Chapter 12 – Cyril
The Vault is a goddamn furnace of silence this morning, lit only by the icy blue glow of monitors stacked wall-to-wall. Stock tickers roll across the screens like bleeding arteries, pulsing red with every second that passes. Loss after loss. Blow after blow.
Carfano Holdings: –13.1%
Crimson Dockworks: Legal Review Pending
Jersey Industrial Zone: Permit Revoked
The fucking numbers are freefalling.
I stand with my arms folded in front of the main display, my nails digging into my bicep, coffee going cold on the table behind me. I haven’t touched it. I have no desire to. It doesn’t matter how strong it is because nothing’s going to dull the edge of this.
Alvise walks in, leather shoes silent as always, an iPad in one hand, and that grim expression he saves for mornings like this carved into his face.
“We just lost the Brooklyn lot,” he says flatly, tapping the screen. “Rezoning order pushed through overnight.”
My eyes cut to him. “How the fuck does that happen?”
“City council vote. New appointees. All backed by donors we’ve never heard of. And I mean that literally. We can’t trace a single name back to a registered contributor. Shell donors. Off-record backers. Whoever’s funding this is laundering their trail better than we’ve ever seen.”
I mutter a curse under my breath and turn back to the screen. My skin itches with unease. It’s not just the losses; it’s the fact that I can’t predict where the next one’s going to land. I built this empire on control. On knowing the battlefield before I step foot on it. But this? This is a fucking blindfold, and a knife pressed to my ribs.
This isn’t about losing property. It’s a message saying you’re not untouchable.
Not anymore.
I mutter a curse under my breath and turn back to the screen.
Across the room, Aldo is hunched over one of the terminals, fingers flying across the keyboard like he’s in a goddamn trance. His hoodie is rumpled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that say he hasn’t slept more than three hours in days. He hasn’t complained once. No shit. He knows what he owes me. I gave him a penthouse apartment, a six-figure payroll, and the kind of tech setup most hackers only dream of. All of it better than that basement he used to rot in under his mother’s roof. He shows up every damn day like he’s got something to prove. And right now, he does.
“I’m pulling the offshore logs,” he mutters, not looking up. “Someone’s ghosting us with surgical precision. Every time we shift an asset, they’re already there. Buying around us. Blocking. Redirecting.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fiores have never had that kind of digital finesse.”
“Exactly,” Alvise says. “This isn’t their usual chaos. No foot soldiers. No bombs. Just quiet bleeding.”
“This isn’t the Fiores throwing bodies at us,” Aldo adds. “This is strategy. Sophisticated. And they’re getting help.”
I press my fingers to my temples, trying to chase away the headache building behind my eyes. Who else would even try this? No other syndicate’s got the brains or the fucking balls. Russians are too loud. The Turks are too territorial. Colombians wouldn’t bother.
Alvise’s brows lift. “Who the hell pulls off something like this?”
I shake my head. “That’s the thing: I don’t know. Whoever it is, they’re good. Real fucking good. It’s not Fiore, not directly. He’s too old-school for this kind of digital precision. He prefers bullets and threats, not anonymous rezoning orders and legal warfare.”
“So, who, then?”
“I don’t have a name yet, and I always have a fucking name.” My voice cuts sharper than I intend, but I don’t give a damn. My patience is on a knife’s edge.
I glance back at the board. My gut twists.
“No one else has the reach, the subtlety, and the balls for this. Not the Russians. Not the Turks. Not the fucking Colombians. They wouldn’t think this way. This is internal. Close. Somebody who understands exactly how we move.”
Alvise glances at the monitors again, lips thinning. “That makes it worse. If they’re this quiet now…they’re waiting to be loud.”
I nod slowly. “Exactly. And when they go loud, they’ll already be sitting on the goddamn throne.”
Aldo keeps hammering at the keyboard, silent as hell, but the fucking pressure in the air is stifling. The longer I don’t know who, the closer they get. And that thought alone makes my fucking blood boil.
Three of my shell companies have been flagged for a federal audit. A Romanian arms deal, two months in the making, fell apart at the last goddamn minute. One of my customs officials, a guy I’ve had in my back pocket for six years, was arrested without warning yesterday morning.
“They’re not just bleeding us,” Aldo says, finally looking up, eyes glassy from screen light. “They’re discrediting us.”
Alvise swipes to a new screen on the iPad and hands it over. Displayed are suspended contracts, blocked transfers, and revoked permits. All within the last two weeks.
“This is a coordinated hit,” he says. “Not on the family. On you.”
