Chapter 6
Dario
The truck lurches to a stop outside the warehouse.
I slide out and the cold night air bites at my skin.
The place is quiet and secluded but that’s why it’s perfect.
When I walk through the heavy steel doors, the smell of oil and metal hits me.
I can hear the low hum of the machinery, and I know my men are here.
They’re always here, waiting for the next job.
They don’t ask questions, just take orders. That’s how it works.
I push open the door to my office and step inside.
Raffaele is already there, leaning back in the chair with his arms folded over his chest. His hair—normally sleek and controlled—is a mess, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times.
It almost forms an accidental mohawk, which would be funny if not for the look on his face.
His eyes are bloodshot, showing the type exhaustion that doesn’t come from lack of sleep alone. But his posture is rigid and composed and tells me he’s ready. He means business.
He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt stretched tight over his biceps, a reminder of exactly how built he is and how well he knows how to use it. That’s what I like about having him in my corner—there’s no wasted muscle, no useless strength.
He knows I’m pissed. I don’t have to say a word. He’s been with me long enough to read the signs.
"You look like you’re about to break something," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.
"Maybe," I mutter, throwing my coat over the back of the chair. "Got some new intel. A police mole gave us a nice little present. But now it looks like we’ve got a bigger problem. The cops are tightening their grip on the arms deals. They’re sniffing around, Raffaele.
We need to move fast, find a way to stay ahead of them. "
Raffaele doesn’t look surprised. He never does. "So, what’s the plan?"
I grab the stack of papers from the desk and slam them down in front of him. The intel’s clear, and I’m already working out how to use it.
"We turn the tables on our competitors. Let them think they’ve got the upper hand while we move in on their territory. We’ve got the muscle and the money, and now we’ve got the police angle. We push harder, faster."
Raffaele nods slowly and his eyes narrow as he thinks it through. "Could work. But it’s risky. You’ve got to be careful with the cops."
"I’ll handle them. We just need to get the deal done." I slam my fist on the desk, letting the frustration bleed through. "I’m tired of playing defense."
He looks up at me. "Then let’s get to it."
I don’t waste any time. I pick up my phone and call the buyers, telling them the deal’s on. The next few hours are a blur of preparation. I can feel the weight of the plan pressing on me, but I push it down. I’ve got this under control.
When the time comes, the buyers arrive. The room is tense as I walk in with Raffaele beside me and the other men trailing behind. There’s a long table between us and the buyers, but the space doesn’t feel big enough. Every movement, every word, feels charged.
I take my seat, eyeing the man in charge of the buyers. He’s got a hard look about him, like he’s seen things he shouldn’t. But I don’t care. This isn’t about him. It’s about the transaction.
We go through the motions—talking prices, shaking hands, making small talk.
I don’t care about any of it. Not until I’m staring down at the files I’ve been reading, the ones with the intel from the police mole.
It hits me like a punch in the gut. One of these buyers has ties with the FBI. He’s an informant.
The room feels like it’s closing in on me.
My blood starts to boil. I’ve been played.
I should’ve known. My gut tells me that something’s been off this whole time.
But now, I have the proof. I shove the papers into the center of the table, my eyes locking onto the man who’s been feeding information to the FBI.
"You," I say. "I know what you’ve been doing. You’re a rat."
The buyer’s eyes widen for a split second before he covers it up with a chuckle. "You’re mistaken, Bellini. What are you talking about?"
"I’m not mistaken," I reply, my tone flat. "You’ve been talking to the FBI. I’ve got the intel to prove it."
The man’s face tightens, and the mood in the room shifts. The other buyers look between us, clearly uncomfortable. The head buyer stands up, his fists clenched. "What the hell is this? You’re accusing me of being some kind of informant?"
"You’re damn right I am. I know exactly who you’ve been talking to. And I’m not going to let you walk out of here without answering for it."
The man is seething, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You have no idea what you’re doing, Bellini. You can’t just call someone out like that. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into."
I stand slowly and rest my hands resting on the edge of the table. "Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing."
The buyers all look nervous, waiting to see who will blink first.
The man in front of me steps forward, ready to lash out. "I’m going to rip that smug look off your face," he growls.
I don’t even raise an eyebrow. "You’ll have to try a lot harder than that." I gesture to my men. "Take him."
Raffaele steps forward, his grip like iron as he grabs the informant and drags him toward the back of the room. The man struggles, but it’s no use. He’s not getting out of here.
I wait until the room empties out before I follow them down the hall. My blood is still boiling. My mind races, full of fury. This kind of betrayal… it’s the worst kind. And I’m going to make sure it’s dealt with.
In the back room, the man’s pleading. He’s begging for mercy, for a way out. But I don’t feel sorry for him. Not even a little bit. I need to get this out of my system, need to remind everyone that no one crosses me and gets away with it.
I grab the baseball bat. The sound of it cracking against his ribs is satisfying. The man yells, but I don’t care. I keep going, hitting him again and again, focusing on the places that will hurt the most. His face is starting to swell, his screams turning to whimpers.
The rage inside me is growing, and I can’t stop it. Every hit, every crack of bone, feels like it’s chipping away at something inside me. I need this. I need to prove a point. I need him to understand the cost of crossing me.
Finally, when I’ve had enough, I pull the gun from my waistband. His eyes widen in terror, but I don’t hesitate. I fire once, right between his eyes. The sound of the shot echoes in the room, final and unforgiving.
