Deadly Alliance

Chapter 1

Cassio

The smell of a man who knows he’s about to die is a pathetic mixture of cheap sweat and emptied bowels. It’s a stench that lingers at the back of my throat, far more powerful than the salt and decaying kelp wafting off the Port of San Marco tonight.

"Please," the man chokes out, spitting a mouthful of blood and broken teeth onto the wet concrete of the warehouse floor. "I didn’t know it was your turf. I swear to Christ, I didn't fucking know."

"You didn't know," I repeated in a low, flat, deadpan that echoes in the cold air.

I tilt my head, looking at the dozen crates of smuggled automatic weapons stacked behind him.

"You thought this warehouse, sitting directly on the south end of the San Marco docks, on territory the Vellutini family has bled over for three fucking generations was just a free-for-all?

A public charity for you and your Irish rat friends? "

"I was just following orders!" he screams, his eyes darting frantically to the shadows where my men are dragging the corpses of his six buddies into a neat, bloody pile.

"Whose orders, Liam?" I ask softly, stepping closer. The heel of my Italian leather Oxford clicks against the concrete.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "O'Connor. He said... he said the Italians were distracted. That you were too busy ripping each other's throats out to notice a few crates slipping through."

I feel a muscle twitch in my jaw. Distracted. That is the word the city is using for us now?

I crouch down so I’m eye-level with the pathetic piece of shit.

He flinches, cowering from me. They always do.

I’m twenty-eight years old, the youngest Don in the history of the Cosa Nostra on this coast, and to half the old-school bastards in the Commission, I’m just a volatile kid playing dress-up in his dead father’s clothes.

They think I’m too young, too reckless. They mistake my lack of patience for a lack of discipline.

But I am not my father. My father was a diplomat who believed in handshakes and shared cigars. I believe in scorched earth.

"O'Connor is going to find pieces of you in his mailbox for the next month," I tell Liam in a conversational tone. "But I appreciate your honesty."

"Wait, you said—you said if I told you—"

I raise the 1911 and put a bullet directly through his right kneecap.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space, followed instantly by a guttural, tearing shriek that bounces off the steel rafters. Liam collapses entirely, thrashing on the bloody concrete, clutching his ruined leg as dark crimson pools beneath him.

"I never said a fucking thing," I remind him coldly. I stand up, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. I look over at my underboss, Matteo, who is leaning against a rusted forklift, casually smoking a cigarette as if he’s waiting for a bus.

"Burn the bodies," I order, my voice easily cutting through Liam's agonizing wails. "Take the weapons. And cut this one’s hands off before you put him out of his misery. Send them to the Irish."

Matteo flicks his cigarette into a puddle of water. "Loud and clear, Boss. You want me to call in the cleaners for the blood?"

"No. Leave the blood. Let whoever sneaks in here next see exactly what happens when they cross my borders."

I turn my back on the screaming man and walk out the rusted side door, stepping into the freezing downpour of the city night.

My driver, Dante, is waiting by the idling black Maybach.

He immediately opens the rear door, holding a heavy black umbrella over my head.

I slide into the plush, heated leather interior, the luxury of the cabin a jarring contrast to the slaughterhouse I just walked out of.

Dante shuts the door, encasing me in silence, and slips into the driver's seat.

"The velvet room, Boss?" Dante asks, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror.

"Yeah. Drive."

I lean back, pouring myself three fingers of Macallan from the crystal decanter housed in the center console. I down half of it in one swallow, letting the burn of the whiskey chase away the lingering adrenaline.

I stare out the tinted window at the blurred neon lights of the city as we speed away from the docks. My stare at my reflection in the glass, dark hair plastered to my forehead, eyes black and hollow. The violence doesn't thrill me anymore. It’s just maintenance. Housekeeping.

O'Connor’s rat was right about one thing, and it’s the thing that’s currently gnawing a hole in my stomach. We are distracted. The Italians are bleeding themselves dry, and it’s all because of that arrogant, antiquated prick, Don Orlando Genovese.

For the last two years, the Vellutini and the Genovese families have been locked in a suffocating warm war.

It isn't an all-out bloodbath in the streets, the Capo dei Capi, Don Salvatore, would never allow that kind of heat from the feds, but it’s a relentless, exhausting game of chess.

Orlando hits one of my shipments, I burn down one of his illegal casinos.

He bribes a judge in my pocket, I break the legs of his top earner.

It’s petty. It’s pathetic. And it’s going to get us all fucking killed.

Orlando is sixty-five years old, a relic of an era that no longer exists.

He looks at me and sees a reckless boy who didn't earn his throne. He clashes with every modern method I introduce to the syndicate. I want to move our assets into cybersecurity, high-end real estate, and untouchable offshore crypto. Orlando still wants to break kneecaps over a few grands in a neighborhood protection racket. He’s a dinosaur, too blinded by his own pride to see the meteor hurling toward us.

And that meteor is the Russian Bratva and the Irish Mob.

While I’m forced to waste men and money playing defense against Orlando’s archaic bullshit, the Russians are quietly buying up the politicians on the East Side.

The Irish are smuggling guns through the cracks in our borders, testing the fences, waiting to see how weak we truly are.

The Port of San Marco used to be a dead zone, a stretch of polluted water and rusted cranes.

Now, with the new international shipping lanes opening, it’s an economic goldmine. It’s the key to the entire city.

