Chapter 26 Silvo
SILVO
The Miami heat clings to my skin as I step out of the air-conditioned restaurant. Lorenzo, my Miami capo, follows a step behind, his normally jovial face grim.
“You’re sure about this information?” I loosen my tie, the weight of what he’s just told me settling like concrete in my gut.
“I verified it myself.” Lorenzo’s voice drops. “After the warehouse hit, the Morettis didn’t stop. They hit two of our clubs last night—Velvet Room and Crimson. Same execution-style kills, same spray-painted crests everywhere.”
I scan the busy street, suddenly aware of how exposed we are. “Let’s continue this conversation somewhere private.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re in a secured warehouse by the docks. Maps and surveillance photos cover the table. Each red X marks a De Luca business or operation that’s been targeted in the past four days since I arrived in Miami.
There are too many Xs.
Lorenzo spreads out crime scene photos. “Look at this—every single location has those crowned lion crests spray-painted in the exact same style. Same paint brand, same technique. It’s definitely coordinated.”
“This isn’t random.” I trace my finger along the pattern. “They hit the warehouse to announce their presence, then immediately started systematic strikes on our clubs and distribution points.”
Carlos, Lorenzo’s second-in-command, points to a timeline. “They’re accelerating too. The warehouse was four days ago. Then they waited—let us scramble. Now they’re hitting two, three locations a night.”
“Professional,” I admit grudgingly. “Hit hard, let us spread resources thin, then strike where we’re weakest.”
“It gets worse,” Lorenzo says, sliding over witness statements. “Three different people reported seeing what they believed were Moretti men leaving the scenes. And we found this at the Velvet Room.” He holds up an evidence bag containing a gold cufflink embossed with the Moretti family crest.
I examine it closely. It’s genuine—I’ve seen Nico wear similar ones at formal events. “They’re not even trying to hide it.”
“Why would they?” Carlos asks. “They want everyone in Miami to know the De Lucas can’t protect their own territory.”
“It’s about more than Miami,” I realize, looking at the bigger picture. “If word spreads that we’re weak here, our suppliers across the entire South will start questioning whether we can protect their interests.”
“Some already are,” Lorenzo admits. “The Morettis have been making offers—better terms, better protection. If we can’t stop these attacks within the week...”
“They’ll flip,” I finish grimly. “And we’ll lose our entire southern operation.”
Carlos leans forward. “We need to hit back. The Moretti operations in Miami Beach—we know where they are. We could—”
I hold up a hand, considering. “Not yet. I need to understand their full strategy first.” Something about this feels off, too obvious, but I can’t put my finger on what’s bothering me.
I’m about to voice my concerns when a faint noise catches my attention. The warehouse suddenly feels wrong—too quiet, the usual dock sounds muted.
“Everyone down!” I shout, diving behind a stack of crates as the windows explode inward.
Gunfire erupts, shattering the fluorescent lights and sending plaster raining from the ceiling. Lorenzo drops immediately, but Carlos hesitates—just long enough to catch a bullet in his shoulder.
“Fuck!” Carlos screams, clutching his wound.
I unholster my gun and return fire toward the windows, providing cover as Lorenzo drags Carlos behind a metal container.
“Back exit,” I bark, keeping low as bullets ping off concrete around us.
We navigate the maze of shipping containers as the gunfire grows more intense. I count at least five shooters. Maybe more.
“How did they find us?” Lorenzo pants as we reach the back door.
The answer hits me like ice water. “Someone told them.”
I push the door open a crack and peer out. Two men with automatic weapons wait by a black SUV—I catch a glimpse of crowned lion tattoos on their forearms. Moretti soldiers.
“Shit.” I close the door quietly. “We’re surrounded.”
My mind races as blood pounds in my ears. The information about our meeting was limited to just a handful of people—Lorenzo’s inner circle and his security team.
“The boat,” Carlos groans, gesturing toward the loading dock through a grimy window. “My boat is still tied up at pier seven.”
It’s our only chance. I lead the way through the warehouse, keeping to the shadows. When we reach the water’s edge, I see it—a small speedboat bobbing in the choppy water.
“Go,” I order, laying down cover fire as Lorenzo helps Carlos onto the boat.
The engine roars to life just as the gunmen spot us. I dive onto the deck as bullets spray the water around us. Lorenzo guns the throttle, and we lurch away from the dock.
Only when Miami’s skyline shrinks behind us do I allow myself to breathe. Blood soaks through my sleeve—I’ve been grazed, but nothing serious. Carlos is worse off; his shoulder is bleeding heavily, and his face is pale with shock.
“Who knew we were meeting?” I demand, pressing a rag against my wound.
Lorenzo shakes his head, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel. “Just us three, my security detail, and whoever you told back in Philly.”
I didn’t tell anyone except Fed—and he wouldn’t betray me.
“Carlos,” I say, watching his face carefully through the pain. “Who did you tell about this meeting?”
