Chapter 1
RAFAEL
Present Day
The house still smells like smoke.
Even after weeks of reconstruction—fresh plaster, new paint, scaffolding stretching across the west wing—the scent lingers.
It creeps out of the walls like a memory itself, reminding me of what we lost.
The chandelier in the foyer gleams again, refracting light across the marble floors, but the cracks beneath it are still visible if you know where to look.
In many ways, it’s just like us, the fractured family we’ve become.
Sandro stands by the window, staring out at the courtyard.
His reflection stares back at him—gaunt, a little hollow-eyed.
The look of a man who has seen his worst nightmare come to life and somehow survived it.
He’s healing, but not yet whole.
The man who went into the Yakuza’s dungeon isn’t the same one who came out.
There’s a stillness to him now.
Not peace—something sharper.
Like he’s holding his breath, waiting for a killing blow.
And I know it’s not because of what Kenji did to him—but rather Evi. Whatever took place in that basement still haunts my twin.
But he didn’t fail his wife like I failed Genevieve.
Evi’s still here, and I trust that when this is all over, Sandro will find a way to heal.
The hole in my heart that formed the day my wife died is far less likely to do so.
But I can’t tell if it’s the sense of loss or guilt that continues to eat at me so relentlessly, leaving the jagged wound gaping.
All I can be is grateful that my brother won’t suffer that same pain.
“We can’t just keep sitting and waiting,” Miko says flatly, drawing me from my reverie, and when my eyes snap toward him, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“Kenji is dead. Tatsuo is too old to lead his troops the way he used to. That means they’re weak, and we’re squandering the best chance we have to crush them once and for all. ”
“We’ve said that before, and look where it got us,” Sandro says, not looking away from the window.
My twin taken prisoner and his wife kidnapped—that’s where it got us.
“We need to stop underestimating the Tanakas,” he continues. “Raf was right. We can’t keep going at them head-on with the numbers we have.”
I sip my whiskey and relish the burn as it goes down. “He’s right, Miko. We got reckless. We thought we’d evened the odds, but look what it cost us.” I glance pointedly at Sandro. “We need something more to tip the scales.”
Miko shoots me a glare. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Knowing and learning are two different things,” I say lightly. It’s easier to let sarcasm do the talking.
Humor keeps me from thinking about my wife’s face the night she died.
The way her blood looked on my hands.
The silence that followed her last breath.
I take another sip of whiskey, pretending it helps.
Sandro finally turns from the window. “We can’t go on the offensive until we have the numbers.”
“You’re thinking about the Murrays,” I observe.
“They’ve been taking their sweet time, but I think they’ll come around,” he insists.
I shake my head. “You’ve been working that angle at the fighting pits for months, and they haven’t given an inch.
They might not be happy with the Tanakas, but they’re not ready to switch sides, and the more time we spend trying to keep a finger on the pulse of their fickle tempers, the less time we’re putting into strengthening our defenses. ”
Miko runs his finger through his hair, jaw tight, blue eyes flashing. “Then we find new allies.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “You make it sound so easy. What, should we post a classified ad? Mafia brothers seek morally flexible partners with guns and grudges. Must love long walks through bloodshed.”
My oldest brother’s flat gaze tells me just how unamused he is. Some things never change.
Sandro shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The sight hits me harder than I expect.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him smile—since before he and Evi were taken, before they nearly died.
I still can’t shake the image of my brother’s back from my mind.
The discolored crisscrossing lines that will never heal properly. Because of me.
It’s been weeks since we brought Sandro and Evi home, but the sight of his injuries that night has burrowed under my skin and stayed there.
He catches my eye, and I can tell he knows what I’m thinking. We don’t need words for that. Twins never do.
“You all right?” I ask quietly.
He shrugs. “Getting there.”
“How’s Evi?”
That earns me a real smile. “Stronger than I am, somehow. She’s resting. The doctor says she and the babies are healthy.”
Babies. Plural. Twins, just like me and Sandro.
When he told me about it, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
It’s a miracle, after everything they’ve been through.
A part of me is jealous—not in the way that wants what he has, but in the way that grieves what I’ll never get back.
My wife and I talked about children once.
Genevieve would have made a good mother, though I’d hesitated to bring children into my father’s world.
