Chapter Thirty-three
Lorenzo
“Timeless” by The Weeknd, Playboi Carti is thundering through the speakers, bass rattling the glass, while Andres sulks in the passenger seat like a brooding teenager glued to his phone.
He’s been moody as fuck lately, probably because I’ve been on cloud nine with Serena warming my bed.
My method of tearing Beaumont apart through his daughter?
Scrapped. She’s mine. Untouchable. I’ll burn the whole world before I let her be part of my plan.
The mirror catches my eye, two black cars tailing us. Not subtle. Not casual. They’re fucking hunting us.
I hit the gas.
150 km/h. Still there.
200 km/h. Closer.
250 km/h. I smirk as Andres finally tears his eyes off his phone and grips the door handle, his jaw clenching so tight I swear I hear his teeth grind.
“You got guns in the car?” he asks, voice sharp, like he already knows the answer.
I give him a quick side glance. “Uh… no.”
The look he gives me could fucking kill.
“You got anything useful?”
“Yeah,” I grin, trying not to laugh as I weave through traffic, “a baseball bat.”
If looks could incinerate, I’d already be ash.
“Why the fuck do you have a baseball bat?” he growls.
“What do you mean, honey bear?” I almost lose it at his flaring nostrils. “To protect us.”
Before he can insult me again, I slam the brakes. Tires screech, smoke burns, and we nearly plow into the front car that cuts us off. Doors fling open, guns up, pointed right at us.
“Moretti, scendi dalla fottuta macchina!” one of them yells.
Andres mutters, “Fucking Italians.”
I cut him a glare. “I’m a fucking Italian.”
“Exactly.”
I want to punch him in the throat, but instead I grab the bat from the back seat while he shoves a screwdriver into my hand like it’s the Holy Grail. Shorts, t-shirts, sneakers… yeah, we look like gym bros who wandered into a cartel ambush. They’ve got bulletproof vests and semis. Fair fight.
The music is still blasting, bass pounding in my chest. I don’t lower it. Fuck them.
I step out, grin wide, cigarette still dangling from my lips. “Anything we can help you with, ladies?”
A gunshot cracks the air, a warning. My grin sharpens.
“You’re coming with us,” one of them says thickly in Italian.
I count, two in the car in front, three spilling from the one that boxed us in, two more sliding out from the rear. Seven. Seven vs two. Odds are dogshit. But I don’t see seven men. I see seven fucking corpses waiting to happen.
I smirk at Andres, who’s shaking his head like I’ve already lost my goddamn mind. Maybe I have.
“Come fight me, then,” I taunt, spreading my arms. “Or do you need your guns to hold your cocks steady? Pathetic.”
That gets under their skin. One charges me, quick and stupid. Wrong move. Andres swings the bat like a major leaguer and cracks his skull so hard the sound echoes. The fucker drops instantly, twitching.
Adrenaline surges through me like fire. Two more rush me. I welcome them. The first gets my fist square in his nose, crunch, blood sprays like a fucking fountain. He collapses, clutching his face. I don’t stop. I hammer his jaw with another punch, then his temple. He’s out cold, maybe worse.
The second tries to come from the side. Idiot. I jam the screwdriver into his eye socket. He screams, clawing at his face as blood and tissue pour down his cheek. His shrieks are high-pitched, pathetic. I laugh, a sharp, maniacal sound ripping out of me.
“Come on, then!” I roar, daring the rest to step forward. My knuckles are split, dripping with blood, some mine, mostly theirs. Andres, covered in sweat and rage, spins the bat in his hands like he was born with it.
They hesitate.
Seven vs two. Now five vs two. And already, they’re fucking scared.
The song still blasts through the speakers, bass rattling my chest, drowning out the screams. Blood sprays, bones snap, and it’s almost poetic. I laugh, breathless, adrenaline tearing through my veins.
