Chapter 6 – Lazaro
The car rumbles through the slick Manhattan streets, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. I sit in the back, silent, watching the city blur past the tinted windows. Lucrezia presses a gauze against my wound while Riven speaks low and steady from the front seat.
"It wasn’t difficult," he says, glancing at me in the rearview. "The Plaza’s security locked down seconds after the shot fired. Shooter didn’t stand a chance. The guards cornered him before he even cleared the terrace."
"Stupid," I mutter, my voice a blade in the quiet.
"He walked straight into the lion’s den and didn’t even realize it," Riven adds.
Satisfaction settles into my gut. "Then let’s make sure he understands where he is now."
The warehouse looms ahead—one of the older ones, steel bones wrapped in concrete, reeking of rust and old blood. It’s not a place meant for second chances. It’s a place where mistakes come to die.
By the time we arrive, the shooter has already been delivered. My men work fast. Efficient. He’s been waiting—bound, beaten, bloodied. Just the way I like them.
I climb out of the SUV, the frosty night air biting against my soaked shirt. The gauze beneath it is damp, the bandage strained with blood, but I don’t care. Pain is secondary now. Vengeance is everything.
Inside, the warehouse basement is lit with fluorescent lights and quiet menace. The shooter is slumped in a steel chair at the center of the room, his hands bound behind his back. One eye is already swollen shut, lip split open. He breathes in harsh rasps, a smear of blood trickling down his chin.
I walk slowly toward him, letting the echo of my boots fill the quiet.
"You tried to kill what belongs to me," I say.
The man doesn’t lift his head.
Riven steps forward and slams his fist into the shooter’s face. The crack of bone echoes. The man groans, head snapping sideways.
"Names. Motive. Who paid you?" Riven growls.
Still, no answer. Just clenched teeth and a trickle of blood.
I roll up my sleeves.
"I can prove my point just as easily with you dead," I say. "But I’m offering you a chance to speak. Use it."
The man looks up, spits blood on the floor.
Wrong answer.
Riven grabs the man by the collar and slams his head back against the chair. I pull a blade from my belt—nothing fancy, just steel honed to a whisper-thin edge.
"You know how many men have bled in this room?" I ask as I trail the tip of the blade across the man’s cheek. "Your screams won’t echo long."
He winces but still says nothing.
"First finger," I say.
Riven reaches for the pliers on the table. The shooter tenses.
"Wait," he mutters. "Wait—please."
"Too late," I say flatly.
The first finger breaks with a sickening crunch, the sharp sound echoing off the walls like a gunshot. The man’s scream bursts from his throat—raw, unfiltered agony that pierces the room and scrapes against the nerves. It’s not just loud—it’s animalistic, a desperate, guttural cry that rises in pitch as pain takes over. Blood pours from the mangled digit, splattering onto the floor, dripping down his hand in messy rivulets. He thrashes, chair legs screeching against the floor, but there's no escape. Only agony.
"Still feel like staying quiet?" I ask.
"Go to hell," the man spits, somehow managing the words through clenched teeth and broken breath.
I tilt my head, genuinely impressed. "Resilient little bastard," I murmur. "But don’t worry—you’ll break soon enough."
I then plunge the blade into his side, shallow but purposeful. My arm throbs beneath the dressing from the bullet I took, but I keep my expression blank. The steel parts flesh with a sickening resistance, and the man's body jolts violently. He screams again—this one sharper, higher-pitched, ragged with panic. Blood seeps around the blade, soaking his shirt and dripping to the floor in a crimson trail. The sound is nauseating—a wet, tearing hiss followed by his choked sob. He thrashes against the bindings, but all it does is smear more blood across the chair and floor.
"Who sent you?" Riven barks.
The shooter shakes his head, sobbing now.
"Another finger," I order.
At the back of the room, Ethan stands silent, a hammer resting over his shoulder—his presence like a silent threat waiting to be unleashed. Then, without a word, he strides forward. The shooter sees him coming and his body jerks with renewed panic.
