8. Antonio
Chapter eight
Antonio
T he sound of celebration echoes through the stone corridors. My men shouting "Hell, yeah" and toasting with glasses that probably cost more than most people make in a month. Triumph tastes bittersweet, but I'll take it.
We've finally cut off one of Moretti's key supply routes, and imagining that bastard's face when he realizes what we've done puts the first real smile on my face in weeks. My crew moves toward the dining hall, slapping each other on the back, voices rising with the kind of relief that only comes after walking away from a firefight without a scratch.
But this is just one battle. The war is far from over.
Tonight, I'll redistribute what we seized. Not just to line our coffers, but to keep the families in our territory fed. To fund the clinic that doesn't ask questions when bullet wounds need stitching. To ensure the local businesses that pay us for protection actually get what they pay for. My mother taught me that power without purpose is just violence with a prettier name. Something her killer could never understand.
"Next steps?" Franco's voice cuts through my thoughts as I stand by the fire, letting heat chase away the Mediterranean chill that seeps through these ancient walls. The flames cast shadows across the room, reminding me of everything fire has taken from me…and given me.
The strategic map has shifted since our wedding became a bloodbath. The Gigliotti family has been circling the periphery of our attention, quietly eliminating the Irish hold on Baltimore. Under Gambino, the Baltimore Crew controlled every shipment through that port. Now? They're ghosts. Whispers. But even whispers can grow loud if enough voices join in.
I could offer the Gigliottis an alliance. Or I could pit them against their rivals and watch them weaken each other while we strengthen our position. The chess pieces are all there—I just need to decide which move serves our long-term strategy best.
Greed makes men predictable. Fear makes them dangerous. I need to play both.
"Not yet," I mutter, glancing at the clock. The dining hall beckons. A chance to sit with my men, to be the leader they need rather than the Beast everyone fears. But my feet want to take me elsewhere. To the small ballroom where Elena's laughter rings like bells against stone walls. Where her tiny hands pull Isabella into dance after dance, twirling until both of them collapse in giggles.
It's about Elena. That's what I tell myself. Nothing more.
"Planning another visit to the small ballroom?" Franco's tone is carefully neutral, but I know him too well to miss the concern beneath it. His brow creases in that familiar way—the look he's been giving me each time I find myself drawn back to where Isabella and Elena spend their afternoons.
"I am." My voice carries an edge of challenge, daring him to say what he's thinking.
"Just be careful, okay?" The caution in his voice draws a dark laugh from me.
"Careful?" I scoff, feeling the scar on my face pull tight as I smirk. "Wasn't it last week you were telling me I was being too harsh, too cruel to her?"
"I know," he cuts me off, his voice dropping lower. "But the crew... they're watching. Some still hold a grudge against Isabella."
"For my mother's death?" My shoulders tense. If anyone tries to claim my revenge as their own...
Franco shakes his head, his expression grim. "No. For the wedding."
My attention sharpens. "What do you mean?"
"They're calling it 'il matrimonio rosso,'" he explains, the Italian phrase hanging heavy between us. "There are whispers about betrayal, about what she might have known beforehand. They're mourning our losses, but some want more than grief. They want blood."
His eyes lock with mine, unwavering. "Revenge can't build what we're trying to create here. You know that. And eventually..." He pauses, weighing his next words carefully. "Eventually, forgiveness might need to become part of our vocabulary."
I close the distance between us, every muscle coiled tight. But Franco doesn't back down. It's why he's my right hand, why I trust him more than anyone still breathing. "We're moving forward. Cleaning up the messes her father created. Isabella had nothing to do with the bloodshed at our wedding." My voice drops to something closer to a growl, the Beast slipping through my carefully maintained control. "And if anyone— anyone —so much as thinks about touching her..."
The threat remains unspoken, but Franco knows me well enough to read the promise of violence in my eyes. No one harms what's mine. Not even if I'm the one who locked her away.
Franco's eyebrow arches, his mouth quirking in what might be amusement. "More revenge? That's your strategy?" He tilts his head, studying me like he's seeing something I'm not ready to acknowledge. "Maybe you're not as far gone as you pretend to be. Maybe there's still hope for—"
"We'll continue this later," I cut him off, already turning toward the door. The Beast doesn't need hope. The Beast needs control.
But as I approach the small ballroom, it's not Elena's giggles I hear. It's Isabella's voice, edged with panic: "You need to leave."
Every muscle in my body tenses, ready for violence. My hand finds the gun tucked at my back without conscious thought. The scar on my face pulls tight as my jaw clenches.
No one— absolutely no one —is allowed to terrorize my wife.
That privilege belongs only to me.