Chapter 22
ROMEO
> Containment Protocol: unstable.
> Risk Assessment: catastrophic.
> Outcome: control overridden.
> Security Patch: unavailable.
My boots echo off the parking garage as I approach the matte black Ducati Streetfighter V4S in the space where I left it. Out of habit, I do a quick once over, making sure it hasn’t been fucked with, because in my line of work, you never know.
Security in this building is tight, and with the four extra guards outside, it’s unlikely anyone would get in. But I can’t quell the unsettling feeling in my gut that something doesn’t feel right. There isn’t a rival stupid enough to attack our men without a clear purpose.
Someone wants us there. Angelo knew it too, judging by his directive to wait and not go alone. The problem is, I’ve never been very good at taking orders. And if there’s a threat, I’d rather neutralize it myself than put my brothers at risk.
I mount the bike, the seat dipping under my weight as I settle in. The engine roars to life with a guttural snarl, and I shift into gear, gliding forward as I ease off the clutch. Within seconds, I’m out in the open air, a streak of red taillights in the dark of night.
The world around me fades to static as I fly over the asphalt, the wind whipping past me as the vibrations rattle up my spine and into my teeth. I lean into the speed, eating up the distance.
There was a time after the lightning strike that I swore this was the only thing that could make me feel alive. That was before I knew what it felt like to be with Gabi.
To be inside her.
It’s a familiar rush—a thundering pulse beneath my ribs. A need that only grows in its intensity the longer I spend with her. The more distance I put between us, the more I feel that compulsion to go back.
It’s becoming a problem, and more importantly, a distraction.
As I slow my speed and pass through the chain-link gate at the docks, I’m so deep inside my head, it’s hard to focus. I scan the shipping containers as I pass them by before I glance up ahead. A group of our men are hovering near an unfamiliar passenger van, their postures tense.
One of them gestures at me at the same time I reach for the gun in my shoulder holster. I barely register the crack that splits the air before the shot punches through my back tire.
The bike fishtails, and my boot grinds into the asphalt as I start to tip. With the few seconds that I have before inevitable chaos, I lean into it, using my weight to try to lay it down and blunt the impact.
I shift my weight back and release the handlebars, barely clearing my leg as gravity and momentum free me from the screeching metal beast. My body surfs across the pavement, sparks flying beside me as the bike drags to a stop.
The world around me blurs as my skull vibrates, and heat sears my leg. I draw in a breath, my ribs aching as the smell of burning asphalt and oil fills my lungs. For a moment, static fills the helmet as I lie there, fighting through the pain.
In the distance, I can hear doors opening and boots slapping against the pavement.
A familiar hum rattles through my brain as another surge of adrenaline floods my veins, and I stagger to my feet. I rip off my helmet, tossing it to the ground as my heart accelerates and my vision tunnels.
The predator inside me flips the switch and hijacks my body, synapses firing as a singular thought blares through my mind.
Neutralize.
I stalk across the pavement, detached from the pain in my physical body as I reach the first threat.
The beast is at the controls, punching buttons as I follow commands like a faithful servant.
Knife.
Stab.
Toss.
Next.
The men in front of me scatter like cockroaches as I reach a new target.
Choke.
Stomp.
Execute.
Arms raise, weapons aimed in my direction as muffled voices echo around me. Tires screech. Doors open. Someone grabs me from behind, and I elbow him in the gut before I try to swing the blade at him.
A solid blow tackles me to the ground, and I snarl as the blade skids across the pavement.
I slam my head back, impacting something with a grunt before more weight piles on top of me.
The air crushes from my lungs as the distorted voice above me filters through the haze of fury.
“Romeo.”
It’s familiar, but distant, like I’m trapped in a lucid dream I can’t escape.
Torn between two worlds, I growl and thrash against the resistance until another sound penetrates the fog.
It’s quiet at first, a garbled vibration against the backdrop of my raging thoughts.
The sane part of me reaches out and grabs hold of that familiar melody like an anchor in the storm.
"The Sound of Silence" by Disturbed.
Memories of me locked in my dungeon, playing this song on repeat, flash through my mind. It starts to pull me back, reeling me in as adrenaline dumps from my system.
“What are you doing?” someone asks. “Are you humming him a fucking lullaby?”
“Shut up, it’s working.”
Another voice joins in, harmonizing with the other. It takes me a minute to register that they’re the same crushing weight pinning me down.
