Chapter 8
I stand outside Lucrezia's studio door, my back against the wall.
Damiano's orders were clear. Stay at the mansion until things sort out, keep Lucrezia safe.
I've been here for hours, listening to the sounds from inside.
First came the rage, something slamming, her scream, objects hitting canvas.
Then silence, broken only by occasional sobs.
The hallway is quiet now. Three in the morning and the mansion sleeps, but I remain at my post. My training keeps me alert despite the exhaustion pulling at my muscles.
I check my watch. She's been in there for six hours. No food, no water.
I debate whether to check on her. It's not my place to intrude on her privacy, but my instincts tell me something's wrong. The silence has stretched too long.
I knock softly. "Ms. Feretti?"
Nothing.
I knock again, slightly louder. "Lucrezia? Are you alright?"
Still nothing.
My hand moves to the doorknob. This crosses a line, but her safety comes first. I turn it slowly, pushing the door open just enough to see inside.
The studio is a battlefield of emotion. Paint splatters the floor, mostly red, like blood at a crime scene. Canvases lean against walls, some slashed, others covered in violent streaks of color. The smell of oil paint and turpentine hangs heavy in the air.
Lucrezia lies curled on a small sofa in the corner, finally asleep. Her clothes are stained with paint, crimson streaks dried in her dark hair. Even in sleep, her face isn't peaceful. Her brows drawn together, lips pressed in a tight line.
I should close the door, return to my post. But I can't look away from her. In sleep, the walls she builds so carefully come down. I see the girl she was before, the woman she's fighting to become, and all the pain between.
Paint covers her hands, dried in the creases of her knuckles and under her nails. Red like blood. I wonder what demons she fought on those canvases tonight.
I step inside, moving silently across the room. A blanket lies crumpled on the floor. I pick it up, shaking off flecks of dried paint, and carefully drape it over her. She stirs slightly but doesn't wake.
My eyes catch on the canvas still mounted on the easel. It's chaos—crimson slashes like open wounds, black borders trying and failing to contain the damage. It's raw pain made visible. I've seen enough trauma to recognize it when it's staring me in the face.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Damiano.
"Hayes."
"My office. Now." His voice is clipped, tense. Something's happened.
Five minutes later, I'm walking into Damiano's office. The room smells of expensive cologne and whiskey. Enzo and Alessio are already there, along with Noah. Damiano stands behind his desk, hands planted on the polished surface, his face carved from stone.
"We've got intel on the Russians," he says without preamble. "Melania intercepted communications between known Volkov associates."
Alessio nods. "She's been monitoring their networks since the casino hit."
"What did she find?" I ask, positioning myself with my back to the wall, old habits.
Damiano slides several photos across the desk. "Three locations. A warehouse in Red Hook, an apartment building in Brighton Beach, and a nightclub in Manhattan."
I pick up the photos, studying each one. "These are recent?"
"Taken in the last twelve hours," Enzo confirms. "The warehouse is their weapons cache. The apartment building houses their soldiers. The nightclub is where Mikhail Volkov conducts business."
"They're planning something big," Damiano says, his voice dropping lower. "The casino was just the beginning. According to what Melania found, they're bringing in additional men from Moscow. Heavy hitters."
"Timeline?" I ask.
"Three days, maybe four." Damiano pours himself another finger of whiskey. "We need to hit them first. Hard. Send a message."
Noah shifts beside me. "They'll be expecting retaliation."
"Which is why we need to be unpredictable," Damiano counters. "The Volkovs think they know how we operate. We're going to prove them wrong."
I study the warehouse photo. "Security?"
"Heavy at the nightclub," Alessio says. "Lighter at the other locations, but they're not amateurs."
"We hit all three," Damiano decides. "Simultaneously. They won't expect that."
Enzo leans forward. "That spreads us thin."
"We bring in the crews from Jersey and Connecticut," Damiano says. "I've already made the calls."
I consider the logistics, the manpower, the risks. "The warehouse first. Cut off their supplies, then their soldiers, then their leadership."
Damiano nods. "Hayes, I want you to coordinate security here while we're out. The mansion is our priority."
"With respect, sir, I should be on the assault team."
"No." His tone brooks no argument. "If this goes sideways, the Russians will target our families."
I clench my jaw but nod. He's right. The Russians are known for going after families when cornered.
"We move tomorrow night," Damiano continues. "Full tactical gear. No survivors."
The room falls silent. This isn't business anymore. This is war.
"The Russians don't play by rules," Damiano says, his voice hard. "They're unpredictable, brutal. We need to be prepared for anything."
"I'll coordinate with the security teams," I say. "Double the perimeter guards, change the patrol patterns."
"Good." Damiano looks at each of us in turn. "This stays between us for now. No one else needs to know the details."
We remain silent. There's no argue after all.
"Dismissed," Damiano says. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, we go to war."
I exit Damiano's office, my mind already mapping security protocols and defensive positions. The weight of what's coming settles on my shoulders like armor—familiar, heavy, necessary.
"Hayes." Matteo's voice catches me in the hallway. He falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets, casual in a way I've never managed to be.
"What?" I keep walking, checking my watch. I need to brief the night shift, review the surveillance feeds, check on Lucrezia.
"You looked ready to put a bullet in someone back there." Matteo's voice drops lower. "And it wasn't just about the Russians."
I stop, turning to face him. "We've got a war coming. Focus on that."
Matteo studies me, his eyes too knowing. "This about the Sartori marriage proposal? You were about to break the arm of the chair when Damiano mentioned it."
My jaw tightens. Fuck. Was I that obvious?
"Don't know what you're talking about." The denial sounds weak even to my ears.
"Sure." Matteo smirks. "And I don't know what good whiskey tastes like."
I glance around the empty hallway, lowering my voice. "It's a shit plan. Lu's been through enough."
"Lu?" His eyebrow raises at the nickname. "Interesting."
"Lucrezia," I correct myself. Too late.
"Look, I can see how you watch her." Matteo leans against the wall.
"That's my job." The words come out clipped, defensive.
"Your job is to protect her. Not look at her like she's water in the desert." He holds up his hands when I step closer. "Hey, I'm not judging. Just observing."
"Observe something else." I start walking again.
Matteo keeps pace. "You know, Damiano notices too. He's not blind."
That stops me cold. "What did he say?"
"Nothing directly. But he watches you watching her." Matteo shrugs. "For what it's worth, I think he trusts you with her more than anyone. That's why you're on her detail exclusively."
I process this, uncertain if it's reassurance or warning.
"Just be careful, man." Matteo's voice loses its teasing edge. "The Ferettis protect their own. Especially Lucrezia, after what happened."
"I know what happened." The words come out sharper than intended.
"Then you know why this marriage talk has everyone on edge." Matteo glances toward Damiano's closed door.
I don't respond. Can't. The thought of Lucrezia with Bruno Sartori is way too much to handle.
"Anyway." Matteo claps me on the shoulder. "Just wanted to check if you're good. We need you focused if the Russians are coming."
"I'm good." The lie comes easily. Professional distance. That's what I need.
"Sure you are." Matteo doesn't believe me for a second. "Get some rest, Hayes. Tomorrow's gonna be a long day."
He walks away, leaving me with thoughts I can't afford to have and feelings I shouldn't indulge.