Chapter 9
I t’s late.
Rain clings to the windshield in silver rivulets, catching the dull amber glow of the overhead streetlight like veins of gold. The engine idles for a moment before I kill it, leaving nothing but the soft patter of droplets on metal and the ticking cool-down of the car’s frame.
The road is slick, black as oil, reflecting the halo of the lamplight in puddles along the curb.
I don't get out.
Not yet.
My fingers rest loosely on the steering wheel, tapping once—twice—before I catch myself. It’s a twitch I thought I broke years ago. One that comes back on occasion.
This place hasn’t changed. Same cracked asphalt. Same rusted-out signage above the old freight entrance. Same scent of oil, rain, and cigarette smoke clinging to the concrete bones of the building. If ghosts exist, this place is full of them.
I haven’t been here in years.
Not since the night I told Lorenzo I was out.
The night I walked away from the family and everything it meant.
And now… here I am again.
Back at the warehouse. Back at the beginning.
Only this time, it’s not loyalty I’m questioning—it’s peace. And whether men like us ever really get to have it.
I grab the bottle of whiskey sitting in the seat next to me.
Dalmore 25.
It’s the one Lorenzo and I used to drink after deals went clean—after bodies were buried and the books balanced in our favor. Top shelf. Aged twelve years longer than most men survive in this business.
We always said it was the kind of thing meant to be savored slowly. Something for victories.
But this isn’t a victory.
Not now.
Not after what I did.
They’re watching. I know that much. Always eyes here. Perched in corners, behind tinted glass. Probably a sniper two rooftops over, just in case I came looking for blood instead of peace.
But that’s not what I’m here for.
I didn’t come to reignite old wars.
I came to make sure a new one doesn’t start.
Because if it does—if it’s him versus me—there won’t be a city left when it’s over.
I walk forward, my footsteps loud against the wet gravel, and stop in front of the metal door.
My fist clenches once around the bottle’s neck before I knock. Two sharp raps.
Then I wait.
A breath. Another.
The door creaks open.
The man standing behind it isn’t familiar. Tall, broad-shouldered, all quiet menace wrapped in a black jacket. He doesn’t speak but he doesn’t need to.
He’s not supposed to know me. And I’m not here to make introductions.
I step inside, keeping my posture relaxed but my eyes sharp, skimming the corners and shadows. Watching for movement. Watching for tells.
I’m in the lion’s den again.
Only this time, I’m not walking in as a brother.
I’m walking in as the man who murdered his.
They pat me down before I take another step inside.
I raise my arms without a word, letting the two soldiers do their job. They’re thorough—checking boots, waistband, even the inside of my jacket lining. One gives me a look like he hopes I brought something, just to give him an excuse to throw a punch. I don’t.
I’m not here for a fight.
Doesn’t mean I’m not ready for one.
I clock ten bodies scattered across the warehouse—two near the doors, three on the upper-level catwalk, the rest posted in shadows. That means, conservatively, I’m staring down the barrels of at least twenty guns.
And I walked in with nothing but a bottle of whiskey.
It’s still in my hand when I see Lorenzo.
Sitting at a long metal table, one leg crossed over the other like he’s holding court. A cigar glows between his fingers, the cut slow and deliberate. He doesn’t look up—not yet. Just rolls the flame from a silver lighter over the end, inhaling until the tip burns orange and ash starts to form.
I haven’t seen him in years, but nothing about him surprises me. Still wears those expensive suits with the Italian cut and the dark ties. Still has that ring on his pinkie finger—his father’s. A ring that marks him as the head of his organization.
Still looks like the devil with charm to burn.
I step forward and take the chair across from him, placing the bottle on the table between us. I don’t say a word.
He finally looks at it. Not me. Just the bottle.
His lips curl slightly around the cigar, but it’s not a smile. Not even close. He flicks ash into a tray near his elbow, then leans back in his chair, one arm slung casually along the backrest.
“Took you long enough,” he says. Voice like gravel.
I settle deeper into my chair, resting one forearm on the table. “You’re hard to catch when you’re pissed.”
He laughs—one sharp breath through his nose. No amusement in it.
“Harder when I’m grieving.”
The words land heavy between us.
I nod once. “I know.”
His eyes flick to mine for the first time. Cold. Cautious.
“No apology?” he asks.
