Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lorenzo
The silk sheets were cool against my skin, but the heat radiating from Zara beside me was the only thing keeping the darkness at bay.
She laid curled into my side, her breath slow and even, her dark hair spilling across my chest like a lifeline I didn’t deserve.
The ring on her finger caught the moonlight—a simple band of platinum with a single diamond that glinted like a star in the abyss.
I should have been sleeping. Should have been savoring the first real peace I’d felt in years. Instead, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the villa’s master bedroom, my mind a slaughterhouse of memories.
This is what you wanted, Lorenzo. A way out. A life beyond the blood.
But the blood didn’t wash off. It never did.
It was in my veins, in my name, in the very air I breathed.
The Falcone family had ruled this corner of Italy and New York for three generations, and I was the last of them.
My father had built an empire on broken bones and spilled entrails.
My uncle had pulled the trigger more times than anyone could count—and all of it had been poured into me, shaping me into the monster I was.
A monster who had spent the last five years trying to claw his way out of the underworld, only to find that the underworld was the only world that would have him.
Zara stirred, her hand sliding across my stomach, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease for a fraction of a second. She was my anchor. My reason. The one good thing I had managed to keep separate from the rot.
But the rot was patient. It always came back.
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—jasmine and something floral, a stark contrast to the copper and gunpowder that clung to my memories.
She had said yes. She had agreed to a real marriage, not just a contract, not just a shield.
She had looked me in the eye and said she would stand beside me, even knowing what I was.
The villa was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, the kind of silence that preceded a slaughter. I had posted two men at the gate, another patrolling the grounds, but the stillness felt wrong. Like the calm before a bullet.
I forced my eyes closed, trying to match my breathing to Zara’s.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sound ripped through the silence like a gunshot, and I was out of bed before my conscious mind had even registered the threat.
My hand found the Glock I kept under the pillow, my body moving on instinct, muscles coiled and ready.
The cold steel was familiar, comforting, the only friend I’d ever truly trusted.
Zara gasped, sitting up, her eyes wide and wild. “Lorenzo—”
“Stay here.” My voice was a blade, sharp and cold, cutting through the darkness.
I shoved her back onto the mattress, covering her body with mine as I trained the gun on the door.
The moonlight painted the room in silver and shadow, and I could see the outline of the heavy oak door trembling from the blows.
The wood groaned, splintering at the edges.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
“Lorenzo! Cazzo, open the door!”
Costa. The only man I trusted with my life. But trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now, especially after raising tensions. I kept the gun raised, my finger resting against the trigger guard, ready to blow a hole through the wood and the man behind it.
“What is it?” I called out, my voice low and dangerous, a growl that came from somewhere deep in my chest.
“Open the fucking door, Lorenzo.”
I glanced at Zara. She was trembling, her hand clutching the sheet to her chest, but her eyes were steady. She nodded once, a silent signal that she was ready. God, I loved her for that. For being brave even when the world was falling apart.
I unlocked the door and swung it open, keeping my body between Costa and Zara, the Glock trained on his chest. Costa stood in the hallway, his face pale as death, his shirt soaked with sweat and something darker—blood.
His hands were shaking, and there was a gash on his forehead, blood dripping down his face.
“Tell me.” I didn’t lower the gun.
Costa’s eyes flicked to Zara, then back to me. “It’s your parents.”
The words hit me like bullets. I felt the air leave my lungs, felt the world tilt on its axis. But I didn’t let it show. I couldn’t. Not in front of Costa. Not in front of Zara.
“What about them?”
“They’re dead.” Costa’s voice cracked, broke, bled. “Hitmen. Three of them. They got into the compound through the east gate. Your father’s men—they’re all dead. Every single one of them. The house is burned to the ground. Matteo identified the bodies, Lorenzo.”
I heard Zara’s sharp intake of breath behind me, but I couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t process anything except the roaring in my ears. My father. My mother. The two people who had shaped me, broken me, and loved me in their own twisted way. Gone.
“Who?” The word came out as a growl, low and animalistic.
“The Moretti family.” Costa’s voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes darting down the hallway.
“They’ve been building an alliance with the Russians.
They want to wipe out the Falcone name entirely.
Lorenzo, there’s more. Someone inside our organization fed them the information.
They knew your parents’ schedule. They knew the security rotations.
They knew everything. The gate codes, the safe rooms, the escape routes. Someone sold them out.”
The rage hit me like a wave, hot and blinding, burning through my veins like acid. I wanted to smash something. I wanted to find the traitor and tear them apart with my bare hands. I wanted to make them suffer in ways that would make hell look like a vacation.
But I forced it down. I forced myself to think. Because thinking was the only thing that would keep Zara alive.
“Zara.” I turned to her, my voice barely controlled, a knife's edge away from breaking. “Get dressed. Now. We’re leaving.”