His eyes widen, confusion mixing with agony. “Just... just my driver and Luca. Luca Vega. He was supposed to secure the warehouse before we arrived.”
“Luca Vega,” I repeat, the name tasting bitter. “Where is he now?”
“He called in sick this morning,” Carlos gasps, his face going even paler. “Said he had food poisoning.”
Lorenzo curses viciously. “That son of a bitch. I’ve had him in my crew for three years. Three fucking years.”
I pull out my phone and manage to dial Fed despite the wind and spray. “We have a leak in Miami. Luca Vega—find out everything about him. Bank accounts, family connections, and who he’s been meeting with. I want answers within the hour.”
The boat cuts through the waves as I process what just happened. The Morettis knew exactly where we’d be, exactly when we’d be vulnerable. Their spray-painted crests, their obvious displays of power, the cufflink left behind—it all screams of their arrogance.
But something still nags at me. Something I can’t quite identify.
From now on, I can only trust blood—Carmela, Fed, Isabella, and my parents. Everyone else is a suspect until proven otherwise.
I slam the penthouse door behind me, the blood on my sleeve already drying to a rusty brown. The Miami skyline glitters through floor-to-ceiling windows, but I barely notice it. My hands shake as I peel off my jacket, wincing as the fabric pulls against the graze wound.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the ruined jacket onto the marble counter.
The ambush replays in my mind—the shattered windows, Carlos taking a bullet, the realization that someone in Lorenzo’s crew betrayed us. But worse than any of that is the distance between Carmela and me. With the Morettis making coordinated moves, she’s vulnerable in Philadelphia.
I grab my secure phone and dial her number, pacing the penthouse floor. Each ring stretches into eternity.
“Silvo?” Her voice finally comes through, instantly loosening the vise around my chest.
“Hey.” I exhale, dropping onto the leather sofa. “You okay?”
“I should be asking you that. Fed told me there was trouble.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
“Liar.” Her tone softens. “Are you hurt?”
“Just a scratch.”
Silence stretches between us. I picture her biting her lower lip, the way she does when she’s worried but trying not to show it.
“Carmela,” I say her name like a prayer. “I need you to stay inside. Don’t go anywhere without Fed or the security team.”
“About that...” She hesitates. “There’s something you should know.”
My body tenses. “What happened?”
“The Morettis sent a package. Photos of us, with a threatening note.”
My fingers tighten around the phone. “What did it say?”
“That you can’t protect me forever.” Her voice remains steady, stronger than I expected. “Isabella and I have been doing some research together on the Morettis.”
The rage builds inside me, hot and violent. They’re threatening my wife while I’m stuck in Miami, dealing with their attacks.
“I’m coming home.” I stand, already planning the fastest route back.
“No,” Carmela says firmly. “You need to finish what you started there. I’m safe. Fed is here, Leo has the house locked down, and I’m not alone.”
Her pragmatism grounds me, pulls me back from the edge.
“I miss you, Carmela.” The admission falls from my lips before I can stop it. This vulnerability isn’t something I’m used to showing, but with her, the walls I’ve spent a lifetime building seem to crumble.
“I miss you too.” Her voice softens, all the fire and defiance momentarily replaced with something tender. “The house feels empty without you stomping around and glowering at everyone.”
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. “Is that what I do?”
“Among other things.” There’s a smile in her voice, too.
The line falls quiet for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that happens when words aren’t necessary, when something deeper connects us.
“How’s Fed treating you?” I ask. “He’s not driving you crazy, is he?”
“He tries,” she says with a soft laugh. “But Isabella keeps him in line. Your sister’s been... amazing. I didn’t expect to find an ally in her.”
I chuckle, picturing my baby sister managing both Fed and Carmela. “She’s tougher than she looks.”
“I’m learning that.” Carmela pauses. “Silvo, the research Isabella and I are doing—it’s helping us understand the Morettis’ patterns, their operations. We’re building a dossier.”
Pride swells in my chest at how quickly she’s adapted to thinking strategically. “Smart woman. That’s my girl.”
“This separation—” Her voice wavers slightly. “It might be exactly what the Morettis wanted. To divide us, make us vulnerable.”
“I had the same thought,” I admit, glancing at the bloodstained jacket. “But we’ve got a leak here in Miami—someone in Lorenzo’s crew fed the Morettis information about our meeting location. I need to root them out before I can come home.”
“A traitor,” she breathes. “Be careful, Silvo. If they’re that deep in your operation...”
“I will be. Two days, maximum, then I’m coming home to you.”
“Just be safe,” she whispers. “I’ve barely gotten used to being your wife. I’m not ready to be your widow.”
Something shifts between us in that moment—something profound. What started as an arrangement, a business transaction between families, has become so much more. The fierce, beautiful woman who fought me at every turn has become essential to me.
“Nothing could keep me from coming back to you,” I promise. “Not the Morettis, not anyone.”