Chapter 3
Ezio
The Visconti family law firm sat on the thirty-second floor in Midtown Manhattan, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking all of Central Park.
I stood at the window, whiskey in hand, watching the distant green and lake glitter harsh in the sunlight.
Two things sat on the desk—a photograph and a thick file.
The photo was clear. Me, lying in bed, a blonde woman beside me, sprawled across my chest, face buried in my neck, only half her profile visible and a mess of golden hair showing. The sheets were tangled, neither of us wearing a thing. Anyone who saw this photo could guess what we'd just done.
"Mr. Visconti." Carlo's voice came from behind, soft, carefully probing. "The photo's been verified. Someone sent it to the Colonna family deliberately. Last night, it went straight to Miss Colonna's private email and her father's phone—old Colonna himself."
I didn't turn around, just lifted the glass to my lips and took a sip. The whiskey burned, scorching my throat, but that pain cleared my head.
"Clever angle." Carlo continued, his voice dropping lower. "The photographer must've been in the room, or... planted a hidden camera."
I turned and picked up the file.
Olivia Adrian.
Twenty-two, born in Brooklyn. Mother died in a car accident when she was fifteen. Father's a gambler who ran off two years ago after racking up loan shark debts, left behind a pile of shit.
One sister, Sophie, seventeen, still in high school.
Graduated a year early from American Ballet Academy, excellent grades, but couldn't land a spot in any real ballet company after. Been scraping by on odd jobs ever since.
Father's debts ran about a hundred fifty grand. Creditor was a Brooklyn lowlife named Vito Castro, specialized in loan sharking, dirty methods.
Two months ago, she started working at Moulin Rouge as a stripper. Quit after one night.
The day after that night.
I flipped to the last page, looked at her photo—must've been scanned from some ID. White background, simple white shirt, hair in a ponytail, expression calm.
Nothing like that night onstage.
That night, she wore black lace, blonde hair loose, eyes carrying something indecipherable—defiant, wild. But in this photo, she looked... clean. Like an ordinary college girl.
I closed the file.
Carlo went on. "This morning, the family got word from the Colonnas.
Old Colonna says the Viscontis are treacherous and demands we cancel your engagement to Miss Colonna.
The alliance is off. The Visconti family owes him an explanation.
" He paused. "All of New York knows now.
Inside the family... those who oppose you are already making noise. "
I said nothing.
Matteo took me there. "Bachelor party," he'd said. "Last taste of freedom before the wedding. Go see the world." I hadn't refused—that was my first mistake. Matteo had been at my side for seven years. I thought I knew him. Thought loyalty could be measured in time.
Clearly not.
The photo was professional. Angle, lighting, timing—not some random snapshot.
Someone waited, positioned themselves, calculated the moment before pressing the shutter.
To pull that off in that environment meant either advance scouting or inside help at the club.
And that woman's timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.
I ran through it all in my head and reached a conclusion. This wasn't improvised. Someone had planned this for a long time.
Whether Matteo was a pawn or the player, too early to tell.
That woman was another matter.
"Dig into her." My voice came out flat. "The blonde in 208 that night. I want everything on her."
Carlo nodded, scribbled something in his notebook. "And Matteo..."
"Leave Matteo alone for now," I said. "Let him think I don't know he made the introduction. Don't touch him until we know who's behind him."
Carlo looked up, said nothing, and crossed out that line.
Outside, New York looked like it always did. Traffic, crowds, sunlight bouncing off glass towers, blinding.
I leaned back in my chair, flipped the photo face down. Stopped looking at it.
Someone would answer for this.
But first, I needed to know how big this game really was.
I turned, grabbed my coat, and strode out.
The club's kitchen was in the basement.
I changed into a plain jacket. When I walked into the kitchen, nobody gave me a second glance. Kitchen staff only cared about what was in front of them. Nobody had time to size up unfamiliar faces. I appreciated that. Focus is a virtue.
I found Phil at the dish station.
Thirty-five, greasy hair, old burn scar on the back of his hand. Hunched over a sink full of depressingly stacked dirty plates, spine curved, shoulders hunched, whole body like a rat used to cowering in corners.
In a sense, he was.
I hadn't gotten my hands dirty like this in a long time. This kind of collection work usually had people to handle it—Federico, or the guys who specialized in "communication." I just sat in the office, watched numbers on spreadsheets, listened to reports, nodded or shook my head.
Clean, efficient, bloodless.
But today was different.
I needed this. Needed the feeling of a blade cutting into bone. Needed to hear screaming. Needed to see blood. Something in my chest had been burning since I saw that photo, burning so hot I couldn't sit still.
I needed release.
And Phil Hector, this idiot who owed me four months and still had the nerve to keep dealing on my turf, just walked right into the crosshairs.
"Phil."
His spine locked.
He turned around and saw me. His face cycled through shock, panic, attempted composure, and failed composure—all in one second. Expression management: failing grade. But given his profession, it didn't matter.
"Ez—sir, I-I didn't know you—"
"Walk." I tilted my chin at him. "Bathroom."
"I'm working right now, the kitchen manager said—"
"Phil."
He lowered his head, wiped his hands on his apron, and followed.
The back kitchen bathroom was tiny. Grout between the tiles blackened, fluorescent light buzzing. I shut the door, took the knife from inside my jacket, and set it casually on the counter. No flourish. Just let it speak for itself.
Phil's breathing immediately went ragged.
"Five thousand three hundred dollars." My tone stayed flat, like reciting unimportant numbers. "What you owe me, plus interest. Four whole months."
