Chapter Twenty-five #3
Paolo turns back to me, slower now, respect replacing irritation. “Then, Lorenzo,” he says, nodding once, “it would be a pleasure to work with you.”
There it is.
I allow myself the smallest smirk. Not triumph. Acknowledgment. Like a man confirming something he already knew.
Easy.
Paolo is council. Paolo was Luciano’s support. Now Paolo is mine, and he walked here on his own feet. Dante is already pulling the second thread. Andres removed the third permanently. Adriano won’t be voting anymore. Ever.
Four men once sat at that table.
One from Camorra. Three from Cosa Nostra.
Now there is only one problem left.
Luciano.
My plan doesn’t require chaos. It requires patience. Dante becomes capo. Order is restored. Blood is minimized. Power realigns where it belongs.
And Luciano?
Luciano will wake up one day and realize the room is empty. No allies. No council. No leverage. Just memories of threats that stopped working.
“Since we’re cutting ties with Cosa Nostra,” Paolo continues, leaning back slightly, testing the waters, “what about the heroin supply?”
There it is.
I don’t answer immediately. I let the silence breathe, let him wonder if he’s asked for too much. Men like Paolo always reveal their real priorities eventually. Guns are pride. Heroin is survival.
“There’s no need to cut ties with Cosa Nostra,” I say calmly.
Snake.
I almost admire myself.
“If Luciano is a traitor, it doesn’t mean the entire family is,” I continue, measured, reasonable. “My uncle, Dante, works with the same ethics I do. The same ethics my father had.”
I watch Paolo as I say my father’s name. It lands exactly where I want it to. Legacy. Loyalty. Blood.
His lips curve into something like relief. Trust settles in. Again.
Kirill turns his attention to Andres, playing his role perfectly. “Can we make this work?”
Of course he can. If Kirill wanted it, Andres could have Colombian heroin crossing borders by tomorrow morning. But tonight isn’t about capability. It’s about choreography.
Andres tilts his head, thoughtful. Calculating. “If this agreement strengthens Bratva’s relationships,” he says slowly, “I can make it work.” A pause. Then the knife slides in. “And since Lorenzo is my best friend, I’d consider it a favor.”
There it is.
Now Paolo doesn’t just want the deal.
He wants my approval.
“Thank you, Lorenzo,” Paolo says, already standing, already convinced. Then to Kirill and Andres, “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. I’ll keep you updated.”
Before he reaches the door, I stop him. Not forcefully. Almost gently.
“Don’t forget, Paolo,” I say, as if offering wisdom instead of manipulation, “Cosa Nostra is still a respectable family. Just because Luciano is wrong doesn’t mean all of them are.”
Like I give a single fuck about Cosa Nostra.
Paolo nods, then looks at me with something unreadable in his eyes. “I’m surprised it isn’t you,” he says.
For half a second, I don’t move.
“In his place,” he clarifies, and then he’s gone.
I don’t smile, but something sharp and satisfied coils in my chest.
Good.
I don’t bother fully engaging in the rest of the discussions.
Alexandre drones on about cheating at his casino, needing more security, more funding.
Kirill listens. Lev decides to invest, demands fifty percent.
I note it distantly. Lev owning half a nightclub sounds like a future problem, but not tonight’s.
Then Achilles begins to speak.
The door opens.
“Oh,” a soft voice says.
Serena.
She steps into the room carrying a tray of whiskey, Sienna right behind her. “I told you I could help,” Sienna adds. “That’s why I came after you.”
My attention snaps to Serena instantly. Instinct. Possession. Something darker.
She looks at me, cheeks flushed, unaware of the danger she just walked into. Eight men turn toward her. Eight sets of eyes measuring, assessing, noticing far too much.
I don’t like it.
Not one fucking bit.
Her pink blush deepens as she realizes the room’s attention is on her. Too exposed. Too visible. Too mine to be standing here.
“Fuck.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
My gaze snaps to Alexandre’s guard the moment he speaks. His eyes are glued to Serena, crawling over her in a way that makes something vicious snap inside my chest.
“I’ve always had a kink for pregnant bartenders.”
Serena turns, confused, her eyes finding mine like she’s asking a question she doesn’t yet know how to phrase. My body reacts before my mind finishes catching up.
I pull my gun.
It happens fast. Too fast.
In the next second, that bastard’s hand is on her ass, fingers digging in like she’s something he can take.
“Let me fuck you tonight, sweetheart.”
Then Sienna moves.
She crosses the distance in a heartbeat and slams her fist into his face. His nose breaks with a wet crack, blood spraying as he stumbles back.
“Fucking bitch!” he shouts.
She doesn’t hesitate.
Sienna drops her knee straight into his groin. He collapses with a strangled sound, folding in on himself. She follows him down, planting her foot into his face, then into his stomach, over and over, methodical and brutal.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. My. Best friend.”
Each word lands like a blow.
Then she pulls her gun.
One clean shot to his leg.
His scream fills the room, raw and high, echoing off the walls.
For a moment, no one moves.
Serena looks just as stunned as the rest of us. Her hands are shaking, her face pale. “Sienna,” she says, voice trembling, “what the hell?”
“Step aside, ladies,” I say, my voice flat.
Sienna understands immediately. She grabs Serena and pulls her back, placing herself between Serena and the guard without hesitation.
I lift my gun and shoot him in the head.
Once.
Twice.
Andres and Lev raise their weapons too. The three of us fire again and again until his body jerks, then goes still, lifeless on the floor.
Smoke hangs in the air.
“Why the fuck would you shoot him fifteen times?” Alisa snaps, shooting us a hard glare. “He was already dead.”
“We would’ve kept going,” I say. “But the magazine was empty.”
Otherwise, I would have shot him a hundred times.
I turn to Serena.
Her face is horrified. She isn’t looking at the body. She’s looking at me.
“Excuse me,” she says quietly.
Then she turns and walks out.
Fuck.
I move instantly, going after her, knowing, too late, that something in her has just cracked, and no amount of blood on the floor will fix it.