They’re not after control.
They’re after humiliation.
I run a hand down my face and turn toward the strategy board—a wide, glass panel covered in names, timelines, and attack points. Dead center: CRANE. And beneath it, scrawled from the night before: CONNECTED TO FIORE?
I stare at the name like it might blink.
Kai Crane. No priors. No rap sheet. Just a portfolio of real estate deals that are too clean to be real. Too well-timed. Too…fucking convenient.
And now, my empire’s bleeding from a thousand invisible cuts.
A buzz slices through, Alvise’s phone lighting up in his hand. He glances at it, then shows me the screen. A secure message from Gabriel.
“Gabriel got a Fiore runner,” Alvise says, lips curving into a satisfied smile. “He’s got him stashed in the old butcher shop in Staten Island.”
I don’t say anything, just nod once. A dangerous, weighted nod. One that means someone’s about to bleed.
Alvise pockets the phone. “Been a while since I stretched my knuckles.”
I smirk. “Let’s go loosen him up.”
It’s not about answers. Not yet.
It’s about sending a fucking message.
We move without another word, boots pounding against stone as we head for the exit. And for the first time all morning, the rage in my chest finds something to focus on.
Let’s see what this bastard knows.
The smell of rust and rotten meat hits me before I even open the door. Staten Island’s forgotten waterfront. Derelict meatpacking plant. Concrete floors stained with things bleach can’t touch. The kind of place ghosts come to rot.
Perfect.
Gael nods when I enter. Silent. Always is. He steps aside, revealing the prize.
Ian. Fiore logistics man. Mid-level but smart. Young. Still has that air about him like the world owes him just for surviving it. That cocky tilt of the chin, even though he’s zip-tied to a rusting chair in a room that smells like blood, rust, and rot.
His nose is already broken. Good. His forehead is bleeding, the blood slowly drying up. His arms are twisted behind him, zip ties biting into his skin so deep they’re starting to turn purple. His legs are spread, ankles zip-tied to the chair legs, thighs twitching from the cold, from pain, from fear. The floor beneath him is already stained; piss or blood, hard to tell at this point.
He tries to keep his head up, like it matters. Like dignity’s going to save him now. His eyelids flutter with exhaustion. Dried blood clots in the corner of his mouth. Sweat cuts a glistening trail through the grime on his cheek like a tear that never made it.
Alvise’s leaning against the exit, arms crossed, rolling a toothpick between his fingers with that same cool indifference he wears like a second skin. He’s not worried. He knows how this ends.
“Name’s Ian,” Alvise says, not even glancing at me. “Been running logistics for the Fiores through our side of the docks. Quiet ops. Fake shell companies. Dummy warehouse contracts. Using our blind spots.”
Ian lifts his head with effort, lips twitching like he’s about to smile.
“You got nothing on me,” he says, voice hoarse and gravelly. It’d almost be impressive if it weren’t so fucking pathetic.
I don’t have time for this. Wordlessly, I take the crowbar Gael hands me, smooth and silent. Its weight is solid and somewhat comforting.
“I don’t need anything on you,” I say, stepping forward. “I just need to know who taught you to move like a fucking CEO.”
He barely has time to squint before I bring the crowbar down.
Not full force—just a taste.
It lands with a sickening crack on his left hand, a clean break through the metacarpals. His scream is raw, torn from his throat like someone ripped his vocal cords with pliers. His back arches, veins bulging in his neck, and the chair groans beneath the strain.
One finger at a time after that.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Each wrenches a different scream from him, higher pitched and more panicked. By the fourth, he’s shaking so hard that the rust on the chair legs begins to flake.
I give him space to breathe. Let it simmer.
Pain’s a language. A precise one. It’s the one thing that doesn’t lie. The human brain will tell you anything to escape it, and I’ve spent years learning every dialect.
I crouch in front of him, the crowbar resting against my knee, stained red.
“I know how to break you without killing you,” I say calmly, meeting his eyes. “Alvise calls it a gift. I call it muscle memory. So, either you start talking, or we see how well you scream with no fucking teeth.”
Ian spits at my feet, blood and saliva. He doesn’t say a word.
Fine.
I stand and swing the bar straight into his ribs. It’s a sharp, cruel hit, just below the lowest rib. He shrieks. The chair tips, but Gael moves with lightning speed, shoving it upright with his boot.
“Who trained you?” I snarl, bar still raised. “Who taught you to move like a fucking ghost in my system?”
“Fuck you,” he rasps, eyes wet now, voice cracking.
I bring the crowbar down again, this time on his mouth.