“This is better than the gym,” I shout over the music, swinging the bat into another skull, and Andres shoots me a glare like I’ve lost my fucking mind.
His face is splattered red as he drives his boot into a man’s jaw, the crunch echoing like a drumbeat.
He doesn’t admit it, but I know the bastard is enjoying himself.
Another one thinks he’s smart, presses the cold barrel of his gun to the back of my head.
Wrong fucking move. Before he can even breathe, I ram the screwdriver straight into his buddy’s gut, twisting until he howls, blood soaking my hand.
I drag him by the wrist and shove his body in front of mine, using him like a shield.
His friend freezes, not daring to fire. I rip the gun from his hands and smash the butt into his temple, knocking him flat.
I twirl the pistol, grinning. “Cheating, huh? Not today.” My voice is manic, cruel. I aim at the last coward bolting for his car, squeeze the trigger, and shred his tires. The vehicle drops, useless. The fucker’s face turns pale with horror as I stalk him, my smile wide, eyes lit with fire.
Three still breathing. Four lying motionless in a pool of blood and bone shards. Andres has two pinned to the ground, their heads caving under every brutal swing of the bat. They twitch and squirm, but he’s relentless, punishing every movement.
I drag the one who tried to run, slam his head into the hood of his car until he goes limp, then haul his body next to the others.
I exhale smoke, blood dripping down my arm, and smirk. “That was fun.”
Andres doesn’t even bother answering, his look says enough.
I grab my phone, kneel in the middle of the carnage, and snap a picture. Me, grinning like the devil, screwdriver still in hand. Andres in the background, bat dripping, with the bodies sprawled at our feet. Two still twitching, five very fucking dead.
Picture sent.
ME: Easy. 2vs7.
Lev: Are they still alive? Can I beat them too?
ME: A couple. We’ll take ’em to the basement. I’m driving the Lambo. Come pick them up.
Lev: Of course, baby. ??
I roll my eyes. Fucking Lev. Ever since I started calling Andres honey bear to piss him off, Lev has been dropping his own nicknames on me. Twisted bastard.
I wipe my hands on a dead man’s shirt and open Instagram.
My girl posted, picture of her desk, coffee in hand, the caption #busyday.
I like it instantly. Satisfaction spreads in my chest as I scroll through.
No more fuckers in her comments, no more vultures in her inbox, Andres blocked them all.
I went through her DMs too, yeah, I’m toxic, obsessive, whatever the fuck you want to call it.
But I’m pleased. She never replied to a single message. Wifey material. Mine.
I flip to my camera to send her a selfie. The reflection stares back, sweat dripping, shirt soaked, blood smeared across my jaw. My grin feral, eyes sharp, screwdriver still red. I laugh, then shut it off. Too much. If she saw me like this, she’d faint.
Headlights blind us, and Lev’s van pulls up. He jumps out, whistling at the sight. His men load the bodies, both the dead and the nearly-dead, dragging them off like trash bags. The basement will be busy tonight.
I climb back into my Lamborghini, slam the door, engine roaring like a beast. Andres is still breathing heavy, wiping blood off his face, glaring at me.
“We still going to the gym?” I ask him, smirking like a fucking child who just got away with murder.
He doesn’t answer. Just glares harder.
I grin, slam the gear, and peel off. “Alright, alright. I guess we burned enough calories.”
We head straight to CURSED, Lev’s place, with the basement waiting. And tonight, the basement will echo with screams.
Timeless still rattles in my skull as I pull in front of the club. Lev’s already dumped the survivors into the basement, three broken dogs chained on the concrete, waiting for me. Andres went home to scrub the blood off; me? I’m still wearing it like cologne. Let them stare.
I don’t bother with the main entrance. I cut through the back, down to the basement where the stink of iron and fear is thicker than the air. The three are sprawled on the floor, wrists and ankles shackled, chains rattling whenever they twitch. Pathetic.
I snap a picture, their swollen faces, eyes wide, mouths cracked with blood and terror, and send it to Dante.
