Chapter 17 – Gaspare
The storm we’ve been waiting for finally breaks.
Enzo and Sancia barge into my office without knocking—something they only ever do when it’s serious.
Sancia tosses a burner phone onto my desk. "He took the bait."
I rise from my chair slowly, feeling the adrenaline start to coil in my veins.
Enzo leans against the wall, arms crossed, his mouth set in a grim line.
"One of our contacts posed as a desperate small-time boss looking for hired muscle. Offered Stark good money to run protection on a weapons deal."
"And he bought it," Sancia adds, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
I pick up the phone Enzo tossed onto my desk and hit play.
The conversation crackles to life.
Contact: "Hey. It’s me. Am I on with Fernando?"
There’s a pause—a brief crackle of static.
Stark: "I prefer to go by Stark. Fernando is a dead man."
A chill rolls down my spine at the casual coldness in his voice.
Contact: "Stark, then. Look, I’ve got a job. Word is you’re the man to call when things need muscle without questions."
Stark: "Depends who's asking. And how much muscle you need."
Contact: (chuckles) "Enough to make a rival syndicate back the hell off. I've got a shipment moving through the docks in two days. High stakes. High payout."
A long pause.
Stark: "What's the cargo?"
Contact: "Guns. Nothing fancy. But enough firepower to make somebody very unhappy if they intercept it."
Stark: (snorting) "Firepower’s my favorite language."
Contact: "I’m offering twenty grand. Half up front."
I can almost hear Stark’s sneer.
Stark: "Twenty grand’s insulting. I don't get my hands dirty for less than forty."
Contact: (laughing) "Forty? For one night standing around looking tough?"
Stark: "Forty. Or find yourself another ghost."
Another tense silence.
The contact plays it smart, pretending to hesitate just long enough.
Contact: "Fine. Forty. But you show up on time, you keep your head down, and you bring your own backup if you need it."
Stark: "Send me the address. No funny business or you’ll regret it."
Contact: "Wouldn’t dream of it."
The recording clicks off.
I stare at the phone for a long moment.
The rage inside me has moved past boiling.
It’s white-hot.
Sharp.
He’s the same arrogant bastard he always was.
And now he’s walking straight into the jaws he thinks he’s smart enough to avoid, which is perfect enough for me.
I want him cocky.
I want him thinking he still has the upper hand.
Because when he realizes the truth, when he realizes whose hands he’s really in—
It’ll already be too late.
"Location?" I ask, voice low.
Sancia taps a map on her tablet. "Safe house just outside the industrial district. Recent acquisition. He won’t know it belongs to the syndicate."
Enzo steps closer. "We’ll have men waiting.”
“How many?” I ask.
“Eight, including me. It’s a small deal compared to what he usually runs. So I don’t expect him to come with a lot of men.”
"And me," Sancia adds, cracking her knuckles. “No way I’m missing this showdown.”
I smile grimly.
"Good," I say. "Tell everyone to go after whoever he comes with. But leave him to me. Stark’s mine."
"You sure?" Enzo asks, raising a brow.
"Never been more certain of anything.”
I need to be the one to end this.
No shadows. No intermediaries.
Just me.
And him.
And everything that’s been festering between us for far too long.
***
We move at midnight.
The convoy is small—three black SUVs, windows tinted, engines growling low under the weight of violence about to be unleashed.
I sit in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle, staring out at the dark streets as they whip past.
My mind is clear and very focused.
There’s no fear.
Only a deep, thrumming certainty that this is right.
This is justice.
For Almeria.
For Luca.
For the boy I used to be—the one Stark betrayed when he decided to stain my hands with her blood.
The safe house is a squat, ugly building on the edge of a crumbling lot, surrounded by rusted chain-link fences and broken asphalt.
A perfect place for a slaughter.
We pull up half a block away.
I step out first, checking the twin pistols strapped under my jacket, the knife hidden at my lower back.
Sancia moves beside me, her own weapon drawn.
Enzo gives a few sharp hand signals, and the rest of the men fan out silently, positioning themselves for the breach.
A single light glows in one of the windows.
He’s inside.
Waiting.
I can almost taste the anticipation in the air—metallic and thick like blood in the back of my throat.
I nod once.
Enzo slams his boot into the door, and we move.
The door crashes open with a deafening crack.
Gunfire erupts instantly.
The air fills with the sharp bark of pistols, the heavy thud of bodies hitting walls and floors.
It’s chaos—fast, bloody, ruthless.
Stark didn’t come alone. As expected.
But he showed up with more men than we thought he’d originally come with.
At least six men spring up from behind overturned furniture and crates, weapons drawn. They knew it was risky coming here, and they came ready for a fight.
But so did we.
I move through the chaos like I was born for it.