When I walk out of the warehouse, I’m still pissed.
And I know it’s something else, something more than just the mess I left behind in that back room.
It’s her. Ever since she walked into my house, my usual cool has been ruined.
Every time I think I’ve got control, I feel that pull.
The way she looks at me like I’m something she can figure out, like she’s got me all mapped out in her head.
I don’t like it. I’m not used to not being the one in charge. But with her, I’m losing pieces of myself. It’s a slow burn, like a constant irritation that I can’t shake.
I pull into my driveway, the familiar gate swinging open, and I can feel it again—the tightness in my chest. The house is quiet when I walk in.
And there she is. Standing in the doorway like she owns the place, as if the living room and library are not the only spaces she’s allowed to roam, the rest of the house off-limits.
Her brows are raised like she’s trying to piece together something.
Her lips curve into a half-smile, the kind she wears when she’s pretending not to be bothered, but she’s not fooling me.
She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, then seems to think better of it.
"Well," she says, her voice laced with sarcasm, "guess it’s becoming a bit of a routine for you, huh? Coming home with blood on your shirt? You really should’ve asked for a bigger closet if this is gonna be your thing."
Without looking at her, I speak. "I let you out of the room for a reason, Vittoria, but my patience for you running your mouth is waning thin.”
“You’ve got blood all over you.”
“And how the hell is that your business?”
The corner of her mouth twitches again, and she crosses her arms.
"You really think you’re something special," she continues, her voice softer now. "Like you can do whatever you want and face no consequences. You know, maybe this has something to do with your childhood? Not enough toys growing up, so now you just take whatever you want, whenever you want."
Her words hit harder than she realizes. She's not wrong. But I don't let it show.
I keep my poker face on. “Do you have a point, or should I call my men to take you back to your room? I’m usually not this generous with my prisoners. You’re lucky I just killed a man today and I’m in a good mood.”
Her eyes flash with anger. "You really are an asshole. The very definition of one. I should’ve known when you nearly killed that defenseless man who was begging for his life.”
I roll my eyes. “Again with this? Can’t you just let it go? You’re not in a position to worry about anything else right now. You're stuck here, and who knows what I might do with you. Do you really think it’s smart to raise your voice at me? I’ve decapitated men for less, princess.”
Her face shifts for a moment, fear creeping in. It’s quick, but it’s there. She’s reliving that night in her head, I can see it in her eyes.
Frankly, that night was just one of those days. I had just received news that my son of a bitch father was found dead. I wasn’t angry he was dead—God knows I prayed for it. I was more pissed off that I hadn’t had the guts to do it myself all these years, and all I got was that quick fix.
The end was the same, but the fact he just died from slumping in the bathroom wasn’t good enough for me.
I wanted that asshole to suffer, to bleed for days, to beg for a god we both know doesn’t exist. But no, the universe had to let him take the easy way out by just hitting his head and dying.
Fuck that. I was so angry that an innocent bystander trying to bother the lady I had my eyes on since I walked into that bar was just a little something to take the edge off.
Then, like it’s just another thing she can’t leave alone, she asks, "I know you brought me here to get under my husband’s skin. This is all business to you…a show of power, right? That’s all I am, right?”
I let the peace stretch between us. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I don't even have a real answer. Maybe I just need her here to fill the void, to keep me from feeling completely empty. Maybe it’s just another distraction until the next mess.
"You’ll find out soon enough," I finally say, my voice distant like I’m not even sure of the answer myself.
I can feel her frustration, see it in the way her shoulders tense up. But she doesn’t argue. Not yet. She’s used to me being vague, used to me not giving her the answers she wants. Still, something shifts, like she’s trying to hold on to whatever little piece of me she can still claim.
She takes a step back, but then, as if she can’t help herself, she blurts out with a rise in her voice, "You may think you’ll get away with this, but you don’t know my husband. He won’t rest until he finds me. He’ll save me and then kill you, like the goddamn waste of space you are."
I can’t help the way my blood starts to boil. My jaw tightens, and I feel a fire starting to build in my chest. I’ve heard enough about her damn husband. I’ve heard it too many times. The way she lights up when she says his name like I’m supposed to just sit here and take it.
She’s always talking about him like he’s her whole world, and it makes something inside me snap.
"Enough," I growl. She doesn’t even see it coming. I’m already moving toward her before she even registers what’s happening. I lean in close, so close that she can feel my breath on her skin.
"Keep talking about him," I whisper, my voice colder than it’s ever been. "I dare you."
Her eyes glimmer with something—surprise, maybe, or fear—but she doesn't say a word. Good. She knows better.
I pull away just as quickly as I moved in. "You’re not eating dinner tonight," I mutter, my tone harsh. It’s a punishment, but it’s not enough. Not yet.
I take a step back, and for a moment, the room feels smaller, tighter. "You have all the time to think about your husband some more while I go deal with something that actually matters."
I turn my back on her, walking toward the door. But before I leave, I pause and look over my shoulder.
"The next time you speak to me like that, I won’t waste a second putting a bullet through that pretty mouth. But that will only come after I sink my cock into your pussy and fuck the living soul out of you. Then you’ll never think of another man again—not even your idiotic husband."
Then, without waiting for her response, I walk out, leaving her standing there, quiet, like the world is about to swallow her whole.