Chapter 8 #2
I can see him wavering, his natural kindness warring with his professional obligations. Behind him, Marco's expression remains stony, but he doesn't intervene.
"I can't," Romeo says finally, but his voice carries genuine regret. "Don Romano's orders were very specific. You have to stay in this room."
"What if you asked him? Explained that it's just a short walk with full supervision?"
"I..." Romeo glances back at Marco, seeking guidance. "I could mention it to him when he gets back. I’ll ask if he might consider it."
It's not the victory I was hoping for, but it's progress. Romeo is already compromised, already thinking of my comfort over strict adherence to orders. With time and careful manipulation, I might be able to turn that to my advantage.
"Thank you," I say, squeezing his arm gently. "I'd really appreciate that."
After they leave, I sit back in my chair, mind racing. Romeo is kind but ultimately loyal. Marco is professional and unmoved by charm. I need a different strategy, something that exploits the growing cracks in the Romano organization's security.
Because despite Matteo's promises of protection, I know the truth—I'm only safe as long as I'm useful.
And the moment my usefulness expires, all the coffee in the world won't save me.
Matteo
The basement interrogation room is exactly what it needs to be—windowless, soundproof, designed to encourage honesty through atmosphere alone. Rafael leans against the far wall, arms crossed, while our prisoner sits zip-tied to a metal chair in the center of the space.
The man is younger than I expected, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of desperate hunger in his eyes that marks him as someone trying to prove himself to his superiors. Exactly the type who might know more than he should about Moretti operations.
"What is your name,” I say, settling into the chair across from him with deliberate precision.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Rafael chuckles darkly. “I told you he was a charmer, boss.”
I study the prisoner’s face—sweat beading despite the cool temperature, rapid breathing, tremor in his hands. Fear poorly disguised as bravado.
“Interesting choice,” I say, my voice conversational. “Rafael, remind me—what happened to the last man who spoke to me that way?”
“Fed him to the fish in pieces,” Rafael replies cheerfully. “Started with the fingers, if I remember correctly.”
The prisoner’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard.
“Now then,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “You’re going to tell me who ordered the ambush, how they knew our route, and what else Don Emilio is planning. The quality of your answers will determine how many pieces you leave this room in.”
The man tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled. “You think I’m scared of you? The don wants his property back, and he’s going to get it. Along with whatever bastard she’s carrying.”
Property. The word makes something dark unfurl in my chest.
“Property,” I repeat thoughtfully. “Is that what you call her?”
“That’s what she is. Moretti property. And when we get her back—"
I move faster than thought. My knife slides between his ribs, just deep enough to puncture the lung but not deep enough to kill. Yet.
His scream echoes off the concrete walls.
“Wrong answer,” I say calmly, wiping the blade clean on his shirt. “Let’s try again. What makes you think Don Emilio will succeed where his ambush failed?”
Blood foams at the corners of the prisoner’s mouth as he struggles to breathe. “He... he’ll burn this place... salt the fucking earth...”
“How?” I twist the knife slightly. “With what army? What resources? Give me details, or I start removing organs.”
“I don’t... I don’t know the details,” he gasps. “Just know he’s got something planned. Something big.”
“Not good enough.” I stand, walking to the table where my tools wait. “Rafael, hold him steady.”
Rafael pushes off the wall with predatory grace, placing his hands on the prisoner’s shoulders. The man struggles against his bonds, but the zip ties hold firm.
I select a pair of bolt cutters, testing their weight in my hands.
“Please,” the prisoner whispers, all bravado finally gone. “I told you everything I know.”
“I don’t think you have.” I position the cutters around his pinky finger. “This is your last chance to be useful. After this, we move to more creative methods.”
The man’s eyes dart between the cutters and my face, finding no mercy in either.
“There’s... there’s a leak,” he stammers. “Someone on your side feeding us information. That’s how we knew about the transport.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I set the cutters aside, giving him hope.
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Above my pay grade. But someone close to you, someone who knows your operations.”
I nod slowly, then notice something that makes my blood turn to ice. The zip tie around his left wrist has been worked loose. Not enough to slip free, but enough for a desperate man to plan something stupid.
“Rafael,” I say quietly. “Step back.”
The warning comes too late. The prisoner wrenches his left hand free, revealing the jagged piece of metal he’d torn from the chair’s frame. He lunges forward with the desperation of a dying animal.
Training takes over. I twist sideways, letting the improvised blade slice through fabric and skin without hitting anything vital. My knife finds his throat before he can pull back for a second strike.
