Chapter Thirty-four
Lorenzo
What. The. Fuck.
The shot still echoes like thunder when I whip around to face Andres.
He’s calm. Dead calm. Gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just blow the fucking head off the right hand of the Don in front of twenty witnesses.
I snap. “What the fuck?” I growl at him, my voice low and sharp, as bullets start screaming past us.
Andres doesn’t respond. His eyes are locked, obsessed, on Luciano, who hasn’t moved a muscle, his cold stare meeting Andres like he knows it’s already too late. Andres adjusts his aim, now lining up a headshot.
“Don’t fucking do it,” I mutter, but it’s too late.
Everything explodes.
Gunfire erupts like a goddamn war zone. Concrete shatters, glass rains down from nearby lights, and the air thickens with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder.
“Get in the fucking car!” Dante roars, drawing his men back. But it’s chaos.
Two of my own men go down instantly, bullets punching through torsos like wet paper. Screams tear through the night. Luciano’s bodyguards open fire in a sweeping arc, their rifles barking death into the open lot.
We scramble for cover behind a low concrete barrier. Dante’s crew is scattered, some firing, others trying to stay uninvolved. I can see it in Dante’s face, he’s trying to play neutral, but his hands are tied. Luciano is still his Don. His fucking family.
“Fucking hell,” I snarl as another round snaps past my head.
But Andres? The fucker’s not running. He launches forward like a beast let off its chain, barreling toward Luciano. His gun is discarded, he’s going hands-on.
He drives a fist into Luciano’s face, snapping the old man’s neck to the side with a crunch that echoes over the gunfire. Luciano stumbles back, dazed, blood pouring from a split lip, but he raises a shaky hand to strike,
Andres decks him again, this time slamming his head into the side of a car door.
“Fuck’s sake!” I sprint over, grab Andres by the shoulder, and yank him off the Don before he kills him too.
“What the fuck, man?!” I hiss, my eyes blazing into his.
He gives me a curt nod, like that was all part of the plan. It fucking wasn’t.
We spin around, bullets still flying, and make a break for the car. But three of Luciano’s hulking dogs are standing between us and my Lambo. Each one looks like they bench press SUVs for breakfast.
Great. One more thing.
Suddenly, Dante appears out of the smoke like a goddamn avenger. His fist slams into the jaw of the biggest one, and I swear I hear the crunch of bone. The guy topples like a felled tree.
The second one lunges.
Andres twists mid-run and drives his foot straight into the guy’s face, side kick, full force, perfect form. His boot connects with a sickening crack, sending the bastard reeling back, blood spurting from his mouth.
I take the third. The second he’s in range, I throw a punch so hard my knuckles burn. His head snaps sideways, a geyser of blood flying from his nose.
He stumbles but doesn’t fall.
“That black eye looks lonely,” I grin darkly, rolling my shoulders, the adrenaline pounding in my chest. “Let’s give him a friend.”
I slam a second punch into the other side of his face, feeling the bone give under my fist. He howls, both hands clutching his face now, blinded, staggering.
“You wanna dance, stronzo?” I spit, pushing him aside as we sprint the last few meters to the Lambo.
Sirens wail in the distance.
Shouts echo from rooftops. Sniper rifles click into place, fucking hell, this just turned nuclear.
Blood is everywhere. Mine. Theirs. Doesn’t matter. My shirt’s soaked. My shoes are sticky from brain matter.
And somewhere behind us, Luciano’s men are still dragging bodies.
“Get out of here.” Dante’s voice is low, tight with fury. Before I can turn, he grabs my arm, hard. His grip bites into my skin like steel. “You need to fucking explain yourself.”
I give him a short nod. Not the time. Not the place. But I owe him. I know what that look in his eyes meant, not just anger. Betrayal.
He thought I turned my back on our blood.
Two years ago, he came to me, offered a seat at his table, brought up the Moretti legacy, our family’s long-standing ties with the Cosa Nostra. I told him I didn’t want the fucking life. Not the mafia, not the oaths, not the weight of generations of blood and business.
But now he knows I’m with the Bratva. And that changes everything.
I asked him once if my father was involved in all this.
“There’s so much you don’t know about your father.” That sentence has haunted me ever since. And now? Now I’m starting to believe him.
The ride back to CURSED is dead silent. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the thrum of my thoughts banging against my skull. I don’t know what’s worse, the shitstorm we just caused, or the fact that Andres isn’t acting like himself.
Where the hell did I lose him today?