Two of his teeth go flying, arcing through the air and bouncing across the concrete like a broken marble.
Blood sprays, hitting my boots.
Ian’s sobbing now.
Alvise shifts slightly, watching. “Maybe he needs a little music.”
I let out a sinful laugh. “Maybe I just need another fucking reason.”
The next hit slams into Ian’s kneecap. It caves with a sound I’ve heard too many times before, like celery snapping underfoot. The scream that follows is no longer human. It’s a shriek of pure, unfiltered agony. He trembles so hard the zip ties saw into his skin, cutting bloody half-rings.
I crouch again, face close enough to smell his breath: metallic, sour, laced with defeat.
“I’m done asking nicely,” I say. “One more lie, and I’ll use your spine for a fucking coat rack.”
His chest heaves. Sweat pours down his temple. He opens his mouth, trembling.
“I have no names, man,” he gasps. “Just…the guy. The one they trust.”
“What guy?” I ask, voice low and even. “Who the fuck is ‘the guy’?”
“He’s not Fiore by blood. But he’s in. Bought buildings. Buried deals. They call him the insurance policy.”
I freeze, the bar going still in my hand.
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“I have no fucking idea,” he whimpers. “He earned his way in because of who he used to be tied to.”
My heart skips. “Tied to who?”
Ian hisses. His lip quivers. One eye sealed shut, the other barely focusing.
“I think…Tsukasa. Maybe. It’s a rumor. But someone said he used to be one of theirs. Like…like from back in the day.”
The name slams into my chest like a bullet.
Tsukasa.
I freeze in place.
Alvise lifts his head slowly. “That’s a stretch.”
“Not if it’s true,” I say. My voice is smoke, my mind already spinning through the implications.
Daiki Tsukasa. Sora’s father. A man who buried his daughter and then cut me off like a cancer. No warning or explanation. Just turned his back on me and disappeared from my and his grandson’s life.
We buried the same woman, but not together.
And now someone from that bloodline, someone who once swore loyalty to his name, is feeding my enemies? Hiding behind fronts and pulling strings in the shadows?
That’s not just a threat.
That’s a fucking declaration of war.
I straighten slowly. My hand flexes on the crowbar one last time.
“Dump him in the fucking river,” I say, voice flat. “If he even thinks about crawling back, I want fish picking his bones clean.”
Gael nods. Alvise doesn’t ask questions. I hear screaming behind me as I exit through the door, but I don’t look back.
Back at the estate, I step into my study, and every fucking bone in my body aches. There’s dried blood crusted on my knuckles. Some his, some mine. My shoulder throbs from the last swing of the crowbar. I can feel the bruises blooming beneath the surface like rot. The fire crackles low in the hearth, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to drive out the biting numbness creeping through me.
Thank fuck Ren’s asleep. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Not with blood still under my nails. Not when I’m shaking, not from fear, never that, but from the lingering adrenaline that won’t let go.
I drag myself to the drawer, slow and stiff, and pull out an ancient contact card, fingers still tacky with the remnants of tonight’s truth.
Daiki Tsukasa.
Still burned into the damn paper.
Once, this name meant alliance. Family. Future.
Now?
Nothing but unanswered calls and our tangled past that won’t fucking die.
I consider dialing. Just to hear him lie.
But I know better. If someone in his circle went rogue, Daiki won’t admit it. And he sure as hell won’t warn me.
If anything, he’ll watch it burn just to see me sweat.
However, my gut screams this isn’t him.
I slide the card back in the drawer and head down to the Vault.
Aldo is still in front of the monitors, eyes bloodshot, energy drinks piled beside him.
“Cross-check every known Tsukasa loyalist. Old records, captains, money men. Look for missing names, unexplained gaps, fake deaths. Anything that might’ve gone quiet after Sora.”
Alvise raises a brow. “You really think someone from the Tsukasa remnants is working with Fiore?”
“I think someone’s rewriting a war that should’ve ended five years ago.”
I step to the whiteboard.
Fiore Proxy – Old Family Ties?
Tsukasa Connections – Silent but Present
Unknown Player – Embedded, Quiet, Strategic
I stare at it.
Then write one more line.
Enya = In the Crossfire?
My hand freezes.
She’s not a spy. She couldn’t be. But someone used her. Used her email, and I’m going to confirm my suspicions.
I cross the line out.
Then rewrite it.
Slower. Angrier.
“We’re still tailing Kai Crane?”
“Yes, Boss,” Alvise says.
I glare at his name written in front of me.
It’s about time we found something about him.