Chapter 21 – Lazaro
Calista’s blood stains my collar—a jagged smear of red slicing through the white cotton like a brand. It burns hotter than any gunshot wound ever could. She bled on my watch.
And I knew better.
I knew sending her out—even with protection—was a risk. I knew it, and I did it anyway.
She’s trying to hold it together. Still breathing through the pain, still sitting tall like she’s not shaken. But I see the tremble in her spine. I see how hard she’s fighting to stay in control.
And fuck, it guts me.
Because she’s not made for softness—but she deserves it. Deserves something untouched by violence. And all I’ve ever given her is war.
I want to be her peace.
But I only know how to burn.
The doors of the Virelli penthouse slam open before me. I move through without pause. Every step down the corridor is thunderous. Men scatter from my path, stepping aside like shadows peeling away from fire. The rage rolling off me is a living thing—feral, consuming, deadly.
Behind me, Calista walks soundlessly, her shoulder wrapped in a blood-soaked makeshift bandage. She’s pale but steady, chin high, spine straight. Strong. Fierce. Everything I don’t deserve, and everything I will destroy the world to protect.
The doors to my office swing open before I reach them. Ethan must have warned them.
They’re already waiting.
Ethan leans near the windows, arms crossed, eyes darting from one person to another. He’s my right hand for a reason—ruthless, sharp, a strategist when I need precision and a blade when I want blood. His mind works as fast as his trigger finger, and I know when the chaos starts, he’ll be the one steering it.
Lucrezia sits at the head of the table, elegance carved from ice, her black dress like mourning armor wrapped around a soul that’s colder than most men I’ve killed. But where the rest of us are loud, she’s lethal in silence. Her mind is a weapon all its own, and I trust her to see every angle I might miss. If there’s a political crack to exploit, she’ll find it. If there’s someone to manipulate, she’ll have them bleeding loyalty before they realize they’re bleeding at all.
Aaron’s slouched in the chair, his shirt clinging to sweat and blood, the bandage at his ribs still blooming red. Every shift makes him wince, one hand pressed tight to his side like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. He reaches for a file and grunts—low, sharp, the sound of someone pushing past pain that won’t let go. Someone should’ve stitched him properly. Or maybe he wouldn’t let them. Either way, he’s here. Wounded, sure—but never out. He’s a soldier carved from grit and iron, and I’d take one of him over ten men with clean jackets and clean consciences. Loyalty like his isn’t bought—it’s forged in fire. And I never forget that.
Quentin and Barone stand alert by the far wall, eyes scanning everything. Rossi’s my firestarter—aggressive, fast to act, never asks twice. Quentin balances him out with caution and detail, his sharp memory a vault for names, locations, and patterns that most overlook. Together, they’re my hammer and chisel.
A few other high-level operatives line the perimeter—men and women who know their roles, who I summoned because I don’t believe in half-measures. There’s Costa, my intel spider, always ten steps ahead in the web of information. Cain is sitting quietly, despite the wound in his leg. He knows I need him right now, and he’s here—silent, steady—even though the pain behind his eyes is impossible to miss. He also knows I never let loyalty go unrewarded—and he’s not the kind to let opportunity pass him by. Crivelli’s here too—my eyes on logistics, my watchdog for anything slipping through the cracks.
I scan the room once and nod inwardly. Good. Everyone’s here. Everyone who matters. Everyone I have a use for. Because war isn’t won by one man with a gun—it’s won by the ones who can carry fire through every corridor of the enemy’s house and leave nothing standing behind them.
I don’t sit.
I plant both hands on the table, leaning forward, letting the silence stretch. Everyone’s watching me—expectant, waiting.
"Zano didn’t just declare war," I say. "He asked for extinction."
Ethan straightens, eyes glinting with a fire that borders on feral. "Then let’s hit every one of his distribution points tonight. Fire for fire."
I notice the way his eyes darken, the meaning pulsing beneath his words like a barely restrained explosion. He’s too eager—too wired. And I know why. He’s been waiting for this moment, sharpening his rage into a weapon ever since De Corsi’s men gunned down his father in a crossfire two years ago. The bastard wasn’t even a target—just a casualty caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ethan never forgot. Never forgave. He’s been biding his time ever since, waiting for blood to balance the scales.
And now I see it. That glimmer of vindication behind his fury. This isn’t just war to him—it’s personal. It always has been.
"No." My voice becomes even deadlier. "I don’t want retaliation. I want eradication."
Ethan chuckles darkly. "Extinction has a nice ring to it."
"If you burn too fast, you burn blind," Lucrezia says, her voice calm, sharp as a scalpel. "Precision, not chaos."
"Precision can still bleed."
I glance toward Calista. Her eyes are locked on me. There’s admiration and fire in them. I feel it like a current under my skin.
I nod to Ethan. He steps forward and tosses a thick file onto the table—intel, maps, surveillance.
"We hit three targets tomorrow night," I say. "Queens—distribution warehouse. Bay Shore—dock contacts. Harlem—apartment safehouse. No warning. No survivors. I want smoke still rising by sunrise."
