Salvatore #2
What he didn’t know is that I have a whole fucking army positioned outside. I’d clocked his nervous energy since this meeting was scheduled. Then, the way he kept glancing at the eastern entrance. The subtle hand signal he thought I’d missed when he adjusted his collar.
He came to this meeting with half my money on a random weekday. I knew he was planning something the moment he suggested the location.
Too fucking weak to handle his own territories, but he thinks he has a shot at mine.
The slaughter is quick. My men pour through every entrance like a tide of violence. Nico through the east door, Luca and his team from the loading dock, and six more dropping from the roof access. Within sixty seconds, the warehouse floor is painted red.
Tommaso’s men drop like animals in a slaughterhouse. The ones who tried to run didn’t make it three steps. I put two bullets in one myself, watching his body jerk and crumple.
I holster my weapon and straighten my cuffs, surveying the carnage with satisfaction. Blood pools across the concrete, steam rising from fresh wounds in the cold warehouse air. The copper smell is thick enough to taste.
This is what betrayal costs.
Tommaso himself is on his knees in the center of it all, bleeding from multiple gunshot wounds, surrounded by the bodies of men who’d followed him into this foolish ambush.
His face is a mask of shock and fury and the dawning realization that he’d just destroyed everything he’d ever built and took some soldier’s lives with him.
I walk toward him, but right before I reach him, I realize I recognize one of the soldiers he brought with him used to work for me. Now he’s lying there lifeless. He must have recruited him. I shake my head in disappointment to see the young soldier lose his life over bullshit.
“Did you really think four men could take me?” I crouch in front of him, close enough to see my reflection in his wide, terrified eyes.
“You’ve known me since I was a boy, Tommaso.
You watched me rise. You watched me bury armies twice your size.
” I shake my head slowly. “And you still thought you could win. He was just a kid, made plans to go to college, you took that from him. You cost those men their lives today; their blood is on your hands.”
He opens his mouth to beg, probably. To plead for mercy he’d never receive.
I press my finger to his lips. “Shh. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.”
That’s when I feel it.
A wet warmth spreads across my side, seeping through the fabric of my shirt. I look down and see blood, my blood, dripping steadily onto the concrete, each drop blooming dark against the pale gray.
“Fuck.”
The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now it announced itself, white-hot, tearing through my side like a branding iron. One of Tommaso’s men must have gotten a shot off before Nico put him down.
Lucky shot.
“Boss.” Nico appears at my side, his face carefully controlled. He presses a hand against my wound without waiting for permission. “Let’s get you home. Doctor Drew is already on the way.”
“Sal.” Arturo grips my shoulder, steadying me when I sway. His face is grim. “We need to move. Now.”
I let them guide me toward the SUV, but I turn back to look at Tommaso one last time. He’s kneeling in a pool of his own and his men’s blood, staring at me with something between hatred and terror.
“Don’t let him die,” I tell Nico. “Call the concierge at Presbyterian. Have him admitted through the private entrance. No police reports, no questions.”
Arturo raised an eyebrow. “You want him treated?”
“I want him stable.” I climbed into the back seat, pressing my hand against the wound, feeling the warm pulse of my own blood against my palm.
“Stable enough to understand exactly what he’s lost. Stable enough to watch me take his territories.
By the time I’m done, Tommaso Russo will spend every day waiting for a death I’ll never give him. ”
“Unless Shadow gets wind of it,” Nico says.
Shadow’s busy; he doesn’t have time for a street thug but he’s right, you never know when Shadow might strike.
“Or better yet, let Raffaele take him out of his misery like half-dead road kill,” he adds. Now that’s a plan.
By the time we reach the estate, Dr. Drew is already waiting in my bedroom which smells like antiseptic. They must have just sanitized some space for this procedure. He unpacks his bag while Arturo helps me onto the leather sofa, which is now covered with white sheets.
Drew gets to work immediately, cutting away my bloodied shirt, assessing the damage with practiced efficiency.
“Through and through would’ve been cleaner,” Drew mutters, prepping a local anesthetic. “But you’re lucky. No major organs, clean trajectory. Bullets lodged against the rib.”
“Just get it out.”
I drape my arm over my face as he begins. I know the drill. Focus on breathing. Detach from the sensation of metal instruments probing flesh. Pretend the pain belongs to someone else.
The door bursts open.
"What happened?"
Valentina.
I don't move my arm from my face. "Get out."
"Salvatore—"
"I said get out."
I hear her sharp intake of breath. The hesitation. Then the soft shuffle of her feet turning toward the door.
"Wait."
The word comes out before I can stop it.
"Stay."
Then the quiet click of the door closing, from the inside. She stayed.
I keep my arm where it is. I don't want her to see my face right now. Don't want her to see whatever expression I'm wearing as Drew digs a bullet out of my side.
The procedure continues. Minutes stretch like hours. I focus on the ceiling I can't see, on the rhythm of my own breathing, on anything except the sensation of being stitched back together like a torn piece of fabric.
Finally, Drew exhales. "Done. Just need to bandage it up."
I feel the cool press of gauze against my skin, the careful application of medical tape.
And then I feel something else.
My leg. It's shaking.
Fuck.
It happens sometimes. After the adrenaline fades, after the immediate danger passes—my body betrays me. Tremors I can't control. The physical manifestation of something I've spent my entire life trying to bury.
I keep my arm over my face, willing it to stop. Stop. Fucking stop.
Then,
A warm hand settles on my thigh.
Valentina.
She doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask questions. Doesn't make me explain.
She just... touches me. Gentle. Steady. Her palm pressing down with just enough weight to ground me, her thumb moving in slow, soothing strokes.
The trembling begins to ease.
I move my arm.
She's sitting on the edge of the sofa, her dark eyes fixed on mine. There's no pity in her expression. No fear. Just... something I can't name. Something that makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the bullet wound.
We stay like that. Looking at each other. Neither of us speaking.
Drew clears his throat.
"I need to give him something to help him rest." He pulls a syringe from his bag. "You'll need to step out."
Valentina holds my gaze for one more moment. Then she nods slowly and rises to her feet.
"Get some sleep," she says quietly.
I watch her walk to the door. Watch her hand pause on the handle.
She doesn't look back.
But something has changed.
The door closes softly behind her.
Drew administers the sedative, and as the edges of consciousness begin to blur, I realize something that should terrify me.
I didn't want her to leave.
And for the first time in my life, I let someone see me weak.