Picture sent.
Me: Do you know them?
Dante: They are Luciano’s guards.
Me: Arrange me a meeting with him.
… Five minutes later.
Dante: Deposit 5, Westline. In 4 hours.
Perfect.
I shower upstairs, change into black, shirt, jacket, slacks. Sharp. Death always looks better in a suit. When I go back down, Andres is there, leaning against the wall, scrolling his phone, the van waiting outside. The long wooden boxes already unloaded. Coffins.
I dump water over the bastards. They snap awake, flinching, coughing, and then they see what’s waiting for them. Their eyes go wide, screams tearing through the room. Begging. Pleading. One pisses himself, the smell mixing with the iron.
“Please, please! I will tell you everything! Please!” one sobs, voice cracking like a child’s.
“Who hired you?” My voice is flat, empty, the sound of inevitability.
“Don Luciano!” He cries harder. Exactly what I thought.
“Why?” I lean in, deadly calm.
“You killed—” he cuts himself short, his colleague glaring at him, warning him to shut his mouth.
I smirk. “Do they really think they have a choice?”
“Leave me the fuck alone!” he shouts back at his friend, shaking, and then the words spill out. “You killed his nephews!”
I freeze, then laugh low, bitter. That’s what this is.
“You killed his nephews,” he repeats, desperation shaking his words. “Those that went after that Russian girl, to kidnap her.”
My jaw tightens. Fuck.
I never knew they were Italian. Kirill gave me the files on a politician’s sons who tried to snatch his daughter, and I did what had to be done.
They didn’t name who they worked for. Kirill told me to end them, so I did, clean, fast, final.
And now I’ve got Luciano breathing down my neck because his bloodline got erased on my watch.
This isn’t good. An Italian-Russian war will burn the city to ash.
I exhale smoke, bored of their sobbing. “Put them inside.”
My men drag them, kicking, screaming, their nails clawing at the concrete. They thrash as they’re shoved into coffins, fists pounding against the wood, muffled wails echoing in the dark. It’s beautiful, like a symphony of terror.
We load them in the van, drive forty minutes to Westline. The deposit yard is empty, save for shadows and guns. Dante is already there with three Range Rovers, his men steady, armed.
Opposite him, Luciano. Four cars, ten bodyguards, rifles gleaming, snipers in the distance. The old bastard stands there smiling like he’s already won.
I park the Lambo, step out, gesture to my men. The coffins hit the ground one by one, heavy thuds in the dirt. Inside, the screams get louder, fists pounding, muffled cries shaking the wood. Luciano’s face hardens. His right-hand man, sweating, terrified.
I smirk, flick ash at their feet. “Want them back? Or should I bury them here, so you can assist, of course?”
Their screams grow frantic, nails scratching against wood, begging.
Luciano just stares, studying me, eyes burning. Calculating. Silent.
I nod to my men. They shove the coffins closer, the cries piercing the night. His soldiers rip the lids open, dragging their men out, gasping for air, broken and sobbing.
I step forward, voice calm but sharp enough to cut. “If you ever come near me again, or near Bratva,”
Dante’s head jerks toward me, his eyes wide. He didn’t know. He didn’t realize I’d drawn that line long ago, bound myself to the Russians, blood or not. His face twists with betrayal. I don’t care.
“…you’ll be next in this coffin.”
My men drag another box forward, flip the lid open, the yawning mouth of death waiting. The message is loud, brutal, undeniable.
Luciano’s eyes darken, rage etched across every line of his face.
“Careful, Lorenzo,” he growls.
“Traditore!” his right-hand snarls, spitting the word like venom.
Pop.
The bastard’s skull explodes, blood spraying as Andres lowers his gun with zero hesitation.
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, smoke curling from the barrel.
The corpse drops at Luciano’s feet, twitching before going limp.
Silence.
Then the world erupts in chaos.