If the Russians get their hands on the port, the Italians are finished. We’ll be wiped off the map within five years.

I finish the whiskey, slamming the crystal glass down a little too hard. The heavy thud makes me feel sane.

Tomorrow morning, Don Salvatore is calling a mandatory summit. All four families will be there. The Rossi, the Vellutini, the Genovese, and the Lombardi. I know exactly what the old Capo dei Capi is going to say. He’s going to demand unity. He’s going to demand we stop the infighting.

I’ll play his game. I’ll sit at the table, and I’ll nod. But if Orlando Genovese thinks he can dictate the terms of my existence, I will gut him in front of the entire Commission and take the fallout. I am done playing nice with ghosts.

The Maybach pulls to a smooth stop in the private underground garage of L’Eclissi, my club. It’s the crown jewel of my legitimate fronts, a sprawling, multi-level playground for the city’s most corrupt elite.

I bypass the public elevators and take my private lift straight to the penthouse suite above the club.

The doors slide open to the pulsing vibration of the bass from the dance floor three stories below.

The suite is a massive expanse of dark marble, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering skyline, and minimalist black leather furniture.

It smells like expensive vanilla perfume.

Elena.

She’s draped across the massive velvet sofa in the center of the room, wearing a slip of red silk that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, her lip painted a glossy crimson.

She looks like a centerfold, a beautiful, expensive toy waiting to be played with.

She sits up as I walk in, a predatory, eager smile spreading across her face. "You're late, Cassio. I was starting to think you forgot about me."

"I was working," I say, my voice devoid of warmth. I shrug off my damp, blood-splattered suit jacket and toss it onto a leather chair. Loosen my silk tie and unbutton the top of my shirt, walking toward the wet bar to pour another drink.

Elena pouts, standing up and closing the distance between us. She trails her manicured fingernails lightly down my spine, pressing her warm front against my back. "You work too much," she murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder blade through the fabric of my shirt. "Let me help you relax."

I turn around with a glass of bourbon in my hand. I look down at her. She is stunning. Flawless, really. And looking at her makes me feel absolutely nothing.

There is a hollow, dead space in the center of my chest where most men keep their hearts.

I learned a long time ago that in this life, attachments are just liabilities waiting to be exploited.

Love is a luxury for men who don't have targets painted on their backs. Women like Elena understand the arrangement. I provide the diamond tennis bracelets and the penthouse views; she provides the distraction. It’s a transaction, clean and free from messy complications.

"You're tense," she whispers, her hands moving to my chest, expertly undoing the buttons of my shirt.

She pushes the fabric off my shoulders, her eyes dropping to the dark ink swirling across my ribs and the jagged silver scars that map my skin, they are souvenirs from a life she pretends to ignore.

"It’s been a long night," I say flatly. I set the drink down on the marble counter.

She looks up at me through thick, dark lashes, her hands dropping to the silver buckle of my belt. "Then let’s make it a good morning."

I grip her hips, hoisting her up onto the cold marble of the wet bar. She gasps softly at the sudden, rough movement, her legs instantly wrapping around my waist. She leans in, her mouth seeking mine.

I kiss her, but it’s punishing. It’s not about pleasure, and it’s certainly not about intimacy.

It’s about exorcising the violent energy humming under my skin.

It’s about erasing the image of the Irish rat’s blood pooling on the concrete and the impending headache of Don Orlando’s smug, wrinkled face.

She moans against my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.

She’s pliable, eager, trying so desperately to crawl into a space inside me that simply doesn't exist. She whispers my name, a breathy, fragile sound, and I shut my eyes, completely detaching my mind from the physical act.

I take what I need from her with ruthless efficiency. I don't bother with sweet words or gentle caresses. I treat her body the same way I treat my empire, with absolute control and dominant force. And she takes it, arching into me, completely oblivious to the fact that I am a million miles away.

When it’s over, the silence returns to the room.

Elena is lying back on the marble, breathing heavily, a satisfied, flushed smile on her face. She reaches out for me, but I step back, already pulling my shirt closed. The physical release did nothing to quiet the storm in my head. If anything, it only sharpened my focus.

"Stay the night," she murmurs, her eyes heavy with sleep. "Come to bed with me."

"I have a meeting," I reply with those cold clipped words. I don't look at her as I walk past the bar and head straight for the master bathroom to shower off the smell of sex, sweat, and gunpowder.

"It’s 3 A.M., Cassio," she calls out, a hint of genuine frustration breaking through her perfectly curated persona. "Can't you just pretend to care for five fucking minutes?"

I pause in the doorway, the harsh bathroom light illuminating the darkness of the suite. I glance back over my shoulder, looking at the beautiful, empty woman who means less to me than the bullets in my gun.

"I don't pretend, Elena," I tell her smoothly. "You know where the door is when you're done."

I step into the bathroom and shut the heavy oak door, locking her out.

I turn on the shower, letting the scalding water blast the grime and the chill from my skin. I lean my forearms against the wet tile, bowing my head as the steam fills the glass enclosure.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I walk into the lion's den with Don Salvatore and the rest of the Commission. I know they are going to push for a truce. I know Orlando Genovese is going to demand concessions, demanding I bow to his seniority.

My lip curls into a vicious snarl under the spray of the water.

Let them try. Let the old men talk about peace while the city burns. Because if Orlando Genovese thinks he can cage a wolf, he’s going to lose his fucking arm.