“I didn’t come to apologize.”
He hums like that answer doesn’t surprise him.
“Then why are you here?”
I nudge the bottle forward.
The glass scrapes across steel.
He watches it with the same dead expression he used to give corpses we dumped in the river.
Then—finally—he cuts his gaze up to me.
Silent. Waiting.
I look him in the eye.
“Enrico crossed a line.”
Lorenzo’s expression doesn’t change. Not yet. But I see the pressure building behind his eyes.
“He used one of my girls as a fucking shield,” I continue, tone even. Controlled. “Owed money to men too dangerous to default on, and instead of taking the hit like a man, he threw a civilian in front of the bullet.”
Lorenzo doesn’t blink. But the muscle in his jaw jumps.
“He laid hands on her,” I say, voice dropping. “Split her lip. Bruised her ribs. And all while screaming about how his family would protect him.”
I pause.
“You and I both know what happens to a man who uses that name to justify cowardice.”
The table shakes.
Lorenzo’s fist slams down like thunder, and the bottle between us rattles violently. His cigar jumps, rolls, and sears a black scorch mark across the surface before settling.
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he roars.
The room shifts around us. Every man present goes still—fingers twitching near triggers. I don’t move.
He glares at me across the table, eyes burning with grief and fury.
“I taught him better,” he growls. “I raised him better.”
“I know you did.”
“You think I wanted this? You think I’d want my brother to die over some goddamn?—”
“Careful,” I cut in, my tone sharp enough to slice through the storm building between us. “She’s not some goddamn anything. She’s Ledger. She’s mine. And your brother knew the rules.”
He breathes hard through his nose, fists clenched on the table, but I see it—under the rage, under the hurt—he knows I’m right.
If someone had laid hands on one of his, he’d have done the same.
He just didn’t think I would have the balls to do it to his brother.
But he forgets—we wrote these fucking rules together.
And I never forget a debt.
No matter who owes it.
“You jumped the fucking gun,” Lorenzo snaps, voice still ragged from the outburst. “We were working on settling the debt. He was going to make it right.”
I shake my head slowly, evenly. “Bullshit.”
His eyes flash.
“You and I both know,” I say, voice low but firm, “once a hit goes out from that family—the Irish–there’s no settling. No pulling it back. Not unless the other side’s already dead.”
Lorenzo leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table, his voice turning cold. “He was mine to handle.”
“And you didn’t handle him,” I fire back. “So I did.”
Silence stretches thick between us.
“I won’t apologize for it,” I continue. “I don’t regret it. What I did had to be done.”
He looks away for a beat, jaw tight, but I keep going.
“I came here for peace. I want your word—on the code. No retaliation. We bury it. You grieve your brother, I move on. We end it here.”
But then something shifts.
That coldness in his face curdles into something darker. More twisted. He turns back toward me, slow, a new gleam in his eye—something poisonous.
A smile that doesn’t touch his mouth curls there, followed by a thick stream of spit he lets fall to the concrete floor.
Then, in a tone that scrapes bone:
“A pound of flesh for a pound of flesh,” he says, venomous. “Your whore gave a pound of flesh. My brother gave his life. There’s no universe where that balances on the scales.”
I don’t flinch. But I hear the scrape of footsteps. Two of his men take a step closer—subtle, but not subtle enough.
My gaze cuts to them, then back to him.
He knows better.
But rage makes men stupid.
Lorenzo leans back, tossing the cigar from his fingers like he’s throwing away the last shred of civility.
“Get the fuck out of my warehouse, Lucian.”
I don’t move right away.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Final.
Then slowly, I rise. No sudden movements. No retreat.
My eyes stay locked on his, steady and unreadable.
The weight of what we’ve become settles between us—no longer brothers, just two predators with a body between them.
I fix my cuffs, smooth my jacket. My voice is even when it comes.
“You’re supposed to be better than this, Lorenzo.”
My old friend’s jaw ticks. His eyes burn.
As I turn, he throws his last shot after me, voice laced with venom.
“You would do best to keep your head down. Because when I come collecting... I won’t miss.”
I pause at the threshold, one hand on the steel door.
“I’ll see you around Lo.”
And I walk out, leaving the bottle of whiskey on the table where it sits—untouched.
A peace offering refused.
A warning ignored.
And now a war about to be written in fucking blood.