"I know, I know," he nodded frantically, "but sir, I really can't come up with it right now, I just started this job, haven't gotten paid yet, next month—"
"Next month," I repeated, tilting my head. "You said that last month, too."
"This time it's real, I swear, I—"
"Phil." I picked up the knife from the counter and held it casually. "You know I don't like hearing promises."
His lips started trembling.
"One finger, five hundred dollars. Comes off your debt."
He froze, like he didn't understand. "Wha-what?"
"You've got ten fingers." I looked at him. "Five thousand three hundred divided by five hundred. You do the math on how many we're taking. If you can't figure it out, I can wait."
He finally understood. His face went white instantly. "No, no, sir, please, I've got an old mother, I—"
"I know you've got an old mother," I said. "That's why I'm being so clear with the math. Put your hand up."
He didn't move.
I sighed.
He still didn't move.
Fine.
I did it myself.
His three fingers covered twenty-three hundred dollars of debt. Fair price. I tossed him a wad of paper towels. He collapsed on the floor, cradling his hand, crying like a child.
"Clear the remaining two grand tonight," I said, putting the knife away. "If you run, I'll pay your mother a visit. Make sure her finger count matches yours."
He nodded, crying, nodding.
I walked out of the bathroom alone.
Everyone in the kitchen stared at me, terrified, but nobody dared stop me. I nodded at the nearest person. "Your friend's alive. Needs a first aid kit."
Then I left the kitchen, stepped into the afternoon sunlight, and walked to the street.
The sunlight felt oppressive.
I walked to the car, hands in pockets, got in, and told the driver to go.
I thought today would bring some kind of release.
That feeling usually came—a bad debt cleared, someone who wouldn't learn got their lesson, some taut string loosened, like tightening a loose screw. Done, finished, move on.
But sitting in the car, nothing changed.
The hollow remained.
Since I walked into that law office and saw that photo, it had been sitting somewhere in my chest. Didn't hurt, wasn't heavy, just empty. Empty enough to make me restless.
I closed my eyes.
What spun through my head wasn't the Colonnas, wasn't the old bastards already sharpening their knives, wasn't the chessboard I'd have to rearrange after the alliance fell apart.
It was honey-colored skin gleaming with moisture, a waist supple as a snake, and those legs wrapped tight around mine.
The arch of her neck, her trembling breasts, and those eyes.
Green, looking at me in that dim light, defiant, genuinely angry, and those words.
"You're not so high and mighty after all."
Bad game. I thought, pushing the image down. All bad moves. She was the cheapest piece on the board.
My phone buzzed.
Federico sent a screenshot—a hospital test report. Name: Olivia Adrian. I skimmed past the dense medical jargon, found the conclusion. Four weeks pregnant.
I stared at that report, couldn't help cursing.
Fuck, what the hell is this?
I sat in the car, sounds from outside coming through the glass, muffled, distant. I looked at that test report again, confirmed I hadn't misread.
She was pregnant.
I put the phone down and pressed my index finger against my temple.
The news spread out in my head, piece by piece fitting together—six weeks ago, the club, that blonde woman, then what? Then I didn't fucking use protection!
"Fuck!" I swore, held it in a moment, couldn't help it, swore louder.
In the rearview mirror, the driver's back went rigid, but I couldn't care less right now.
Total mess! How does it work on the first try?!
I clenched my jaw, forced myself to calm down.
And she hid the child's existence.
Why?
She could've used this kid to get anything she wanted. Money, status, power.
But she said nothing.
Was there some bigger conspiracy behind this?
Olivia Adrian. This woman was becoming more of a puzzle.
I frowned and sent Federico a message. "Check who's contacted her in the last month."
His reply came fast. "Got it. But... sir, you mean?"
I didn't reply, flipped my phone face down on my knee, and looked out the window.
Much as I hated to admit it, the logic was clear.
Bianca was gone. The Colonna alliance was gone.
The old bastards inside the family waiting to watch me fail were already sharpening their blades—a Visconti family head caught in this kind of scandal right before his engagement wasn't just about face.
It was a signal. A signal about whether I could still control this game.
They'd use this to pry loose everything I hadn't nailed down yet.
I needed a child.
Not because I wanted one. I needed one. A Visconti heir, a reason to shut those old bastards up, tangible proof the family bloodline continued. This child could squash a lot of trouble that would otherwise take enormous effort to handle.
I remembered her throwing that five thousand dollars and the note in the trash—Federico dug it up. A club janitor found it, busybody flipped through it, told people like it was gossip.
A gold digger who threw away five grand.
Fucking ironic.
I picked up my phone again and sent Federico a second message. "Find out where she is now."
Then a third. "Her debt. I'm buying it."
The car started moving again, streets sliding past the window.
I leaned back, phone in my palm, watching the flowing city outside. That hollow still sat in my chest, but now something else sat beside it—not warmth, but something colder, more calculated. Focused.
I hated this woman.
Hated that she was a pawn, hated that she set me up, hated that she cost me an alliance negotiated over years, hated the way those eyes looked at me, hated the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth when she said, "You fucking won."
But this child had to be born.
As for her...
Not a threat.
People who were thoroughly broke were easiest to control, because they knew exactly what their chips were worth, and exactly what waited for them when those chips ran out. Give her what she wanted, take what she couldn't lose, she'd cooperate.
They always cooperated.
The elevator doors closed behind me. In the mirror was my own face. Deep green eyes, neatly trimmed beard, hard jawline, steady, perfectly composed.
The corner of my mouth lifted slightly. Not a smile. A kind of settled confirmation.
The elevator arrived. Doors opened. I stepped out.
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