He’s always calculated. Cold. Brutal when he needs to be, but never impulsive. That kill shot back there wasn’t strategy. It was rage.
And it might’ve just kicked off a war.
“Care to explain what the fuck happened there?” I snap at him, eyes locked on the road, my knuckles bone-white on the wheel.
He doesn't answer. His jaw is tight, his stare empty, distant. Like he’s not in the car anymore, like his mind is still at the warehouse with Luciano’s brains splattered on the pavement.
Fuck.
I grip the wheel tighter, cut through traffic like it owes me money, and make the forty-minute drive back to the club in twenty. The Lambo growls beneath us like it feels my mood.
As I pull into the private lot behind CURSED, I clock them, four girls posted at the entrance like they own the place.
We must look like hell.
Blood streaks my shirt. Bruises bloom across my face and neck like ink stains. My hands are a mess, cuts splitting open across the knuckles, dirt and dried blood caked under my nails. One of those fuckers had fists like bricks.
And Andres?
His face is wrecked. A raw, fresh scar slices down his cheek from where that blade nearly took his eye. Blood’s still crusted to his temple. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even touch it. Classic Andres. Silent. Stone. Dangerous.
And then,
I see her.
Serena.
She’s standing there like a vision I don’t deserve. Wearing that little tennis skirt that shows just enough of her legs to drive a man mad, and a cropped tank top that barely holds back temptation. Twin dragons curl around her chest, one black, one gold, like they’re guarding treasure.
And fuck me, she is treasure.
Next to her, Sienna, looking both confused and amused. The other two girls I don’t know, but one of them’s practically naked, Lev’s favorite dancer, if I had to bet. Makes sense.
But it’s Serena I can’t tear my eyes from.
Even after the blood, the fight, the war we just sparked, my gaze finds her, needs her. Like a fix. Like a calm I haven’t had in years.
I slow my steps beside Andres, both of us wrecked but walking tall. We pause at the door, just feet from them.
I speak low to him, my voice carrying only enough for him to hear “I need more information about my father.”
He lifts a brow, waiting.
“I need to know what the fuck happened.” I’m tired. Tired of being in the dark. Tired of guessing what legacy I was born into, what shadows my father left behind.
Andres nods. “I’ve got you. I’ll run Lucy tonight.”
Lucy. Our AI surveillance spider. The most dangerous bitch on the web. She’s already infiltrated 80% of the targets I marked, including government backdoors, mafia blacklists, and encrypted family archives.
“There should be enough information to make things clearer.” he adds as we both step into the chaos that is CURSED, bloodied but not broken.
Serena’s eyes find me as saying that she’s shocked, it’s an understatement.
“What happened to you?” she says, her voice soft but laced with worry as her fingers trail gently along the bruises on my jaw. Her touch is featherlight, like she's afraid she might break me.
If she only knew.
She’s fucking cute. That kind of cute that doesn't go away, the kind that disarms you. Makes you want to put the world on fire just so she can feel warm.
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull her in by the waist and crush my lips against hers.
I’ve had her for one month and six days, and it still isn’t enough.
It will never be enough. Every time I kiss her, I want it deeper, rougher, harder.
I want to taste her until she forgets her name and only remembers mine.
I want to leave a mark, not just bruises on her hips, but me, embedded into her soul.
She melts into me, arms snaking around my neck, giving me full access to her mouth. Her lips part, sweet and eager, and I devour her, tongue meeting tongue, breath merging, my cock twitching as her soft body presses into mine. I nip at her bottom lip, and she gasps.
My blood runs hot.
“Can you not fuck our friend in front of us?” someone snaps.
It’s the brunette. She’s got that tone, judgmental, like she’s never been kissed properly in her life. I ignore her, grabbing Serena’s ass through that little skirt of hers and deepen the kiss, making her moan into my mouth.
“We’re not into voyeurism, you know?” comes another voice. Sienna. Arms crossed, expression unimpressed. Classic.
We break the kiss, and Serena’s cheeks flush bright red. She's shy, but I know her body, she liked it.
“I am.” That’s Andres. I turn to him, shocked to find him not brooding in the background for once.
He’s got a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, and his eyes are locked on Sienna like he wants to devour her whole.
She either blushes or goes crimson with anger, it’s hard to tell which. Probably both.
And then it begins.
Serena tugs on my hand gently, pulling me forward. I know what this is, introductions. Fuck me.
“Girls, this is Lorenzo, my—” she hesitates, flustered, “—good friend.”
I pause.
Good friend?
I hear Andres snort behind me. I resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.