I draw both pistols and fire, clean and fast. One shot to the shoulder, another to the thigh—non-lethal but disabling. One of Stark’s men goes down screaming, his weapon clattering to the floor.
Sancia takes out another with a brutal roundhouse kick that sends him sprawling into a pile of splintered wood.
Enzo, calm as ever, ducks a bullet, rolls, and fires point-blank into a thug’s knee, dropping him like a sack of bricks.
The scent of blood and gunpowder thickens the air.
Screams echo off the cracked walls.
I barely register any of it.
Because across the room, slipping through a broken side door, I catch a glimpse of him.
Stark.
The coward is running.
A man who would leave his own men in danger and take off.
I guess leaving the syndicate has turned him to that.
My blood turns to ice.
I surge forward, shoving past the struggling bodies, ignoring the searing graze of a bullet that rips through the side of my jacket.
Nothing matters now except him.
Nothing matters except ending this.
I chase him through the darkened hallways of the safe house.
Broken doors slam against peeling walls as we weave through the decrepit maze.
He glances back once—and our eyes meet.
I see a million things flash through his.
The recognition.
The hatred.
The fear.
He knows he can’t outrun me.
But still he tries.
He barrels out into the back alley, his boots skidding on loose gravel.
I’m right behind him, breathing hard but steady, every step fueled by all of rage and betrayal he’s meted out on me.
He makes it three more strides before I tackle him to the ground.
We hit the asphalt hard, the impact rattling my bones.
But I don’t let go.
I drag him up by the collar and slam him against the brick wall, hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
He coughs, struggling, his hands scrabbling at my jacket, trying to fight back.
I let him.
For a moment.
I want him to think he has a chance.
I want him to hope.
So that when I break him, it’ll be complete.
"You son of a bitch," Stark snarls, spitting blood as he struggles against my grip.
I slam him harder against the wall, rattling his teeth.
"You don't get to talk," I growl.
He swings at me—wild, desperate.
I catch his fist easily and twist, forcing him to his knees with a sickening crack of cartilage.
He howls in pain.
I don't give him time to recover.
I grab a handful of his hair and yank his head back, forcing him to look up at me.
"Do you have any idea what you cost me?" I hiss, my voice low and deadly. "What you took from her?"
He sneers through the pain, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.
"You were too soft for this life," he spits. "Too blind. I did what you wouldn’t."
I punch him—hard—my knuckles splitting against his jaw.
He crumples sideways but I haul him back up, refusing to let him fall.
I just watch him and wait.
And Stark—stupid, arrogant bastard—can't help himself.
He laughs.
A wet, broken sound that bubbles through his bloodied lips.
"You want to know why I did it?" he rasps, grinning with broken teeth. "Because I could. Because no one was going to stop me. Not her. Not you."
I slam him against the wall again.
"Say it," I growl. "Say exactly what you did."
He chuckles darkly, the sound vile and gloating.
"I dragged her into the dirt," he says, voice thick with sadistic pleasure. "She screamed. God, she screamed. They sounded more like whimpers though. Clawed at me like a little wildcat."
My vision blurs with rage.
"But it didn’t matter," he continues, smirking through his broken face. "After a while… after the first few blows, she stopped fighting. Went limp in my hands like a broken doll."
I slam my fist into his gut so hard he vomits blood onto the ground.
He collapses to one side, coughing and gagging.
But I don’t let him breathe.
I haul him up again, grabbing his broken face in both hands and slamming the back of his skull into the wall hard enough to leave a smear of blood.
"You disgust me," I snarl, my voice trembling with rage.
Stark grins, his teeth red and slick.
"You can say what you want," he gasps out, "but at least I have something you might never have."
I freeze, a cold, deadly stillness overtaking me.
He chuckles again, wet and mocking.
"A son."
My fists clench at my sides.
Luca.
“You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” he taunts. “The cute little lad. Damn, I knew that Spadafora girl had good genes in her to pass on to my seed. And she’s kept him well these formative years. Little lad’s such a smart ass.”
The thought of him—this monster—calling Luca his son rips through me like wildfire.
Before I even realize it, I drive my fist into his face again.
And again.
And again.
Blood splatters across the wall.
Across my hands.
Across my soul.
He laughs through it all, weak and deranged.
"You think beating me changes anything?" Stark wheezes. "He's still mine."
"No," I growl, my voice so low it barely sounds human. "He was never yours."
I grab his throat and slam him down onto the ground, pressing my knee into his ribs until I hear something crack.
"You orchestrated the kidnap attempts, didn’t you?" I snarl.
He laughs again, broken and sick.
"If I had known how easy it was to make you dance," he gasps, coughing blood onto the ground, "I would've pulled the strings sooner."
