Chapter 15 – Calista
I step out of the SUV, the ivy bite of the wind hitting my face the moment I’m on my feet. Veldenport Docks look just like I left them—grim, gray, and industrial, like my worst nightmare come to life. But this place kept me safe. At least for a little while. The smells of diesel and saltwater fill my nose. And then there’s that unsettling feeling that always seems to loom here.
Lazaro steps out beside me, his boots hitting the tarmac with a certainty that makes me grind my teeth. He moves like he owns the world—no hesitation, no fear. Two other cars pull up behind us, and his men start fanning out. Ethan Brown walks ahead, moving with the kind of quiet intensity I’ve come to expect. Crivelli and a few other Virelli enforcers take their positions around us. The whole scene feels too controlled, too orchestrated, and I can already tell something is off.
I keep my head high and my face straight, trying not to show the unease creeping up my spine. The wind tugs at the hem of my coat, but I hold steady. Not here. Not now. But it’s hard not to notice how sinister everything feels, even in the middle of the day.
Lazaro glances at me briefly, his eyes flicking over my face. “Stay close,” he mutters. “This doesn’t feel right.”
I nod, my eyes scanning the shadows between the towering stacks of shipping containers. “No shit,” I reply, voice low and sharp. My instincts are already screaming, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. There’s a strange sensation about this place that feels like a trap, but I can’t put my finger on why. Maybe it’s the smell of the ocean, laced with decay, or the way the wind feels too sharp, too eager. Whatever it is, my gut says this isn’t just a routine meet-up.
We walk deeper into the dockyard, the sound of our footsteps muffled by the thick layer of salt-ridden mist that clings to everything. Lazaro’s eyes are always moving, constantly assessing, like he’s waiting for the moment when things go sideways.
A figure steps out from the shadows ahead—one of Lazaro’s men, moving quickly toward us. He’s got that anxious look in his eyes, the kind of look that says things are already slipping out of control. He murmurs words to Lazaro I can’t quite make out, but I feel the change in the atmosphere instantly. Lazaro’s face hardens. He gives a short nod, his body language sharp, precise.
I hate it when he gets like this—hostile and distant. I know it's just how he is. Why am I even expecting anything different? But deep down, I know I’m starting to.
We continue forward, my steps in sync with his, though my mind’s a thousand miles away, already plotting out what’s coming next. The Virelli men fan out behind us, securing the perimeter, as Lazaro keeps his gaze ahead, unblinking, unreadable.
Then, out of nowhere, two figures emerge from the shadows—De Corsi men, smug and swaggering, walking with the kind of arrogance I can’t stand. One of them drags a wooden crate behind him, the metal hinges scraping against the concrete with an unsettling screech. I can feel my pulse spike, but I keep my composure. I know this game, this dance of power and intimidation. They think they have the upper hand. But they have no idea who they’re dealing with.
The man with the crate steps forward, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. “Don De Corsi sends his regards,” he says, his voice dripping with condescension. “Thought you’d appreciate a reminder of who she truly belongs to.”
My breath catches, and everything goes still. I know what he’s talking about before he even says it. I can already feel the rage rising up in me, but I keep it in check. I’ve been here before. I’ve faced worse than this.
Lazaro doesn’t hesitate. His gaze is detached, like he’s already calculated the outcome of this little encounter. “Get that box open,” he commands, his voice low and unyielding. The De Corsi men exchange a glance. One of them steps forward, producing a crowbar from his belt, and starts prying the lid open. The sharp screech of wood splitting fills my ears, and I find myself holding my breath.
The box creaks as the lid is lifted, and my anxiety spikes. I step forward, my heart pounding in my chest, and I lean in just enough to catch a glimpse of what’s inside.
And then I see it.
My whole body goes numb.
The stench hits me first—a thick, metallic tang that makes my stomach churn before I even see what’s inside. My hands tremble as I peer into the box, and there it is—my brother’s severed head, staring up at me with wide, lifeless eyes. Blood pools beneath him, thick and congealed, coating the bottom of the crate in a dark, sticky mess. His mouth is frozen mid-scream, the flesh around it contorted in a grotesque grimace, the expression forever locked in horror. The sight sends a visceral jolt of pain through my chest, squeezing my heart until it feels like it's about to shatter into a million pieces.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I stare at the lifeless eyes of the only family I have left—the one person I could trust. The one person I still love.
The scream rips from my throat, raw and guttural, echoing across the silent docks. It’s a scream of rage, of agony, of disbelief. I drop to my knees, my hands shaking violently, my breath ragged. Tears blur my vision, and I rock forward, gripping my stomach as though I can stop the nausea that’s threatening to overwhelm me.