She didn’t argue. She was already out of bed, pulling on jeans and a sweater, her movements quick and efficient. I loved her for that. For not panicking, for not asking questions, for trusting me even when the world was falling apart.
Costa stepped closer, his voice urgent, desperate. “They’re coming for you next, Lorenzo. The Morettis put a hit out on you and Zara. They want to end the Falcone line. We need to get you out.”
“Where?” I was already moving, grabbing my go-bag from the closet, checking the magazines, the spare ammunition, the cash. My hands moved on autopilot, years of training taking over.
“Safe house in Switzerland. I have a plane waiting at the airstrip outside Florence. But we have to move now. The Morettis have people everywhere. They could be here in an hour. Maybe less.”
I stopped, my hand on the doorframe, and looked at Costa. “How do I know you’re not the traitor?”
Costa’s face went white, then red. His jaw tightened, and I saw the hurt flash in his eyes before it was replaced by something harder.
“Because I’ve bled for you, Lorenzo. Because I’ve killed for you.
Because I’ve buried men for you. Because if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have come here myself.
I would have let them find you in your sleep. I’m your fucking cousin, we’re family.”
I held his gaze for a long moment. Then I nodded. “Get the car. We’ll be down in five minutes.”
Costa disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. I turned back to Zara. She was dressed, her hair pulled back, her face pale but determined. She looked at me, and I saw the fear in her eyes, but also the strength.
“Lorenzo.” She stepped closer, her hand finding mine. “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and promise her that everything would be fine. But I couldn’t. Because I knew the truth.
The Morettis had killed my parents. They had infiltrated my organization. They were coming for the woman I loved. And I was the last of the Vitale family—the last target, the last obstacle between them and total control of the region.
I’d spent years trying to step away from that life. Trying to build something that wasn’t stained by blood or betrayal. I let myself believe I could be different, could be clean, could be worthy of her.
But blood didn’t care about plans. It lingered in my veins, in my name, in every breath. The only inheritance my parents left me, and now it was calling me home.
I pulled Zara into my arms, pressing my lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
She pulled back, her eyes blazing with fire.
“Don’t you dare apologize. I chose this.
I chose you.” Her voice was steady, fierce, but I didn’t miss the slight shake in her hands as they grabbed my arm.
“I know the risks, Lorenzo. But I want all of it—because I want you. Not just the good days, not just the safety. I want to stand with you in the violence and the chaos. I know who you are, and I love you for it.”
I kissed her then, hard and desperate, pouring all my fear and rage and love into that single moment. Then I broke away, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the door.
The villa was dark, the moonlight casting long shadows across the marble floor. I moved quickly, my gun in one hand, Zara’s hand in the other. Every sound was a threat—the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of curtains, the distant hum of a car engine.
We reached the back entrance, where Costa was waiting with the black SUV. The engine was running, the headlights off. He opened the back door, and I helped Zara inside, then slid in beside her.
“Go,” I said.
Costa floored it, and the SUV shot forward, tires screeching against the cobblestones. I looked back at the villa, watching it shrink in the rearview mirror. It had been a sanctuary. A place where I had hoped to start a new life.
Now it was just another memory soaked in blood.
The road ahead was dark, winding through the hills, the headlights cutting through the night like a knife. I could feel the weight of everything pressing down on me—the loss, the rage, the fear.
But beneath it all, there was something else. A cold, hard certainty.
The Morettis wanted to wipe out the Falcone family. They had killed my parents. They had threatened Zara.
They had made a mistake.
Because I was still alive. And I was done trying to step out of the business.
I was going to burn their world to the ground. I was going to make them pay in blood and fire and screaming. I was going to find the traitor and make an example of them that would echo through the underworld for generations.
Zara’s hand tightened around mine. I glanced at her—she stared out the window, jaw set, eyes steady. She was scared; I could feel the tremor in her fingers. But she didn’t break. She didn’t look away.
And I realized in that moment that she wasn’t just my anchor. She was my weapon. My reason for fighting. My reason to kill.
The SUV sped through the darkness, and I felt the last shreds of my old life fall away. The man who had wanted peace, who had dreamed of a quiet life with the woman beside him—that man died in that villa, with his parents’ blood still wet on the ground.
In his place was something darker. Something that had been waiting in the shadows all along, biding its time, sharpening its claws.
The last Falcone.
I closed my eyes and saw it—the life I had wanted. A house by the sea. Children laughing. Zara’s face in the morning light.
Then I opened my eyes and saw the road ahead. Dark. Winding. Leading into the heart of a war I had never wanted.
But I would fight. For her, I would find a way through.
Even if it meant losing myself in the process.
The car disappeared into the night, and the villa burned behind us, a pyre for everything I had ever been.
The man who wanted peace was dead.
And something far more dangerous had taken his place.