Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
DARIO
The Greco family estate sprawls before me, all manicured lawns and limestone facades that have witnessed generations of brutality couched in old-world charm. I ease my Ducati down the cobblestone drive, gravel crunching beneath tires still caked with sand from last night's oceanside rendezvous.
Memories of Rafael's gasps mingle with the distant crash of waves, salt and release and inevitability. My lips curve in a blade's edge smile. Still savoring that sweet, destructive triumph.
Marco meets me at the door, frowning at my rumpled clothes and the fading bite mark on my throat. "Your father is waiting in the study. He's...displeased."
Of course he is. The great Antonio Greco expects his sons to be attack dogs on short leashes, not architects of their own games. I shrug out of my riding jacket and toss it over the back of an antique chair, not missing how Marco winces.
"I'm sure he is. But I've been a very good boy lately, bringing the prodigal Valenti to heel." To his knees…
I breathe in the scent of lemon oil and old blood that permeates the foyer. Home sweet home. "Daddy dearest should be thanking me."
The slap of my boots against marble is gunshot loud as I mount the curving staircase. Ancestral portraits glower at my passage, forever disapproving. Fuck them too. I'm writing my own legacy, one that will eclipse their dusty accolades.
The study door is cracked, and firelight filters through the gap. I pause, cataloging the tense silence. So it's to be one of those conversations. I square my shoulders and push inside, a wolf entering the hunter's blind.
"Dario." My father stands at the bar cart, a decanter of Macallan in hand. He doesn't turn, just examines the play of light in amber depths. "How good of you to join me. Eventually."
I drop into one of the overstuffed armchairs, my casual sprawl a silent challenge. "You know me, Pop. Places to be, Valentis to torment. It's an art."
Now he faces me, his cold eyes raking over my disheveled appearance. I see him taking in my reddened mouth and the flecks of sand still clinging to my hair. I watch him do the mental math, tabulating my actions and the depth of his disapproval.
"This feud with Rafael...your obsession with unmaking that boy." He swirls the scotch with deceptive mildness. "It has become a distraction. A liability."
I lean forward, placing my elbows on my knees, my grin turning razor sharp. "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. It's a decimation. A hostile takeover." My voice lowers, intimate in its viciousness. "And when I'm done, the Valenti prince will be a smoking ruin, and their empire will follow."
Antonio's grip tightens on his glass, a hairline fracture in his icy facade. Good. He should know by now not to underestimate my appetites or my ambition. Rafael is both a goal and a means, the key to an annihilation that will rewrite the very history of this city.
"You play a dangerous game, son." The warning rings cold and familiar, a tarnished coin often traded between us. "If Salvatore realizes the depth of your plan…"
"Salvatore is a fossil, clinging to the dregs of his power." I examine my nails, deliberately provocative. "He'll realize nothing until it's too late. Not until his precious nephew is the poison in his cup and the knife in his back."
The mantle clock ticks softly and surely in the weighted silence. My father takes a long pull of his drink, never breaking eye contact. Measuring. Calculating. Trying to discern how much of this is youthful bravado and how much is lethal intent.
He should know better. I am my father's son, after all. The most ruthless weapon in his arsenal, honed on blood and betrayal. And now I've found my purpose, my target, my brutal magnum opus.
Rafael will be my masterpiece, the Valenti dynasty will be the canvas, and the streets will run red with the aftermath. A dark shiver of anticipation travels along my spine at the thought.
"I hope you know what you're doing, Dario." A muscle jumps in my dad's jaw as he turns back to the bar. "For all our sakes."
My laughter is caustic in the cloying air of the study. "Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing. And when the dust settles"—I rise to my feet, blood buzzing with vicious satisfaction—"you'll be calling me ‘sir.’"
I don't wait for his response. The slam of the study door punctuates my exit, a son's declaration of war against the father. Against the whole damn world.
I slam my father's study door hard enough to rattle the frame, each step down the mansion's hallway echoing my fury. The ancestral portraits lining the walls track my passage with painted eyes that hold generations of judgment. Let him stew in his doubts and warnings. I've got an empire to crush and a prince to corrupt.