"Strike teams?" Rossi asks.
"Two dozen men per site. Full demolition sweep. Burn it to the foundation. If there’s furniture left standing, it’s a failure."
I pace behind the table, anger burning through me, pulling at my limbs like a heavy weight.
"Explosives at their southern safehouses. Ethan, coordinate with our demolition crew. No traceable residue. I want fire, not evidence.
"Crivelli," I snap, turning to a wiry man near the door, "I want every De Corsi warehouse under surveillance within twelve hours. If they so much as light a cigarette, I want to know before the ash hits the ground.
"Lucrezia," I continue, "dig into their banking records. Every laundering trail, every offshore transfer. Track every cent. Find the dirty officials Zano keeps in his pocket. I want them flipped—or buried."
"We’ve already started scrubbing their shell companies," she answers smoothly.
"Not fast enough. I want them gasping for air by tomorrow night."
Calista’s voice breaks through the storm. "Hit them where it hurts first. Their human pipeline. Shut it down, expose it. Zano built his legacy on cages. Let’s rip the doors off."
Everyone turns to her.
And I turn too, meeting her eyes.
That fire in her is real. Not just heat—it’s controlled, burning with purpose. There’s blood on her skin and fury in her voice.
I nod once, slowly, a glimmer of pride sparking beneath the rage. She didn’t just speak—she commanded. And the plan she laid out was sharp, targeted, merciless. A strike to the heart, not just the body.
"You heard her," I say, letting my voice carry that pride masked in steel. "Start with the cages."
"That’ll ignite federal heat," Barone mutters, uncertain.
"Let it," I growl. "Let the world see who he really is. Let them see us tear it all down."
Ethan steps forward again, pointing to the map. "Rossi, Bay Shore team. Barone, Harlem. I’ll lead Queens. If you find any of his lieutenants—alive. We break them until they scream."
"And the civilians caught in the crossfire?" Barone dares to ask.
"They chose their rooms. They share the fire."
"This war won’t be quiet," Ethan warns. "Police. Media. Politicians."
"Good," I snap. "Let the city see what happens when De Corsi bleeds Virelli blood."
Aaron chuckles, grim and breathless. "They’ll call it a massacre."
"No," I say, voice low and final. "They’ll call it a message."
The room stills. Decisions solidify. Everyone knows what’s coming.
"No one leaves this building tonight," I order. "Briefing rotations start in an hour. Armory access is restricted to my clearance. Phones locked. Burner lines only for seventy-two hours. Lucrezia, get our political assets lined. Ethan, seal our digital trail. I want ghosts on the wire."
"And Calista?" Barone asks again, softer this time.
"She’s off-limits," I snap. "Anyone who so much as whispers her name with intent will be dead before the sentence finishes."
But I know. I know she’s not just a bystander anymore. She’s a storm walking beside me.
As the meeting dissolves, chairs scraping and orders echoing into movement, I linger near the door.
Calista walks past me slowly, her shoulder brushing mine—not by accident, but with a quiet defiance that sends a bolt of heat through my veins. I feel the warmth of her company, her strength pressed lightly against me, and it anchors me more than I care to admit.
I don’t look at her at first—but I feel her. Every breath. Every beat. Then I turn my head, just enough to catch her gaze. The room might be emptying around us, but in that moment, it’s only her.
"This isn’t a war anymore, Calista," I say, my voice low, rough with determination and anger. "It’s a purge."
Her chin lifts slightly, eyes blazing with a fire I recognize—because it lives in me too.
"Then let’s burn it clean," she says, fire woven into every syllable.
Our eyes lock—longer this time. Not just fire meeting fire. Passion. Desire. Pride. It coils in the space between us, intimidating and unspoken, thrumming in my blood like a second heartbeat.
She’s not just standing beside me—she’s standing with me. And fuck, I’m proud of her. Proud in a way that goes deeper than strategy or vengeance. Proud because she’s becoming exactly what I always feared and secretly wanted—a force that can match mine, burn for burn.
But then I see it—just beneath the bravado. The way her right shoulder dips, just slightly. The blood soaking through the torn fabric of her sleeve, slower now but steady. I step in close again, my hand grazing her lower back as I murmur, “You need to let someone look at that. The nurse will be here in ten.”
“I’m fine,” she mutters, but her wince betrays her the second she moves.
“Don’t lie to me.”
XXX
Later, when the noise fades and the adrenaline cools, I find her alone in the back hall—stripped out of her gear, tank top soaked through at the collar. She’s standing in front of the sink, one hand bracing the counter, the other trembling as she tries to peel away the makeshift bandage on her shoulder. Blood streaks down her arm, and she bites down hard on a curse.
I step behind her, slow, quiet. “Let me,” I say.
She doesn’t argue this time.
As I clean the wound, her body tenses with every dab of alcohol, but she stays silent. Still, when I move to apply the gauze, her knees buckle slightly, and she grabs the edge of the sink again for balance.
“You’re not invincible, Calla.”
She lifts her eyes to the mirror, meeting mine in the reflection. “Neither are you.”
“No. But we don’t have to be. Not if we’re doing this together.”