43. Kanyan
KANYAN
I wasn’t born Kanyan De Scarzi. I was born nothing. No name. No protection. Just a bruised boy in a rusted-out apartment with a mother who couldn't stop bringing monsters home.
Every man she let in tried to break something.
My voice. My ribs. My spirit. My belief in anything resembling family.
By fifteen, I’d already buried more bruises than birthdays. I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I just learned to watch. Wait. Count exits. Memorize how long it took a grown man to pass out after too many pills and two bottles of bourbon.
By seventeen, I was sleeping with a blade under my pillow and a hammer under the sink.
It was on my nineteenth birthday that the last one put his hands on her.
He didn't know I was home. But I was. And that night, something in me snapped.
Not loud. Not screaming. Just quiet. I waited until he passed out. Dragged his half-naked, snoring body to the basement. And I took my time. Not out of rage. But because I needed to understand what it felt like—to erase a threat so completely it could never crawl back.
When I walked out of that basement, my hands were soaked. My heart was calm.
And I didn’t feel like a victim anymore.
I felt like a man who finally understood his purpose.
That was the night I disappeared from the world that made me. And the night I entered Scar Gatti’s ring.
He was running back-room fights for the Gatti brothers. Blood sport. No gloves. No rules. You win or you leave in a body bag.
I didn’t say a word. Just walked in, took the next open fight, and left the reigning champ coughing teeth into a drain.
Scar watched from the shadows. Didn’t say a word. Just nodded. And the next week, he handed me a file. Thin. Blank.
No name. No history. Just a note clipped to the front:
“If you want to belong—earn it.”
Inside was a name. A man who trafficked girls from the east side. Twelve missing. Two dead.
I didn't hesitate. I hunted him like a dog and left what was left of him hanging in the alley behind his bar—barely breathing. Just enough to confess to everything before bleeding out.
Three hours later, I got a call. It was Scar.
“You’re not a stray anymore,” he said. “You’re De Scarzi now. Don’t fuck it up.”
And I haven’t. Because when you’ve crawled through hell to earn a name? You kill for it. You bleed for the men who gave it to you. And when someone—anyone—tries to touch that family? You don’t ask questions. You don’t wait for orders. You fucking annihilate them.
The phone buzzes across the marble counter like a warning shot—sharp, sudden, and far too loud in the hush of early dawn. It skitters against the stone like it’s trying to escape what’s coming.
I don’t move right away. Just stare at it, jaw clenched, the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders like a loaded weapon.
I’m still in last night’s black dress shirt—sleeves shoved to my elbows, collar loose, the reek of smoke and sweat clinging to me like a second skin.
Half a shot of espresso’s gone cold by my hand, untouched.
I haven’t slept. You don’t sleep when the air tastes like war.
I grab the phone before the second buzz finishes vibrating and hit speaker. My voice is a blade, flat and dangerous.
“Cavalho.”
Emilio’s voice hisses through the speaker—tight, clipped, and far too early to be this fucking serious.
“I think you’ve got a problem,” he says.
I don’t blink. “Would said problem happen to be man made?”
There’s a pause. “Maddox.”
There’s that name again. Of course it’s Maddox.
“He didn’t take it well when you refused his request. He wants the girl back.”
“The girl,” I grit out, “doesn’t even know who the fuck he is.”
“He framed it differently to us. Painted it like she was stolen property. Like he had unfinished business.” Emilio exhales through his nose.
Rage starts low—at the base of my spine—and crawls up like a sickness. My hand tightens on the edge of the counter until my knuckles go white.
“But you turned him down,” I say.
“We did,” Emilio confirms. “But don’t think for a second he’s letting it go. He’ll find another crew. He’s got money, reach, and desperation on his side. You know what that makes him. ”
“Dangerous,” I mutter. “And unpredictable.”
I know men like Maddox. I’ve broken them. I’ve buried them. He won’t kick the door down. He’ll shoot the hinges off.
I exhale through my teeth and stare at the glowing screen like I can see the bastard’s face on the other side.
“You’re telling me this as a courtesy?” My voice is ice, dead calm in the silence.
“I am,” Emilio says. “Because we go back. We’ve spilled blood and broken bread. And whatever debts we owed Maddox died the moment he asked us to cross you.”
“What’s it costing you?”
“A hell of a lot of blowback. But loyalty matters. The Gatti alliance holds weight. We’re not jeopardizing that over a commissioner who’s better off on a leash.”
