Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I've lost track of time. Lucrezia's screams fell silent. That silence terrifies me more than her cries ever did.
The warehouse is quiet now. No footsteps, no voices, no sounds of torture. Just the drip of water somewhere and the occasional skitter of rats across the concrete floor.
My shoulders burn from hanging by my arms. Blood has dried on my face, crusty and tight against my skin. My dislocated shoulder throbs with every heartbeat, a pulse of agony that keeps me conscious when I'd rather drift away.
Is this how it ends? Hanging in some fucking warehouse, helpless while my baby sister suffers?
Fuck.
My family will come. Enzo, Alessio, Noah. They'll tear this city apart looking for us. But will they find us in time? Will they find Lucrezia alive?
I close my eyes, seeing her face — that bright smile that's lit up our home since she was born. The paint always under her fingernails. The way she laughs with her whole body.
If Byron has hurt her beyond repair, there won't be a corner of this earth where he can hide.
I test the chains again, grunting through the agony of my dislocated shoulder. Nothing gives.
A sound. Distant at first.
Pop. Pop-pop.
Gunshots.
My body tenses instinctively, sending fresh waves of pain through my shoulder.
More gunshots, closer now. The thunder of running feet. Men shouting. The unmistakable sound of bodies hitting the floor.
Hope surges in my chest like wildfire. I'd know those tactical patterns anywhere.
"This way!" A voice barks orders outside my door, authoritative and crisp. Enzo.
The warehouse erupts with the symphony of my family's retribution. The quick double-taps of Alessio's preferred shooting style.
They came. My brothers came.
I struggle against my chains, ignoring the white-hot pain. "In here!" My voice comes out like broken glass, but I push harder. "LUCREZIA! FIND LUCREZIA!"
Wood splinters as the door opens. Alessio stands in the doorway, gun drawn, face carved from granite. Two of our men flank him, weapons sweeping the room.
When Alessio's eyes lock onto mine, the rigid mask of the soldier breaks for just a second. Relief floods his features before control reasserts itself.
"Dam." He crosses the room in three long strides. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I grunt through clenched teeth, the lie obvious as blood drips from my chin. "Go find Lucrezia. Now."
Alessio hesitates, his eyes scanning my injuries.
"I said go!" The force of my shout sends fresh pain burning through my ribs. "Find my sister."
Alessio nods sharply, gesturing to one of our men to cut me down. "We've cleared the east side. Working west now."
The chain above me snaps, and my legs buckle as I crash to the concrete floor. One of our men catches me before I completely collapse.
"The men who took her—" I rasp, gripping Alessio's sleeve with my good hand. "I want them breathing when I get there. They're mine to finish."
Alessio's face hardens. "Understood."
I try to push myself up, but my dislocated shoulder won't cooperate. "Go. Take care of my sister."
Alessio nods, leaving me with two men as he disappears through the doorway, barking orders to the team.
I struggle to my feet, using the wall for support. My bones groan in protest. The pain from my dislocated shoulder is blinding, but I force myself to stand. I won't meet my end sprawled on this filthy floor.
A door creaks open behind us.
Two shots ring out, so close together they're almost one sound. My men crumple to the floor before they can even reach for their weapons. Clean head shots. Professional work.
"Were you looking for me, Damiano?"
That voice. Smooth as silk, cold as ice. The sound of it makes my blood boil.
I turn, fighting through the searing pain in my shoulder.
Byron Easton stands in the doorway, pistol still raised, wisps of smoke curling from the barrel. He looks immaculate in his tailored suit – not a hair out of place, not a speck of blood on his hands. The perfect picture of a businessman. A fucking coward who lets others do his dirty work.
But he's here now. And there's something different in his eyes. Something reckless.
"Easton." I spit blood onto the concrete between us. "You're a dead man walking."
He smiles – that practiced, empty smile I've seen across negotiating tables. "I thought it was time we had a private conversation. Man to man."
"You call this a conversation?" I gesture to my battered body with my good arm. "You're a fucking coward. Couldn't even do your own dirty work."
"I prefer to think of it as delegation." He steps into the room, carefully avoiding the growing pools of blood from my men. "Though I must admit, there's a certain satisfaction in handling matters personally."
His finger tightens slightly on the trigger, and I tense, ready to lunge despite my injuries. If I'm going to die, I'll die fighting.
"Where is she?" Byron asks, his polished veneer cracking slightly. "Where's my girl?"
"Your girl?" I laugh, tasting copper. "Zoe was never yours."
"You have no idea what you've stumbled into, Feretti." Byron levels the gun at my chest. "No idea at all."