A flash of movement catches my attention, and Marco appears at the intersection of hallways, his usual stoic expression cracked by something that sets my teeth on edge. One look at his face stops me cold .
"What?"
He glances at the security cameras before lowering his voice. "Intel just came in from our dock contacts. You need to see this. Now."
We duck into my private office, the space a stark contrast to my father's old-world sensibilities. Modern furniture, steel surfaces, everything arranged for maximum efficiency. A stack of surveillance reports sits centered on my desk, crisp manila folders stamped with today's date.
The first page hits me like a shot to the gut. Ferrara family soldiers creeping along the edges of our territory, testing boundaries and probing weak spots. Their usual haunts show triple the activity of last month. But that's not what sends ice through my veins.
Marco stands at attention by the door, his spine rigid as he delivers the real punch. "They've been tracking Rafael's movements. Three men were stationed outside his apartment building last night. Another team followed him to campus this morning. They're getting bolder. One even went into his regular coffee shop right after him."
The paper crumples in my fist. Every muscle in my body coils tight at the thought of their eyes on him, marking his patterns, invading spaces I've claimed. A feral sound tears from my throat as I hurl the reports across the room. Pages scatter like birds taking flight, crime scene photos and surveillance logs raining down on imported rugs.
"Get me everything," I snarl, already reaching for my phone. "Security footage from every angle. License plates. Known associates. Cell phone data. I want to know who gave the order and every hand involved in this little expedition into our sandbox."
Marco nods once, crisp and efficient. As he moves to comply, I dial a number I've memorized but never saved. It rings three times before connecting to empty air and a gravelly voice I know too well.
"Your credit line's running thin, kid. Last job nearly got two of my best guys pinched."
I pace the length of my office, past walls of monitors displaying feeds from our territory. "Then consider this an investment in future returns. I need eyes on the Ferrara operation—full surveillance, no blind spots. Every warehouse, every safe house, every rat hole they might crawl into."
A low whistle crackles through the connection. "That's not cheap intel. And Angelo Ferrara isn't known for his forgiving nature when spies get caught. He still has that thing about blowtorches..."
"Neither am I." The words drip acid as I recall the last man who crossed me. They never did find all his pieces. "Double your usual rate. Triple if you can get me names within the hour."
The line goes dead. I pocket my phone and stalk to the window, staring out at grounds bathed in late afternoon sun. The manicured hedges and perfect flower beds mock me with their artificial order. Like Rafael's carefully constructed world of legal briefs and academic achievements, a thin veneer over darker truths.
My fingers itch for a trigger, for the simple clarity of answering threats with lead and cordite. But this requires a scalpel, not a sledgehammer. Rafael may be mine to break, but he's still a Valenti. Still a vital piece on this city's chessboard. And no one touches my property without permission.
Joey appears in the doorway, another manila folder clutched to his chest like a shield. Sweat beads on his upper lip; he knows interrupting me right now is playing with fire. "Sir? We've got movement at the north docks. Ferrara's people loading unmarked containers onto?—"
"I don't give a fuck about shipping manifests right now." I snatch the folder from his trembling hands. Inside, grainy photos show three men in dark suits lingering outside Rafael's usual coffee shop. The timestamp reads 8:47 AM—his regular arrival time. They stood close enough to catch his scent as he passed, near enough to reach out and?—
Red bleeds into the edges of my vision. The folder joins its brethren on the floor, crime scene photos mixing with coffee shop surveillance in a damning collage. My phone buzzes: an address, a time, and a promise of answers that will justify the small fortune I'm about to spend.
I check my watch: two hours until the meet. Just enough time to remind certain parties why the Greco name carries weight in this city's underworld. Why crossing us—crossing me—is signing your own death warrant in crimson ink.
I shrug into my jacket, feeling the familiar press of steel against my ribs. Marco falls in behind me as I stride toward the garage, already calling in backup. The rage in my chest crystallizes into something sharp and focused.
Time to go hunting.
The warehouse district air reeks of fish guts and diesel as I wait in the shadows. My informant's intel paid off. Ferrara's men are loading crates into a panel van, their movements quick and furtive. Through my scope, I count six targets. Amateur hour. They didn't even post proper lookouts.
