Chapter 23
Vincenzo
The dagger is still warm when I pull it from the wall.
Not blood-warm, not from any actual violence. Just the kind of residual heat that lingers from proximity—his skin, his hand, the tension in his body when he hurled it across a crowded place with every ounce of that cold, surgical rage he’s been wearing like armor lately.
I roll the handle between my fingers, testing the balance. Russian steel. No engravings. No markings. Just smooth, matte death from someone who doesn’t believe in showmanship unless it’s theatrical enough to leave a scar.
Typical Nikolaj.
The stray doesn’t speak to me anymore, but he threw this at me. That tells me he’s trying to sever whatever’s left. To cauterize the wound. To prove, maybe to himself more than anyone else, that he’s unaffected. That the pull has been burned out of him. That there’s no heat left to spark.
But throwing a knife across the room because I smiled at someone else? That’s not detachment, that’s possession.
I sit with that thought as I walk back to my room, the blade tucked neatly against my forearm, the hallway quiet around me now that the crowd’s dispersed.
I didn’t say anything when he threw it. Didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch. I just smiled because I know him.
And that throw? That was a scream—the loudest one he’s made since he went silent.
By the time I reach the East Wing, I’ve already decided I’m keeping the blade. It’s not a threat, it’s a keepsake. A little souvenir from someone who still wants to be in control, even while losing it.
I sit on the edge of my bed, tug off my gloves, and roll the dagger slowly in my hands. The weight of it is heavier than it looks. Clean grip. Razor edge. Balanced like it was made to fly.
I turn it over slowly, watching the metal catch in the light. I should return it by tossing it back in his direction the next time we cross paths and remind him that I’m done entertaining his games. Instead, my fingers tighten around it.
He’s not unaffected. I know he’s not.
You don’t stare at someone like they’re your next breath for weeks and then stop breathing altogether. You don’t sink your teeth into someone’s spine, mark them, climb into their bed, carve an X into their skin, and then pretend they don’t exist.
No, he’s still watching. Just from the inside now. Which means I still have power. Even if he’s pretending not to give a damn, he’s still a man who’s capable of obsession. And obsession always leaves a trail.
If he thinks he can weaponize the shame I’ve buried since I was old enough to understand what wanting another man would cost me in my world, he’s wrong.
I’ve been quiet for too long, waiting for permission I never needed.
I’ll give the North Wing stray something to really spiral over when I take away the weapon.
The assignment is announced with no warning.
No chance to bargain, no room for preference.
We’re lined up in the concrete courtyard outside the training barracks, the sky above us the same dull gray as the stone underfoot, and I know the second the instructors start pairing us that I’m going to get fucked.
“Vieri,” Instructor Duarte calls, scanning his clipboard like he already hates every name on it. “You’re with Kiril Atanasov.”
My stomach ices over.
Of all the mercenary filth to be tethered to, it had to be him.
Kiril steps forward like he was expecting it.
His nose is still slightly crooked from the last time someone broke it.
Tall, sinewed, ugly in that lean, hard-edged way that screams pain tolerance over polish.
He has that Bulgarian arrogance, the kind that doesn’t need medals or a famous family name to believe it belongs.
His dark eyes flick toward me, and a ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I’ve never been one to lash out without cause, but today, the leash is already frayed.
We’re tasked with a breach-and-clear simulation, live rounds in the second half, rubber bullets for now. It’s supposed to test trust under pressure, how well we communicate under fire, but I already know how this ends. I lead. He follows. If he doesn’t, I break him. Simple.
We move into the building as a pair, shadows cutting between decaying steel walls and simulated enemy targets, painted blue. Kiril doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. He moves well. I’ll give him that. Precise, efficient, brutal in the way only mercenaries can be—taught to serve one master: the job.
But I see the flicker of disdain every time he glances my way. The way he holds his rifle a little looser when I signal left. The subtle defiance that’s barely there, but is enough to insult me.
He’s testing how far he can push me before I snap. So, I answer him in the stairwell.
It happens fast. We’ve just cleared a room, and the next objective is down the corridor. Kiril hesitates for half a second when I give the order to stack up. Not enough for the instructors above us on the catwalk to register, but enough for me.
“You have a hearing problem, merc?” I say under my breath, not loud enough for them to hear. My hand clamps on his vest strap, yanking him into place.
“I thought I saw you hesitate,” he replies, amused. “Wasn’t sure if you’d remembered what leadership looks like.”
The swing isn’t planned, it’s instinct. I drive my elbow into his face with enough force to send bone cracking against bone. His nose bursts, blood spraying across the wall as he stumbles back, hand flying to his face.
Everything halts. Instructors whistle. Orders shout.
Kiril slumps to his knees, cursing in Bulgarian, blood dripping between his fingers. I stand over him, chest rising and falling, my fists clenched so tight the bones in my hands creak.
I know what this looks like.
Overkill. Loss of control. The Vieri heir breaking a lower-rung merc because his pride couldn’t take it.
Voices echo around us. Duarte’s already speaking into his radio. One of the guards gestures for me to step away. There’s movement from the instructors’ tower, boots descending the metal stairs.
Then I hear that fucking voice.
“Well, that didn’t take long.”
I turn toward it, jaw locked as Nikolaj strides across the floor. He’s not part of this unit and wasn’t even assigned this rotation. But, of course, he’s here. Vultures always know when blood’s about to hit the ground.
His eyes flick over Kiril, who’s still clutching his face, then over me. The corners of his mouth curl up in satisfaction. “Instructor Duarte,” Nikolaj says, voice laced with poison-dipped silk. “If I may?”
The instructor scowls but nods once. “Make it fast.”
Nikolaj steps into the circle like it’s a stage. Like he knows the spotlight was always meant for him.
“Vincenzo Vieri,” he says, addressing me by name like it’s a weapon. “Heir to the Cosa Nostra. Prince of the East Wing. Trained by the finest, raised in the highest halls, bearer of the oldest legacy.”
My hands twitch at my sides, and he steps closer, tone deceptively casual. “Tell me something. Was it the silence that unnerved you? Or the fact that someone beneath you didn’t kiss your ring fast enough?”
My teeth grind, and he glances at Duarte. “What separates the heir from the animal, sir?”
Duarte frowns. “Control.”
Nikolaj nods solemnly, then turns back to me, eyes gleaming. “Control, Vincenzo. That’s what separates the crown from the rabid dog.” Then he leans in just enough for only me to hear. “Try not to embarrass your family.”
The moment is fire in my veins. It takes everything in me not to swing again, this time at him. But I don’t because I see what he’s doing. This wasn’t about Kiril, it never was.
This was about me.
He wanted me to snap. To break in public. To bleed the Vieri name in front of every faction watching, and I gave him everything he wanted.
I step back, my jaw tight, and let the instructors swarm Kiril. Let Duarte lecture me on discipline. Let the whispers begin. Because while they’re focused on the mess I made, Nikolaj Dragovich walks away smiling.
And I swear to whatever mafia saint still listens—I will erase that smirk from his face.
One way or another.