I press harder with my knee, grinding the breath from his lungs.
"Answer me!"
He wheezes, body twitching beneath mine.
"I didn’t plan to bring in the Lombardis," he chokes out. "I was going to take him myself."
My heart lurches painfully.
That explains how Luca was able to be taken from home.
The mansion I put Almeria in wasn’t a strange territory to Stark. He’d lived with me there before. He knew the place inside and out – enough to guide someone to carry out a sick mission for him, like abduct a child.
"You were going to take Luca," I whisper, horror and rage twisting together into something monstrous.
He gives a weak, bloody smile.
"Thought I could raise him better," he croaks. "Teach him not to be weak like you. But... after the first failed grab, I knew I couldn't protect him alone. Had to make a deal."
I tighten my grip on his throat until he turns purple.
"What deal?"
He hacks out a laugh.
"I offered them a future enforcer," he spits. "In exchange for backup, weapons, safehouses. They wanted a loyalty bond. Blood for blood."
My stomach turns.
"You sold him," I whisper.
He grins wider.
"And you would’ve never even known it. He would have fared well with the Lombardis, you know. Much better than his mother had fared with her own family."
I slam his head into the ground so hard the concrete cracks.
He groans, blood oozing from a new gash.
"You piece of shit," I growl, my fists pounding into him, each word punctuated by a blow. "You—don’t—deserve—to—breathe!"
But Stark isn’t finished.
Even broken, he still taunts me.
"If you were half the man I am," he coughs out, "I wouldn't have had to run to another syndicate for help. You would've handled it yourself. Like a real Don would. But oh, you’re still not a Don yet, are you?"
I freeze for half a second.
The old shame, the old doubts—he knows exactly where to aim.
But then I smile.
A cold, savage smile.
"I’m nothing like you," I say, my voice dripping with venom.
And I punch him again.
I don’t stop to breathe this time. I just keep punching.
Until his breathing becomes wet and rattling, until his swollen face is barely recognizable, until his arms lie limp and useless at his sides.
Until he’s nothing but a broken shell of the monster he used to be.
"You broke her," I say, my voice cracking. "You shattered her life. And you tried to pin it on me."
He laughs—a wet, broken sound.
"You were never going to be strong enough to survive in this world," he rasps. "You needed someone to do the dirty work. You should be honored that I was going to do that and give you the credit for it."
I slam my forehead into his nose with a brutal crunch.
Blood gushes, and he collapses onto the ground, groaning.
But I’m still not finished.
Not even close.
I straddle him, pinning him to the filthy asphalt.
And I hit him. Over and over again.
Each punch lands with a dull, sickening thud.
Knuckles meeting bone.
Skin splitting.
Blood spraying.
I sit back finally, breathing hard, my hands slick with blood—his and mine.
Stark groans, barely conscious, a pitiful whimper escaping his mangled lips.
I rise slowly to my feet, towering over him.
"You’ll live," I rasp. "But you’ll wish you hadn’t."
He blinks up at me through the single eye that isn’t swollen shut.
"You lost," I say coldly. "Not just the fight. Not just your freedom."
I crouch beside him, grabbing a fistful of his blood-soaked shirt, yanking him close enough that he has no choice but to look at me.
"You lost your son," I whisper.
He flinches.
"You lost your future. You lost your legacy. You lost your fucking soul."
I shove him back onto the cracked pavement with a final, brutal push.
Then I stand over him, chest heaving.
"And you lost me," I finish quietly.
He tries to speak—tries to summon some last ounce of defiance—but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound.
Flashbacks crash over me like waves with every blow.
Stark laughing at my side during our first street fight.
Stark guarding my back during ambushes.
Stark pledging loyalty to me after I took over the crew.
All lies.
All filth.
I grind my fist into his already broken face, my breath coming in ragged bursts.
He groans, barely conscious now.
But I lean closer, my voice a vicious whisper.
"You were my brother," I snarl. "And you used that to destroy the only thing that ever mattered to me."
He tries to speak, but only blood bubbles out.
I drive my knee into his ribs with a sharp crack that makes him wheeze and spasm.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him drown in it.
The way Almeria drowned in fear.
The way I drowned in guilt.
I sit back on my heels, staring down at what’s left of him.
Stark is a bloody, broken heap on the ground—his face barely recognizable, one eye swollen shut, his jaw hanging slack.
But he’s breathing.
Barely.
And that’s exactly how I want him.
Because death would be too easy.
Death would let him escape the weight of what he’s done.
No.
He’ll live.
He’ll wake up every day and remember that the boy he betrayed, the brother he spat on, is the one who crushed him.
Slowly, methodically, I pull a length of heavy zip ties from my jacket pocket and wrench his wrists behind his back, securing them tightly enough to bite into his torn skin.