My earpiece crackles. "Two more coming in from the south entrance," Marco whispers. "Armed. They’re moving like they've got training."
A grunt acknowledges his warning as I adjust my position. These aren't the usual dock rats; their stance and vigilance mark them as proper soldiers. My lips curl into a razor-sharp smile. Good. I want them to put up a fight.
The van's engine turns over with a throaty purr. Time to move. I signal my team, watching dark shapes detach from doorways and slip between shipping containers. The trap closes like a noose around unsuspecting prey .
Then everything goes sideways.
A second van screeches around the corner, its side door already sliding open. The muzzle flash comes first, sharp and bright in the gloom. Then the impact slams into my shoulder, spinning me back against corrugated steel. Pain blazes white-hot through my chest.
"Contact!" Marco's voice cuts through the chaos as gunfire erupts. "Boss, you're hit?—"
I ignore him, already rolling to my feet. Blood soaks my shirt, but the kevlar caught the worst of it. My return fire drops the shooter, his body tumbling from the van like a broken doll.
More targets emerge from the warehouse shadows. We're outnumbered now, caught in a crossfire that speaks of careful planning. This wasn't just a chance encounter; they knew we were coming.
"Sir, we need to fall back," Marco's warning cuts off in a burst of static.
Red mist descends as I charge forward, each shot finding its mark with lethal precision. These fuckers dared to come after what's mine. Dared to think they could touch Rafael without consequences .
A bullet grazes my ribs, hot enough to sear flesh. I barely feel it. Another round punches through my thigh, but adrenaline keeps me moving. The pain will come later. Right now, there's only the symphony of violence and vengeance.
I reach the first van just as its driver tries to flee. One shot through the windshield ends his escape attempt. Inside, I find what I'm looking for: surveillance photos of Rafael. Date-stamped logs of his movements. A detailed map of his daily routes marked with potential ambush points.
Fury ignites in my chest, burning hotter than any wound. They weren't just watching him. They were planning to take him.
A shout from behind gives me just enough warning. I spin, weapon raised, but I'm too slow. The butt of a rifle slams into my temple, sending me sprawling. Stars explode behind my eyes as rough hands grab my jacket.
"Not so tough now, eh, Greco?" A face looms close—Angelo Ferrara's nephew I recognize. His breath reeks of tobacco as he presses the rifle barrel under my chin. "Daddy's attack dog brought low. And all over some Valenti pussy?—"
The knife slides from my sleeve into my palm. One upward thrust finds the soft spot beneath his jaw, the blade angled just right to sever the carotid. Hot arterial spray coats my face as he stumbles back, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Boss!" Marco's voice, closer now. "Area's clear but we've got incoming. Sounds like half the fucking city's rolling this way."
I push to my feet, ignoring how the world tilts sideways. Blood trails down my leg, marking my path as I retrieve the photos and documents from the van. Evidence of their plans burns readily enough, fed by diesel siphoned from their own vehicle.
"Time to go, sir." Marco appears at my elbow, his tone urgent. "You need medical?—"
"No hospitals." I shrug off his supporting hand, though my vision blurs at the edges. "Get our people clear. Leave no traces."
He hesitates only a moment before nodding. Good man. The warehouse district fades into my rearview mirror as sirens wail in the distance. My phone buzzes: a message from my father's spy in the police department, warning of increased patrols.
Let them come. They'll find nothing but shell casings and questions, while I carry the only answers that matter. The Ferraras made their play and lost. The price of my protection comes steep: paid in blood and burning metal.
Worth it to keep Rafael safe. To keep him mine.
My hands shake slightly as I light a cigarette, the nicotine doing little to dull the mounting pain. Dawn breaks over the harbor, painting everything in shades of crimson and gold. Somewhere in this city, Rafael wakes to another day of pretending at normalcy, unaware of the night's carnage carried out in his name.
Let him play at being civilized while I wage war in the shadows. Let him hide behind his law books and moral certainties. In the end, he'll understand. Everything has a price.
And I'll gladly pay it in blood.