And now, we’ll never have the chance.
That’s the kind of thought that can rip a man apart if he lets it linger too long. So I don’t.
“I’m glad,” I manage. “You deserve something good, Brother.”
His eyes soften. “We all do.”
“So, what now?” Miko cuts in.
“We take our time. We plan,” Sandro says, his eyes holding mine. “We rebuild. We find out who can be swayed to support our cause.”
I raise a brow.
Sandro’s always been the one to throw himself into a fight headfirst.
Now, he sounds more like… well, me.
And I can’t quite put my finger on why that bothers me. Perhaps it’s because he’s always been the best of us.
I don’t want to drag him down with me.
So I can’t help but razz him. “And how do you suggest we do that? Send out invitations to the next massacre?”
He doesn’t answer, because we all hear it at once—a low rumble of engines approaching from the main gate.
The guards out front start shouting.
Miko’s hand goes to his gun. “Were we expecting company?”
I shake my head, glancing outside. “Not unless the pizza I ordered comes with an armored convoy.”
Sandro moves toward the window again, peering through the curtains. “Irish.”
Looking over my twin’s shoulder, I recognize the vehicles. Speak of the devil… Our unexpected guests aren’t just Irish. “It’s the Murrays.”
The name alone tightens the air in the room. Miko and I share a glance.
Maybe Sandro’s determination that they would come around isn’t so ill-placed, after all. Still, I can’t stop the bitter taste that floods my mouth.
We might need the strength and numbers the Irish could provide, but they are the same family that helped the Tanakas take us down.
And while I would never have gone so far as to call them our allies before, they had always maintained something of a friendly rivalry with our family—until the day they decided to switch sides.
The Yakuza offered them a bigger slice of the pie, and they took it.
And while the Murrays were more responsible for the destruction to our property than taking Chiaroscuro lives—a slight I might have forgiven if my father and wife hadn’t been murdered because of it—that doesn’t change the fact that they turned the tides on how thoroughly the Tanakas crushed our family that day.
We’ve heard rumors that the Murrays might have started to regret their alliance, that Kenji refused to give them the territory they were promised—and now my brothers and I have been reclaiming it inch by painful inch.
But when we tried to put the past behind us, to offer a white flag of truce even though they’re the ones who wronged us, they all but kicked us to the curb.
Sandro and I have approached the Irish numerous times—on their turf—in an attempt to feel out whether the Murrays might switch sides once more.
But we’d been turned away every time.
Now they’re here? What’s changed?
I roll my shoulders to chase off the tension. “This should be fun.”
Miko shoots me a look. “Don’t.”
“What? I’ll be polite.”
“You’ll provoke them,” he mutters.
He’s not wrong. There’s a fine line between sarcasm and violence, and I walk it daily.
By the time the Murrays’ convoy stops at the gates, our men have lined the perimeter, weapons drawn but restrained.
A few of the guards look to me for orders.
I nod once. “Let them in.”
Miko scowls. “You really think that’s wise?”
“They didn’t come blasting through the gates like last time,” I point out. “That means they want something more than violence. I say we hear them out.” I meet Sandro’s gaze, knowing this is the outcome he’s been banking on for months.
He rewards me with another rare smile.
“Send them to the war room, will you?”
“With pleasure,” he agrees.
I turn to go. I need a few minutes to prepare myself for the conversation that’s to come, but before I do, Miko grasps my shoulder.
“I’ll stay close, ready if they try anything.”
It’s as close as my older brother will get to an open display of affection, but I know his instinct to protect comes from an unshakeable love and loyalty that this year has tested beyond reasonable limits.
And I’m grateful for him.
He might not be my brother by blood, but Miko is the one I’ve always looked up to, always relied on.
And I need his support, his steadfast presence.
With a single nod of gratitude, I cross the grand foyer, or what’s left of it.
Half the room’s been restored—the marble staircase polished, the banisters reattached—but the burn marks on the ceiling are still visible.
A reminder that fire can take everything, even pride.
Reaching the room my father used for his home office, I station my guards outside the door, then close it as I step in for a moment alone.
The space hasn’t been renovated yet, but the broken window’s been replaced, the burned curtains removed.
We lost half the books that used to adorn the wall of shelves, many first editions that my father coveted.