2. Matteo
2
Matteo
M ercy has a price, and I collect mine with interest.
Fifteen years ago, I watched Massimo Caruso walk away from the Commission with his life—a mercy he never deserved. He broke Omertà when the ‘Ndrangheta made a move on American territory, and he handed them secrets that weren’t his to give.
Supply routes. Safe houses. The inner workings of the Five Families. His betrayal bled the Syndicate dry, costing millions and leaving a trail of bodies.
And what did the Commission do? Strip him of power, exile him to the scraps of the underworld—but let him live.
A mistake.
One I intend to fix.
The silencer on my gun makes a pfft sound as I put a bullet through the skull of the east entrance guard. He drops instantly, the light in his eyes snuffed out before he even registers his death. I catch his body before it hits the ground, dragging it behind the thick hedges that line the compound.
Three down. Ten more to go.
The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of expensive cigars and cheaper cologne. Massimo always had shit taste in men.
I move like a shadow across the manicured lawn, my tailored suit allowing for perfect mobility.
This estate shouldn’t exist. Not after what he did.
But Massimo has spent the last few years clawing his way back. Not through respect. Not through alliances. Through force. Through greed.
He’s been creeping into protected territories, sinking his claws into legitimate businesses under our protection, using intimidation tactics on civilians—shop owners, old men who’ve paid tribute for decades, families who should be off-limits.
He’s rerouting drugs through corridors he has no right to, stepping on the toes of men who’ve killed for less. And worst of all? He’s stopped paying tribute to the families whose territories he’s poisoning with his filth.
No respect. No loyalty. No fucking consequences.
Until now.
My phone vibrates once in my pocket. Valentino's signal that the power to the security cameras will cut in thirty seconds. I count down in my head, positioning myself against the wall of the main house .
Twenty. Fifteen. Ten.
Then the floodlights die, plunging the property into darkness. I slip on my night vision glasses and move.
Two guards panic near the pool house, drawing their weapons as they fumble with their radios.
Amateurs.
I drop the first one with a clean shot to the temple. The second turns toward me before my knife finds his throat, severing his ability to call for help along with his carotid artery.
Two down. Eight more to go
I wipe my blade on the dead man's jacket before re-sheathing it.
Just last week, his men beat three shopkeepers in our neighborhood who refused to switch their protection payments. One of them was old man Vitelli, who's been making cannoli for my family since I was a child.
No one touches what belongs to the Bellanti. Which is why I volunteered when the commission said it was time for Massimo to go.
A digital lock secures the side entrance to the house. Against it, I place the small device that Lorenzo acquired from our tech team. Three seconds later, the door clicks open.
Inside, the house is quiet except for muffled voices coming from upstairs. I move through the kitchen, noting the half-empty bottle of Macallan on the counter. His taste in whiskey is superior to his taste in cologne, at least .
A guard appears at the end of the hallway, already drawing his weapon. I fire twice—center mass and he crumples to the ground.
One d own. Seven to go.
The voices grow louder as I ascend the stairs, stepping over the expensive Persian carpet.
Massimo's voice isn't among them.
I pause outside the door, listening for the guard. A floorboard creaks to my right, and I pivot, firing once. The guard drops, his gun clattering to the floor.
One more down. But Massimo isn't here.
I kick open the door.
Massimo isn’t behind it. But someone else is.
Movement catches my eye—a flash of dark hair as someone ducks behind the large leather chair. I train my gun toward the space, finger steady on the trigger.
"Come out. Slowly."
A woman rises, trembling with fear in her amber eyes. She's holding something close to her chest—a child. A little girl with dark curls, no more than two years old, sleeping despite the chaos.
"Please," the woman whispers, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "I need help. "
I keep my gun trained on her, assessing. She's beautiful in that natural way. Long dark hair with auburn highlights, olive skin, amber eyes, no makeup. No visible weapons.
"Who are you?" I ask, not lowering my weapon.
"Elena Martinez." She shifts the child slightly. "This is my daughter, Fiona. We're prisoners here."
I've seen women in these situations before. Massimo has a taste for keeping "entertainment" in his compounds. But something about her doesn't fit that profile.
"I'm sorry for your situation," I tell her, already calculating how to extract them safely before I finish my business here. "I'll arrange for you to be kept safe, given a new life away from here."
I turn to leave, needing to track down Massimo, but her next words freeze me in place.
"I have evidence about the Caruso's human trafficking operations." Her voice drops lower. "Evidence that would be valuable to the Bellanti."
Human trafficking. The lowest violation of our code.
I turn back slowly. "How do you know who I am?"
She gestures toward the desk with its newspaper clippings. The newspaper clippings pin every member of my family to the desk, with my photo prominently in the center. Looks like Massimo has been keeping tabs on us .