“No… no, no, no…” The words spill from my lips in a strangled sob, but they offer no relief from the pain tearing through me. I can’t focus, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at Noel’s severed head and the blood that pools beneath him. “You bastards…” I sob, choking on the words, my body trembling as the sobs wrack through me, tearing apart every piece of what’s left of my broken heart.
One of the De Corsi men, the smug bastard who’s been watching this whole scene play out, laughs. It’s a cruel, hollow sound, and it rips into me like a knife. “Next time, it’ll be your pretty little head in a box. Or maybe we’ll take it piece by piece.”
The words barely register. The pain is too intense, too consuming. My hands dig into the concrete beneath me, trying to steady myself, to hold on to something—anything—because if I slip, I feel like I’ll be swallowed whole by this darkness. By the blood. By the betrayal.
Lazaro’s voice cuts through the chaos, commanding. “Enough.”
I don’t even hear him coming—he moves too fast, too smoothly. In a blur of motion, Lazaro’s gun is out, and the shot rings out with a deafening crack. The De Corsi man who’d laughed drops to the ground in an instant, his head disintegrating in a burst of blood and gore. The explosion of flesh and bone is horrifying— blood splattering everywhere, some of it even hitting me, the crimson liquid soaking through my coat and jeans. The sickening splash echoes through the docks like a macabre symphony, coating the crate, the concrete, and everything around us with a grotesque, pulsing layer of blood. His neck is a twisted mess of torn muscle and bone, and the once-strong laugh now feels like a cruel memory, drowned by the violence that followed.
The second De Corsi thug stumbles back, eyes wide with shock. He knows he’s outnumbered. And there’s no hesitation in Lazaro’s gaze. He turns, his voice a low growl as he shouts, “Ethan!”
Ethan’s already moving. His movements are a blur of controlled violence, and before the De Corsi man can even react, Ethan’s on him. Ethan slams into him with the force of a freight train, sending him crashing to the concrete with a sickening, wet thud. The crack of bone on bone echoes like a thunderclap, and I can feel the ground tremble beneath the impact. His head smashes into the concrete, and the sickening sound of his skull bouncing off the hard surface makes my stomach churn. Ethan grabs the thug by the hair, jerking his head back with a savage yank, forcing his face into the blood-slicked floor. The man gasps, but Ethan’s knee is already digging into his chest, holding him down as he delivers a brutal blow to the side of the head. I hear the sickening crunch of the man’s nose breaking reverberates, a grotesque symphony of violence. Blood spurts from the man’s face, splattering across the ground and Ethan’s clothes. Ethan spits out a growl of disgust as he draws his fist back for another strike. “You think you can walk into our territory like that?” He slams his boot into the thug’s rib and his body violently jerks under the pressure. Blood pours from the man’s broken nose and mouth, mixing with the growing pool of crimson around him.
I can’t breathe. The violence is suffocating me. It’s too much, but I can’t look away. I can’t tear my eyes from the mess around me, from the blood soaking the floor, from the body of my brother’s killer, and the bastard whose life is about to end. Lazaro steps forward, his boots crunching against the blood-slicked concrete, his face stone-cold, eyes distant. The whimpering De Corsi thug’s breath is ragged, his chest heaving, his body writhing in agony like a wounded animal, gasping for air with every choking breath. I can hear it—the desperate rasp of a man who knows his life is ticking away, and still, the image of Noel’s severed head lingers in my mind. I can’t escape it. His face, frozen mid-scream. The last thing he ever felt before he was taken from me. His blood is fresh on my hands, my coat.
“You brought war to my house,” Lazaro says, his voice low, deadly. His eyes are piercing, like he’s already moved past the point of mercy. “Now I’ll bring hell to yours.”
The De Corsi man’s eyes widen in fear as Lazaro approaches. “We were just messengers,” he spits out, his voice trembling with the realization that this wasn’t just some negotiation. This wasn’t just business. He’s about to die.
Lazaro’s gaze hardens, and he kicks the man in the side of the head with enough force to send him tumbling sideways, his skull cracking against the concrete. The thug’s body goes limp, his eyes rolling back in his head.
I take a step back, trying to steady my breath, trying to block out the screams and the violence. But it’s impossible. It’s everywhere. It’s all around me. I can feel the blood on my skin, the blood of my brother, the blood of these men. It’s thick in the air, choking me, filling my lungs with the taste of iron.
“Drag him to the car,” Lazaro orders, his voice devoid of any feelings. “He’s not dying until I say so.”
Ethan nods, his movements efficient as he pulls the man along the ground, his head hanging limply.
My body is frozen in place. My mind has stopped working. Nothing feels real anymore—except for the crushing feeling in my chest, the sobs that rattle through me, and the searing, undeniable truth that my brother is gone. Dead. His severed head, staring up at me in that wooden crate, is the only thing that’s left of him.