He groans weakly.
I haul him to his feet, slinging his ruined body over my shoulder like a sack of garbage.
As I walk back toward the safe house, I see Enzo and Sancia waiting by the vehicles.
The bodies of Stark’s men are scattered across the lot—those who survived are zip-tied and bleeding, surrounded by my soldiers.
Enzo raises an eyebrow as I approach, Stark's battered form dripping blood down my back.
"You got what you needed?" he asks, voice dry.
I nod grimly.
"More than that."
Sancia smirks, wiping blood from her knuckles with a torn cloth.
"Remind me never to piss you off," she mutters.
I throw Stark down onto the ground at their feet.
"Bring him," I say. "It’s time the others heard the truth."
We drive from the lot straight to the syndicate’s dungeon.
The gates open with a screech.
Cold steel.
Concrete walls.
The stench of old blood and older secrets.
It’s fitting.
A tomb for the traitor.
We drag him through the corridors, the guards stepping aside wordlessly as we pass.
Down.
Deeper.
Until the walls are damp and the air is thick with mildew.
We reach an empty cell carved into the heart of the underground.
I throw Stark into it without ceremony.
He crumples onto the floor, barely conscious.
Enzo slams the door shut behind us, the iron bars clanging with finality.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the broken man lying at my feet.
Then I turn and walk away without looking back.
***
The next day, by noon, every major captain and top lieutenant of the Colosimo syndicate is gathered in the underground hall.
The air hums with tension and curiosity.
Gaspare calling a council like this without warning? With blood staining his clothes and fire in his eyes?
It’s obvious to all who care to wonder that it means something big.
Something final.
I step into the center of the room, dragging Stark behind me like a trophy.
He collapses in a heap at my feet, groaning.
Every pair of eyes in the room locks onto him.
I let the silence stretch, savoring it.
Then I speak, my voice cutting through the charged air.
"This man," I say, kicking Stark’s side hard enough to make him grunt, "betrayed the syndicate. Betrayed me."
Murmurs ripple through the room.
"He orchestrated the assault of an innocent woman—one connected by blood to the Spadafora family. He left her broken to weaken our alliance. He lied. He manipulated. He poisoned our ranks."
I pause, letting the weight of the words settle over them.
"And he nearly succeeded in destroying something far greater than loyalty."
I kneel beside Stark, gripping his bloodied hair and yanking his head up for all to see.
"This," I say coldly, "is what betrayal looks like."
The room is deadly silent.
Not a shuffle.
Not a breath.
Just the heavy presence of judgment settling over every man and woman gathered here.
Enzo steps forward first, standing beside me without hesitation.
Then Sancia.
One by one, the captains come forward too, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps, until they form a ring around Stark’s crumpled body.
No one defends him.
No one even dares.
His fate was sealed the moment the truth left my lips.
An older captain—Salvatore Mancini, a grizzled veteran who fought under my father—clears his throat.
"You've done what was right," he says, his voice carrying the authority of decades of blood and loyalty. "You defended the honor of this house. Protected your own."
He nods once, deeply.
"You've proven yourself worthy, Gaspare."
Another captain echoes it.
And another.
Until the hall vibrates with a low rumble of assent.
I stand taller, feeling the final weight of this life settle onto my shoulders.
It isn’t relief.
It’s responsibility.
A heavy crown forged in violence and blood.
But I accept it.
For Almeria.
For Luca.
For the family we’re building together.
Later that night, I sit alone in my private study, staring into a glass of whiskey that I haven't touched.
I’ve showered, eaten and changed into clean clothes.
Stark is rotting in one of the syndicate’s deepest, darkest cells now—alive, but broken beyond recognition.
Justice served.
But it doesn’t taste like victory.
It tastes like ash.
Because no matter how many titles they give me, no matter how many men bow their heads when I walk past…
I lost something today.
A brother.
A piece of myself.
And I’ll carry that scar as long as I breathe.
I lean back in the chair and close my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet seep into my bones.
Then, slowly, I reach for the only anchor I have left.
I pull out my phone and dial Almeria’s number.
She answers on the first ring, her voice soft, uncertain.
"Gaspare?"
I close my eyes, letting the sound of her calm me.
"It’s done," I say quietly. "You’re safe now. Luca’s safe."
There’s a long pause.
Then, softly, she says, "Come home."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—there’s a future waiting for me.
One not built on betrayal or blood.
But on love.
On loyalty.
On redemption.
I’ll mourn tonight.
But tomorrow—
Tomorrow, I’ll go home.
To her. To Luca.
Because I didn’t realize early enough that I wasn’t fighting this war for a throne.
I fought it for a future.
And I’ll be damned if I let anyone—past, present, or future—ever take it from me again.