"I've been their prisoner for three months," she continues. "I know things that could eradicate them."
I step closer, noticing the dark circles under her eyes. "And what do you want in exchange for this information?"
"Protection." Her eyes flick to her sleeping daughter. "For both of us. The Caruso will hunt us down if you don't help. They've already killed my husband."
"What kind of evidence?"
"I have it all on a USB drive. Financial records, locations, names. Everything."
Before I can respond, a noise from the hallway alerts me. I push Elena behind me, raising my weapon just as Roberto Caruso appears in the doorway, his gun already drawn.
Massimo's younger brother. His second in command.
"Well, well," Roberto sneers, his weapon trained on us. "The infamous Matteo Bellanti, breaking into our home. And I see you've met our little accountant and her brat."
Elena stiffens behind me, her breath catching.
Roberto's eyes narrow with cruel amusement. "Did she tell you how her husband died? How we made it look like an accident? The man was too smart for his own good, just like his pretty wife."
His finger tightens on the trigger, but I'm faster. My bullet catches him between the eyes, his body dropping to the floor with a heavy thud .
"We need to move," I tell her, already planning a plan. "My men are outside. Can you walk?"
She nods, eyes fixed on Roberto's body.
"Good. Stay close to me."
We make it outside without incident. My team has already started cleaning up, working efficiently in the darkness. I guide Elena to one of the waiting SUVs, helping her into the backseat with her still-sleeping daughter.
I'm about to give orders when Valentino runs up, phone extended.
"Boss, you need to see this."
The screen displays a message sent to every major player in our world.
$20 million for the woman and child, dead or alive.
With Elena and her daughter’s picture right below.
Someone must have tipped Massimo off about our operation before we arrived.
Massimo’s allies now know Elena Martinez is with the Bellanti—and they know she's talking.
I look back at the woman in the car, clutching her daughter, waiting for me to decide their fate.
"Change of plans," I tell him. "We're taking them to my private safe house. No one else knows about it."
"Not even the family? "
"No one," I repeat. "Not until I verify what she knows."
I slide into the backseat beside Elena, nodding to the driver to move. She looks at me with a mixture of fear and hope that makes something uncomfortable twist in my chest.
"What happens now?" she asks quietly.
"Now I take you somewhere safe and you tell me everything," I reply. "And we see if your information is worth as much as the price on your head."
The drive to the safe house is silent except for Elena's occasional sighs and the quiet hum of the engine. Her daughter remains asleep, oblivious to the chaos that just changed the course of her life.
We finally get to the safe house. It’s small, practical, and easy to defend.
This is where we’re staying?” she asks, her voice quieter now that we’re alone.
“Yes.” I shrug off my jacket, setting my gun on the kitchen counter within easy reach. “It’s safe. No one knows about this place.”
She exhales, tension still clear in her shoulders. “Thank you.”
I don’t acknowledge the gratitude. Instead, I pull out my phone and dial Nico. He picks up on the second ring.
“This better be important,” he mutters.
“It is.”
A pause. Then, “Where are you? ”
“My safe house. There is a situation. "
There’s a brief pause before he responds. “That’s funny. You call me when you need something, but when I asked for your help to move a couch last week, you suddenly disappeared.”
I rub a hand over my face. “I was busy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Too busy to help your favorite brother-in-law.”
“You’re my only brother-in-law.”
“Which automatically makes me the favorite.”
I hear a rustle and Isabella's voice filters over the phone. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Nico replies.
A second later, she’s on the line. “Matteo? What’s happening?”
“Nothing you need to be involved in,” I say firmly. “Stay out of it.”
“I can help,” she insists.
“No,” Nico and I say at the same time.
There's a beat of silence, then she mutters, “You both suck.”
Nico sighs. “She’s mad now. Thanks for that.”
I smirk. “You’ll survive.”
“You know she’s going to come with me, right?”
Dammit .
I exhale sharply. “Yeah.”
“I’ll be there in the morning.” His tone shifts, the playfulness fading. “Whatever this is, you good?”
I glance at Elena, who's standing at the kitchen entrance, pretending not to eavesdrop while shifting Fiona in her arms.
"I will be once I figure out what the hell I just walked into."
We hang up, and I turn back to find Elena, who’s watching me with a raised brow.
"Eavesdropping is a disgusting habit," I tell her.
She doesn't even blink. "You can’t blame me. I need to know what I’m getting involved in."
Yeah, same.
I exhale sharply, already exhausted. "Take the bedroom. I'll take the couch."
She hesitates but nods, disappearing into the room.
I sit back on the couch, gun resting on the table beside me. I don't close my eyes. Not yet.
Because this isn't over…
And before morning, I need to figure out exactly what kind of war I just started.