Ethan grips the man's hand, pins it down on the armrest, and raises the hammer high. The shooter thrashes, begging incoherently now, but it's useless. The first strike comes down with a dull thud—bone fractures, splinters. The man screams again—a high, piercing wail that echoes through the warehouse.
Another blow. Another. The finger finally gives way, mangled flesh and shattered bone left in its place. Blood spurts and spatters across Ethan's arm, pooling at the base of the chair.
The shooter sobs uncontrollably, gasping between cries. The room smells like copper and sweat and terror. But there’s still more to break.
Ethan doesn’t retreat. He swings the hammer again—not for precision, but for pain. The next blow lands on the shooter's shin with a solid, meaty crunch. A howl tears from his throat, hoarse and wild, as his leg convulses under the impact. He’s trembling now, eyes rolled back, face soaked in blood and sweat.
Riven circles behind him, grabbing his hair and yanking his head upright. "Still want to keep quiet?" he sneers.
The shooter’s breath rattles, lips trembling with broken resolve. Teeth chatter. Spit clings to his chin.
"Zano!" he finally gasps. "It was De Corsi—Zano sent me!"
A chill shoots down my spine. My grip braces the blade.
"Then he should’ve sent someone better."
I raise my gun and shoot him point-blank in the head. Clean. Final.
Blood pools across the concrete.
No hesitation. No remorse. Just business.
I turn to Riven. "Burn the body. No traces."
"Yes, sir."
I pause, my eyes still on the corpse. "Does he have family?"
Riven nods. "A wife. No kids."
I glance at Ethan. "Tell Lucrezia to send a hundred-thousand-dollar check to the wife. Should be enough."
As the cleanup begins, I walk to the far corner of the room and stare at the blood-streaked floor.
But in the back of my mind, I see Calista’s face. The way she looked at me today, when our eyes first met—striking, defiant, wrapped in a dress that clung to every curve with elegant cruelty. The deep wine hue set off the fire in her hair, the sharpness in her eyes. She looked regal, untouchable—a woman carved from fire and steel. Beautiful, yes, but more than that... dangerous. And it had been hard for me to look away.
Outside now, I walk slowly across the gravel, my shoes crunching softly beneath me. I pause near the edge of the lot where the floodlights fade into shadows, staring into the empty street beyond. The night is still, but my thoughts aren’t.
There’s a dull ache where my wound is, persistent and dragging. The cloth Calista tied around my arm is still there—soaked in blood now, clinging to my skin. Her hands had been steady when she wrapped it—eerily calm, practiced. Years of tattooing had trained her hands to be precise, unshakable. It wasn’t the tenderness that struck me. It was the efficiency, the exactness behind each movement—a reminder that control isn’t just in cruelty. It lingers more than the ache, an imprint of calm dominance where I expected defiance.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown number.
I answer.
"Lazaro," comes the familiar purr of Zano De Corsi’s voice. "Tell me, how’s my bride enjoying her stay?"
I tighten my grip on the phone. "She’s not yours. Not anymore."
A low chuckle vibrates through the line, darker this time. "You forget who had her first," Zano growls. "That vow was sealed long before you ever touched her."
"That vow is dust," I snap. "She's mine now."
"She was mine before she was yours," Zano hisses. "You think a suit and a ring will erase history? You think a woman like her will ever really belong to you?"
"She doesn’t have to belong. She just has to obey. And I don’t need her past—I own her present."
There’s a pause, and then his voice lowers, venomous. "Keep her close, Virelli. Because when I take her back, I won’t be so gentle."
I clench my fist around the phone. "Try it. See how far you get."
"War is coming, Lazaro. I hope your empire’s built to bleed."
"Then you better sharpen your knives, Zano. Because I’m not letting anyone else put their name on what’s mine."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the screen for a moment, then shove the phone back into my coat.
She’s mine now.
And there’s no way I’m going to let anyone else put a claim on her.