“Should have taken the easy way,” I murmur as blood sprays across the concrete.
But he’s not finished. With his dying breath, he manages to spit out one final insult: “Don’t know why that whore is so important anyway. Probably spreading her legs for you just like she did for every other—"
My hands close around his windpipe, cutting off the words with surgical precision. I squeeze until vertebrae separate, until the light leaves his eyes, until the disrespect is paid for in full.
When it's over, Rafael straightens up from the wall, shaking his head with dark amusement.
"Touchy about the woman, aren't we?" he observes.
"Shut up," I snap, pressing a hand to the shallow wound on my side.
"I'm just saying, boss, might want to examine why hearing someone insult your prisoner gets you so worked up."
The observation hits too close to home, and I turn on him with enough menace to make him step back.
"I said shut up. We have a body to dispose of and a security breach to investigate. Focus on that instead of psychoanalyzing my methods."
Rafael raises his hands in surrender, but I catch the knowing look in his eyes. He's not wrong—my reaction to the prisoner's crude words about Alessia was excessive, emotional, unprofessional.
It was also completely involuntary.
My phone buzzes with an incoming message as I'm climbing the stairs, and I check it despite the blood seeping through my shirt.
Your coffee is perfect. Your hospitality still needs work. When do I get actual clothes instead of playing dress-up in your wardrobe? - A
Despite everything—the failed interrogation, the wound in my side, Rafael's too-accurate observations—I find myself smiling. She's got spirit, I'll give her that. Even captive and completely at my mercy, she's still throwing challenges at me like daggers.
The investigation into our security breach continues to yield nothing, and my patience is wearing thin. I gather my closest men in the war room, ignoring the blood slowly soaking through my shirt.
"If we don't find our rat soon," I tell them, my voice carrying deadly promise, "I'm going to start assuming you're all working against me. And I think we all know how that conversation ends."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke, and I see the understanding in their eyes. Find the traitor, or become suspects themselves.
As the meeting disperses, I'm heading back toward my room when Romeo intercepts me in the hallway, Marco hovering behind him like a shadow.
"Don Romano?" Romeo's voice carries an odd note that immediately puts me on alert. "Could I have a word?"
"What is it?"
"It's about Mrs. Moretti, sir. She was wondering... that is, she asked if it might be possible for her to take a short walk in the garden. Under full supervision, of course. She seems to be feeling a bit confined."
Rage floods my veins, but it's not the request itself that makes rage build in my chest—it's the look in Romeo's eyes. The soft, almost protective expression that suggests he's not just relaying a message but advocating for it.
Puppy dog eyes. That's what Isabella would call it.
In less than a day, Alessia has managed to wrap one of my most trusted soldiers around her finger. Has made him care more about her comfort than his explicit orders.
"She asked you this directly?" I ask, my voice deceptively calm.
"Yes, sir. She seemed... well, she was very polite about it. Said she just needed some fresh air."
The fury building in my chest has nothing to do with professional concern and everything to do with the image of Alessia batting her eyelashes at Romeo, using her charm and vulnerability to make him question his loyalty.
She's mine to make comfortable or uncomfortable as I see fit.
The possessive thoughts are dangerous, unprofessional, completely at odds with the strategic mindset I need to maintain. But they're also undeniably real.
"Let me be very clear about something," I say, stepping closer to Romeo until he has to crane his neck to maintain eye contact.
"Mrs. Moretti stays in that room. She doesn't go anywhere, she doesn't do anything, she doesn't get anything that I haven't explicitly approved.
If you ever—ever—come to me again questioning my direct orders because a pretty woman asked you nicely, you won't just lose your job. You'll lose your life."
To emphasize the point, I grab his wrist and twist until I feel bones grind against each other. Romeo gasps, his face going white, but he doesn't cry out.
"Do we understand each other?" I ask.
"Yes, sir," he manages through gritted teeth.
I release him and he staggers back, cradling his wrist. Behind him, Marco watches with professional interest but no surprise—he's been around long enough to know that questioning the don's orders, regardless of the reason, carries consequences.
"Good. Now get back to your post."
They disappear down the hallway, and I'm left alone with my rage and the uncomfortable realization that my anger has nothing to do with professional concerns and everything to do with jealousy.
Romeo looked at her with interest. With care. With the kind of protective instinct that should belong to me alone.
The thought is possessive, irrational, completely inappropriate given our circumstances. But it's also undeniably true.
Alessia Moretti is getting under my skin in ways I can't afford and don't understand. And that makes her more dangerous than any enemy I've ever faced.