Bugatti noticed.”
I slide it across the damp floor. The key scrapes against stone and hits Riccardo’s boot.
He leans forward awkwardly, grabs it with the good arm—wincing as he works the lock.
His chains loosen and drop. He exhales, rubbing his wrist where the metal’s left marks.
He slides it back and I work mine open and roll my shoulders, breathing in something that finally feels like control again.
The room is quiet—chains piled like dead serpents around our feet.
“Ready to fix what we broke?” I murmur.
Riccardo flexes his bruised wrist and nods once.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor—slow, steady, confident.
I tilt my head toward the sound and murmur, “I hope your arm hurts like hell.”
“Deserved,” he mutters, just as the door creaks open.
Two guards walk in—one to each cell. They’re carrying trays, not weapons. Perfect.
Mine steps closer, grumbling about “rats being fed better than kings.” He slides the tray forward with his foot, not bothering to look up.
My hand closes around the broken metal shard I’ve kept hidden beside the cot leg.
He turns too late.
My shoulder crashes into his chest, driving him back into the bars. The tray clatters to the ground. He grunts, reaching for his belt, but my elbow slams up into his throat. He gasps, stumbles. I swing the shard across his jaw—he goes down hard.
Across the hall, I hear a grunt, then the wet smack of knuckles hitting flesh. Riccardo’s guard gurgles, then collapses like a sack of bricks.
Riccardo steps over him, winded but grinning.
“Still got it,” he mutters, wiping his mouth.
We don’t stop to admire our handiwork.
I grab the guard’s key ring, toss Riccardo a blade from the other’s belt, and we flee.
We charge out into the corridor, boots slamming against concrete. The lights are flickering overhead, shadows stuttering on the cracked walls as we pass.
Twist left. Empty hallway.
Right. Another.
Then—
A guard turns the corner up ahead, holding a tablet. He looks up, sees us. His mouth opens.
“Back up!” he bellows, reaching for his comms.
“Run!” I shout.
We spin and bolt in the opposite direction, breath tearing through our lungs.
More halls. Another door.
It groans as I shove it open with my shoulder—and suddenly, we’re outside.
Cool air hits my face. My lungs suck it in like I’ve never tasted oxygen before.
Then I stop. Bugatti is waiting.
He’s standing in the courtyard, arms folded, ten—no—twelve men behind him. And he’s smiling like it’s Christmas morning.
“Well,” he says, stepping forward, “leaving so soon, boss?”
Riccardo spits at the dirt near his boots. “Go fuck yourself, Bugatti.”
Bugatti’s smirk doesn't even falter. His eyes flicker over to me. “You always did love a dramatic exit, Vieri. Your timing’s… impeccable.”
And Bellandi steps out from the shadows.
My lips part in a hollow chuckle. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I knew this old fool couldn’t be trusted!” Riccardo snaps.
The old man lifts his chin, smug as ever. “Surprise.”
My eyes narrow. “The diamonds. Where are they?”
Bellandi tilts his head. “You mean my diamonds? Being polished. Catalogued. Ready to ship.”
He steps closer. “But before that… I need to clean house.”
A sharp whistle cuts the air. In a flash, guards surge forward, grabbing our arms before we can reach for the knives at our belts. One pins Riccardo against the wall. Another yanks my arm behind my back and slams me to my knees.
The barrels of two rifles press against the base of my skull. And Bellandi claps.