Tears streak down my face, wetting my cheeks, mixing with the blood that coats my hands. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stare at Noel’s face. The world tilts, spins, but I’m stuck. Trapped in the nightmare I never asked for.
“He was all I had,” I whisper, my voice cracking, trembling. “He was all I had.” I say it over and over, as though repeating the words might somehow make this nightmare stop, might bring him back to me, but it’s futile. I know it. I know he’s gone. And I’m choking in the agony of it. “No… no, no…” The sobs break free, raw and guttural, torn from the deepest part of me. I shake violently, my hands trembling as they reach for him—reaching for the last piece of my family, the only person who ever understood the pain I carry. I can’t stop. I can't stop crying, can't stop my body from breaking down under the heaviness of the loss.
The sound of someone approaching barely registers. But when Lazaro crouches beside me, his hand gently touching my shoulder, it’s like a jolt of electricity snapping me back into reality. His presence feels like a distant comfort—unnerving, reserved, yet present.
“You need to breathe,” he says, his voice lower than I’ve ever heard it. It’s almost like he’s trying to reach through the chaos in my head, trying to pull me back from the edge.
But I can’t. I can’t breathe. My chest is tight, and every sob that escapes me feels like it’s tearing me apart. I’m shaking, my body unable to stop, to steady itself.
“He was my brother,” I gasp, the words like shards of glass scraping against my throat. “And now... now he’s just a fucking message.” The words sting, taste like ash in my mouth, and I feel my heart rip open even further. He’s gone. And this—this box, this blood-stained thing—is the only thing that remains of him.
Lazaro’s expression tightens. His eyes light up in the way they always do when he’s focused. “Not just a message,” he growls, his voice a low rumble. “A declaration of war.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about me or the De Corsi family or all of it. I don’t know anything anymore. I just know that the world feels like it’s closing in on me. My chest tightens with every breath, every sob that rips from my throat. I can’t hold it in any longer. I curl in on myself, my body jerking with the force of the grief, the anger, the complete and utter helplessness.
Lazaro lifts me gently, his arms curling around me, pulling me against his chest. It’s not rough, not forceful, just... there. It’s an anchor, and I hate it. I want to push him away. I want to scream. I want to lash out, to fight. But when I try to shove him away, my fists weakly pressing against his chest, he doesn’t let go. He holds me steady, his body solid beneath mine, his presence unwavering.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. The words are meant to be comforting, but they feel like a lie. How can it be okay? How can anything be okay when my brother’s head is in a box in front of me? How can it be okay when the blood of my family stains my hands, and the grief is so overwhelming, so raw, that I feel like I’m being crushed under it?
“No, it’s not,” I sob, my voice breaking into jagged pieces. “It’s not okay. He’s gone, and they—” I choke on the words, trying to get them out, but the grief is smothering. My breath comes in shallow gasps, tears streaming down my face. “He’s just... just a fucking message,” I repeat, my words becoming nonsensical, tumbling out in a frantic rush.
Lazaro stays silent. No arguments. No hollow reassurances. He just holds me, his arms steady around me as I crumble into them. I can feel the heat of his body, the rigid tension in his muscles, the storm of fury in the way he’s holding me like he’s trying to shield me. But it’s not enough. Nothing is enough. The grief is too much. The pain is too much.
My vision blurs, my sobs becoming more violent, more desperate. I can’t stop. I can’t make it go away. And I hate that Lazaro’s the one holding me. I hate that he’s the one who’s here, the one who’s trying to make me breathe, to make me calm down. But the harder I push against him, the tighter his grip becomes, until I can’t fight it anymore.
I sag against him, my body limp, and I let him carry me. His movements are slow, thoughtful, like he’s holding something fragile, too broken to be trusted. As he walks, carrying me toward the waiting SUV, my head lolls against his shoulder. I’m too exhausted to fight him anymore.
I want to scream. I want to break free. But the grief has swallowed me whole. I feel like it’s drowning me, and I can’t breath. The last thing I see is the rage in Lazaro’s eyes, the muscles in his face twitching with fury.
For a moment, I wonder if the rage is for me. Or for Noel. Or maybe for the De Corsi family. But none of it changes a thing. Because no matter how much rage he has, it won’t bring Noel back. It won’t stop the blood that’s spilled. It won’t fix any of this.
The SUV door swings open, and Lazaro slides in with me still cradled in his arms. My body is numb. I’m not sure if I’m awake or not. I’m not sure if I can still feel anything. But as Lazaro starts the engine and the car pulls away from the windy docks, I know one thing:
This is only the beginning.
And as my vision fades, the last thing I hear is Lazaro’s steady, unshakable voice. “I’ll make them all pay,” he whispers. “Every last one of them.”
And I let myself fall into the shadows, where the grief finally swallows me whole.