I grunt. “Careful, Cavalho. That dog’s been off-leash for a while. And he’s foaming at the mouth now.”
There’s a low chuckle on the line, but there’s no real humor in it. Just the sound of a man who knows he might’ve signed a death warrant by refusing Maddox.
“You don’t make a move like this unless the girl’s a threat,” I say. “He wants her silenced. That tells me she knows something. Or worse—someone else knows she knows.”
“Which means he won’t stop,” Emilio agrees. “He’ll make this loud if he has to.”
Because men like Maddox don’t go down easy. They don’t mind collateral damage. As long as they’re not the ones holding the knife when the press gets wind of it.
“You need anything from us?” Emilio asks.
“No,” I say, cold steel in my tone. “Just see to your house. I’ll take care of mine.”
Because war’s coming. And I’ve already picked out the place I’ll bury him.
The call ends, but war doesn’t wait for polite goodbyes. And Emilio’s absolution? It lands like rain after the fire’s already devoured the house.
I knew. My gut knew. The second that phone buzzed across the marble like a dying insect, I felt it deep in my bones—that something foul had already been set in motion. Because men like Maddox only make their move when they’re out of options. Because cornered men are a different breed of dangerous.
A desperate man will set the world on fire just to warm his trembling hands.
He’ll chew through friends, favors, entire bloodlines if he thinks it might buy him a breath of air.
And truth? Truth is the dirtiest corner of all.
It strips power down to the bone, leaves men exposed, teeth bared, ego bleeding.
Maddox isn’t stupid. But intelligence means jack shit when a man’s kingdom is crumbling and the last thread holding it together is a girl he can’t control.
Keira’s not just a witness—she’s a threat, and that terrifies a man like Maddox.
She remembers. She knows things he can't bury. And worst of all? She doesn’t belong to him. She belongs to Jayson now. Which means she’s family.
And family? That’s my goddamn line in the sand.
So if Maddox is going to move, he’ll do it soon—before the Cavalhos cut him loose, before the leash tightens, before the storm we all feel in our bones breaks wide open.
He’ll come fast. Ugly. No finesse. Just blood and panic and cleanup crews.
He’ll try to take her. Or silence her. Whichever bullet buys him more time.
But he’ll have to go through me first. And that doesn’t end with me on the floor.
That ends with me standing over his broken body, watching the light drain out of his eyes.
Because I don’t just protect what’s mine.
I protect ours. The Gatti name. The Moreno seat.
The blood we’ve bled together to keep this empire standing.
I’ve buried threats before. I’ll do it again. With bare hands, if I have to.
So if Maddox wants war? He better bring a shovel. Because the moment he touches Jayson’s girl… He won’t just be starting a fight. He’ll be digging his own fucking grave.
The first call rings. No answer.
The second buzzes in my ear longer. Still nothing.
By the fourth, I’m standing in the middle of my office like I forgot how to move—just staring at the screen, heart a dead weight against my ribs. The sun hasn’t cracked over the skyline yet, but light’s bleeding in, pale and useless.
Jayson doesn’t miss calls. Ever. Not from me.
Not when I use that line.
Something’s wrong. Not paranoia. Instinct. That ugly, low hum that starts in the back of your skull when the air shifts and you know— know —the world’s about to tilt sideways.
I swipe to dial again, but stop. Time’s already bleeding out.
Instead, I hit Mason’s name.
He picks up on the second ring, voice thick but alert. “Boss?”
“I can’t get Jayson.” My voice is sharp. There’s no time for pleasantries.
Silence. Then, “Where was he last?”
“His estate. You and Saxon, mobilize. I’m heading out now.”
“You want us to wait for you?”
“No. I want you to move like hell’s chasing you.”
I hang up before he can ask more questions and punch Scar’s number next. I hate using him like a last resort. But we’re already past protocol.
“Talk,” Scar grunts, and that one word tells me he knows .
“This Maddox fucker might’ve made a move. Jayson’s not answering. I’m en route.”
“You need hands?”
“I need the damn cavalry.”
“You’ve got them.”
He ends the call before I can, and that’s fine. He’s not sentimental. But he’ll show up. They all will.
I throw on a jacket, grab two spare clips, a suppressed sidearm, and a shotgun I haven’t touched since Colombia. My Glock’s already holstered at my back. My vest rides tight. Familiar. Comforting.