Chapter 18
Matteo
Rain runs down the marble, turning Caterina Messina’s name into a blur. It’s always raining when we visit, the storm never misses. It knows she was taken too early, the way was too cruel for her.
We line up in silence. Grandfather, then Father, my brothers, me, black coats stiff against the wind. Uncle Luca and his family, Aunt Camila with hers. No umbrellas, we let the rain pour over us.
Grandfather kneels, rosary sliding between his fingers, metal clicking like a clock counting down. His lips move, but no sound comes.
Father stands straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes hard. Rain streaks down his temple; he doesn’t blink.
The crucifix in my pocket cuts my palm. I don’t pray. I don’t even pretend.
“She was light,” Grandfather rasps. “And they made her bleed.”
He rises, leather gloves tightening around his fists. His eyes pass over me without stopping. “Never forget what they took.” Without another word, he leaves, and the room empties after him.
I stay behind a heartbeat longer, rain drums on stone like time refusing to stop.
While I think about my grandfather's words, I can’t forget, no matter how tempting she is.
We arrive back home, and Leo waits in the family room, Uncle Sebastian next to him. The air thickens, like the house knows before we do.
“They hit one of our shipments,” Leo says. “Southern dock. Same day as your mother’s anniversary.”
Every head lifts.
Not a coincidence.
Father turns to Grandfather. “Why now?”
“Nine months since Liam’s father died,” Grandfather says, cane tapping the floor. “Nine months to plan.”
Marco mutters, “They want us looking the wrong way.”
Milo leans back, eyes sharp. “They want blood.”
Father’s voice drops low. “We let him walk once.”
Grandfather’s reply is iron. “Then this time we won’t.”
The O’Briens reopened the war.
Now we remind them how we end one.
The silence after war is louder than the war itself. That’s what my grandfather says as we sit in the room again.
The file from Leo is thick. Maps. Names. Dock patrol schedules. The time our supply was hit. It’s not messy work. It’s surgical.
I light a cigarette, but even the smoke feels heavier now.
“They were precise,” Marco says. “Minimal witnesses. Silent tech on the feeds. They had help.” He continues to look at his screen, as he taps hard on the keypad.
“No doubt,” I say. “The question is, who??”
Milo kicks his boots up on the table. “You think it was the Bratva or the O’Briens?”
“It’s the O'Briens who used someone else to get their hands dirty,” I mutter. “But the message was personal. It always is with them.” My biggest question is why strike now? I let the question fill my mind, as I try to work out the answers.
We sit in silence again. The kind where revenge starts to simmer.
My father finally speaks. “The next move doesn’t come from rage. It comes from control. We don’t hit back blindly. We hit back smart.”
Leo slides a folder toward me. “Blackstone holds the key. Start watching everyone. Their faces. Their alliances. Anything you can find. Someone at that school knows more than they’re letting on. The O’Briens are working with another family. Who?”
“Use the mask you wear,” my grandfather says. “Smile when needed. Earn their trust. And if someone talks—”
“Listen and make sure they don’t talk again,” I finish.
Marco nods. “You’re the oldest. You represent us now. Use your looks to open doors and shut mouths, not to start fights or burn through women.” Marco and Milo both start laughing, and for the first time today I hear my grandfather laughing, and it’s a sound which makes the corner of my lips curl.
“Not just the face,” Milo says with a grin. “The weapon.”
“Being the oldest is hard, but you’re lucky son, you have these two next to you no matter what. They will stand by you, fight with you, fight for you. You three are the biggest weapon when you’re together, don't forget that,” our father tells the three of us, and we smile at each other, nodding.
I know with these two next to me, I’ll never fall; we will only rise and fight and not lose.
I exhale, ash falling like dust on the table.
They started this. Now we end it. Not with chaos. But with precision. When we strike, no one stands back up.
Blackstone feels different tonight. We arrived back later than other students. The silence isn’t peace, it’s warning. Every hallway hums with eyes that won’t look at us.
The scrape of boots pausing when we pass. The sudden drop in voices. The smiles that last a second too long.
Time away stripped everything down to bone. Now I remember what matters. Who the enemy is.
Her.
That kiss never happened. I buried it with the rest of my weakness.
I move unseen, seeing everything: the Cartel kid trading rumors, the Bratva girl smiling too sweet, the Triad twins whispering in code. Each detail tightens the net.
When I reach the edge of the training pit, I glance over to Aoife. Blade steady. Feet firm. Fire under her skin. Better, but still fragile where the fear hides. She doesn’t look up. Good. I stay in the dark and watch.
My job is to protect my family, not the enemy.
I repeat it until it sounds like truth.
Leo checks his watch, then me. “Ready?”
I nod once.
“Your father thinks the timing wasn’t random. They hit on your grandmother’s anniversary for a reason, to feed the rage.” His voice drops. “Forty-eight hours alone. Nowhere for it to go.”
Milo clicks his tongue, studying me. “They want you cracked open.”
Marco claps my shoulder. “Stay sharp. They can’t win unless they get inside your head.”
Leo leans close, his breath cold against my ear. “There’ll be a ticking in the room. You’ll start to hate it. Don’t.”
I meet his eyes. “Then I’ll make it part of the rhythm.”
He smirks. “Good. Let’s begin.”