My brothers.
When I open my eyes, Angelo’s face is the first that I see. He’s kneeling beside me, holding my arm down, while Rafe is on the opposite side of me. They stop humming as I glance over my shoulder to find Michele and Cristian on top of me.
“You good?” Angelo asks.
“Yeah.” My voice scrapes out.
They release me slowly, the way you might creep away from a bomb you’re not quite certain you’ve defused.
As I take in the scene before me, I understand why.
Two dead men lay on the ground, while at least fifteen others surround us with their weapons still raised.
I drag myself upright, pain splintering through my ribs and leg.
“You need to muzzle that fucking dog, Vitale.”
I glance at the man in a suit, recognizing him as Cal Van Croft, a wealthy developer with ties to IVI.
He’s supposed to be one of our allies, and so are the men around him.
They’re all local bankers, attorneys, corporate execs, and one of them is a politician we helped get elected: Richard Holloway.
As I familiarize their faces, I already know where this is going. I connected these dots as potential issues when I was investigating Imperium. I just didn’t anticipate they’d be stupid enough to turn on us.
“Forget muzzling him,” Thomas Rothfield snarls. “He needs to be put down.”
“Talk about my brother like that again, and I’ll put you down,” Angelo warns him.
“In case you didn’t notice, you’re outnumbered here, Vitale.” Thomas gestures at their hired muscle, all of whom look like they’re nearly shitting their pants right about now.
“And that says everything we need to know about you.” Rafe laughs. “Fucking pussies.”
“They never did like to fight their own battles,” Angelo remarks. “But you should know if you fuck with my family, I consider it an act of war.”
“Good. We’re agreed then.” Richard steps forward, jerking his head at me. “He fucked with my family. Now I want retribution.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Michele clips out.
Richard holds my gaze. “Does the name Ethan Holloway ring any bells?”
I give him nothing. No response. Not so much as a muscle twitch. I can feel Angelo’s gaze on me, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s connecting the dots himself. But he doesn’t give it away.
“Why don’t we skip the theatrics, and you can tell us why we’re here,” Angelo says.
“My nephew,” Richard spits out. “He’s a student at Laurelhaven University, and he’s been implicated by the evidence leaked to the police. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“Do you think I have time to concern myself with what a bunch of frat boys are doing?” Angelo grits out.
“Maybe not.” Richard shrugs. “But I think Romeo does, considering his little girlfriend met up with Nate and his friends the night they went missing.”
I clench my fists as Rafe edges closer, bracing for another episode. He seems to understand that even a reference to Gabi out of this fuckface’s mouth has the potential to set me off.
“I don’t suppose you have any evidence to support that claim,” Angelo replies.
“Nate told his friends he was meeting up with Gabriela that night, and this has the mob written all over it,” Richard growls. “According to Cal, he has first-hand knowledge that Romeo disposes of your liabilities.”
“Ray Dalton.” Cal drops the name like it’s classified information. “I know you remember that meeting we had last year, Angelo. Romeo bled that fucker dry, and you can’t deny it.”
“Ironic you want to talk about liabilities,” Angelo says.
“That’s how you want to play this?” Richard narrows his eyes. “You aren’t the only outfit in town, Vitale.”
“Go on, then.” Angelo laughs. “See how well you fare with the Bratva.”
“I’m not talking about the Bratva.” Richard smirks. “I’m talking about the Greeks.”
A current of tension charges the air as that information settles over us. Richard may as well have come right out and said he has a death wish.
“You want to align with Ares Stavros?” Angelo steps forward, the menace in his tone unmistakable. “Then you’d better plan your own funeral. You forget you hold office because of me. Dirty politicians are a dime a dozen, and I can have another one on my payroll tomorrow. Same goes for all of you.”
Silence stretches, the promise of violence lingering between us. If it were up to me, I’d murder every one of these fuckers right now. But Angelo is far more pragmatic than I am. He might be calling their bluff, but I know him. He wants to avoid a war now that he has a wife and baby at home.
“Well, that’s a bit dramatic.” Ares emerges from the shadows behind the van, and a collective groan rumbles through my brothers. “I thought we were finally getting along so well.”
“I should have known you had your fingers in this.” Angelo glares at him. “You can’t leave well enough alone.”
“Yes, well, you know I’ve had my fingers in…all sorts of things.”
“You better not be talking about my fucking sister,” Rafe pipes up.