38. Lorenzo
LORENZO
The monitor on the wall flickers as three figures round the corner.
Their footsteps are muted by the thick hotel carpet, yet the audio feed catches every one of them.
Alessio stands just behind me, breathing evenly, his weight settled over the balls of his feet.
On the screen, the man in front keeps his head lowered, avoiding the cameras. His hand slips inside his coat and comes back holding a pistol fitted with a suppressor.
He doesn’t knock.
He slides a plastic key card through the reader.
The three of them wait.
A green light flashes.
The lock clicks.
They move instantly.
The door swings open, and all three surge into Room 107.
“Move,” I say.
We cover the short stretch of hallway before the door to Room 107 can swing shut again.
Alessio drives his shoulder into it.
The wood slams against the wall with a heavy crack.
The two men entering behind the leader never get the chance to react.
Alessio’s forearm crashes into the first man’s throat, driving him sideways into the doorframe. His pistol slips from his hand and lands on the carpet.
Gianni is already moving.
His knife catches the second man beneath the jaw before the weapon can rise. A strangled gasp leaves him as Gianni forces him to the floor and traps both wrists beneath his weight.
The third man?—
The one leading them?—
Stops in the middle of the room.
His charcoal coat is tailored to perfection, now marked with drops of another man’s blood.
The pistol remains in his hand.
Not for long.
Dante already has the barrel pressed behind his ear.
“Drop it.”
The gun falls onto the carpet.
The man slowly raises his hands and turns toward us.
Silver-rimmed glasses catch the light spilling through the south window.
Francesco.
His face has lost its colour, yet the corner of his mouth still lifts.
Even now.
He squares his shoulders, trying to recover authority while Dante’s pistol remains against his head.
In the corner, Camron hasn’t moved.
His folder lies open on the floor.
Papers are scattered around his shoes.
His eyes bounce between Francesco and me.
His breathing comes too fast.
The colour has drained from his face.
“Mr. Lorenzo,” Francesco says, his voice steady despite the gun against him. “You always did enjoy making an entrance.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I walk to the table and pick up the glass of water Vance left behind.
I pour it onto the carpet near Francesco’s shoes.
The water disappears into the pale fabric.
“You’re a spoiled brat, Francesco.”
My voice stays level.
“You’ve always wanted more than your share.”
He lets out a dry laugh.
His gaze drifts toward the rain-streaked window.
“A lane is only a trench another man dug for you.” His eyes return to mine. “I prefer building my own.”
A pause.
“Besides... can you really blame me? You’ve been distracted lately.”
He shifts one foot.
Dante presses the gun harder against his neck.
Francesco ignores him.
“So...” he says. “You fuck my fiancée now?”
The bitterness finally reaches his voice.
“I heard she ran straight into your arms.”
His smile returns.
“Tell me... does Victoria know what you really are?”
He tilts his head.
“Does she know we’re cut from the same cloth?”
He laughs quietly.
“There isn’t much separating us, Lorenzo. We built our lives the same way. You pretend you’re better while your hands carry the same blood as mine.”
I meet his stare.
“You think we’re the same because we’re Italian,” I say calmly. Because we both came off the same fucking peninsula,”
I shake my head.
“That means nothing.”
Silence settles between us.
“Language doesn’t make men equals.”
I take another step.
“There are honourable men, and there are cowards everywhere.”
I hold his gaze.
“The difference between you and me...”
I let the words sit.
“...is that I have never lied to myself about what I am.”
Francesco studies my face.
Searching.
Looking for hesitation.
He won’t find it.
“You won’t kill me here,” he says. “Too many people. Too many witnesses.”
He smiles again.
“My men know where I am.”
A faint smile answers his.
“You’re still thinking like a street captain.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s always been your weakness.”
He tries another path.
“This doesn’t have to end here.”
His eyes sweep around the room.
“The market is changing. So is business.”
He looks back at me.
“We’ve been fighting the wrong war.”
I say nothing.
“We could work together.”
His voice grows calmer.
“Split territories.”
“Expand.”
“There’s enough money for both families.”
Years ago, another man might have believed him.
I know Francesco too well.
Every offer he makes carries a blade hidden behind it.
The last time he spoke of peace, he sent an assassin instead.
He wanted my death then.
He wants it now.
“You’re negotiating from the floor,” I say.
“That’s always been your mistake.”
His eyes narrow.
“Come on, Lorenzo.”
“We survive because we adapt.”
“No.”
I hold his gaze.
“We survive because we remember.”
Silence fills the room.
Then I turn toward Camron.
His face is white.
For years he cooked meth for my organisation.
He made millions beneath my protection.
He ate at my table.
He lived well because my name kept rivals and law enforcement away from him.
Then fear found him.
He became convinced he mattered less than he once had.
Afraid a younger and better lady would replace him.
Afraid his place would disappear.
Instead of proving his value, he chose betrayal.
He sold information.
Accepted money from men who wanted access to what belonged to me.
Men who wanted me dead.
One betrayal became another.
Then another.
Until it became part of him.
Now he kneels before me.
He already knows where this road ends.
“Lorenzo... please.”
His hands come together.
“I know I made a mistake.”
“No.”
My voice stays cold.
“You didn’t make a mistake.”
His breathing catches.
“You made choices.”
“Please...”
“You took my money.”
“Lorenzo—”
“You sold information that was never yours.”
“I can fix it.”
A short laugh escapes me.
“Fix it?”
He starts shaking.
“You think this is about money?”
Nobody speaks.
“This is about loyalty.”
I step closer.
“You showed me exactly what you think of me.”
His breathing grows uneven.
“You could have stolen a million dollars.”
I stop in front of him.
“I’d still be less offended than I am now.”
His eyes fill with fear.
“Because money returns.”
I bend until he has no choice but to look at me.
“Trust doesn’t. You showed me disrespect”
The last trace of hope leaves his face.
Now he understands.
There will be no bargain.
No forgiveness.
No second chance.
I straighten and look at Alessio.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a heavy zip tie.
Francesco twists away.
Dante drives the butt of his pistol into his stomach.
Air rushes from Francesco’s lungs.
He folds forward.
Alessio drags his arms behind his back and tightens the restraint until it locks around his wrists.
“Get them up.”
One of the surviving shooters is still fighting for breath on the floor.
The other remains trapped beneath Gianni.
“What about him?” Gianni asks, nodding toward Camron.
Camron closes his eyes.
He doesn’t beg again.
He already knows it won’t matter.
I glance once toward the window.
Fog has swallowed most of the tower across the street.
The trap didn’t just close.
There’s no way out now.
“Bring them downstairs through the service elevator,” I tell Alessio.
“The van is waiting in the loading bay.”
The van moves before the rear doors finish locking.
I sit opposite Francesco with Matteo on my right. Dante stays near the back doors, his gun held low against his thigh. Alessio sits beside Francesco, one hand fisted in the back of his collar. Gianni keeps Camron pinned on the floor between his knees.
No one speaks for the first five minutes.
Rain ticks against the roof. The tyres hiss over wet streets. The city passes behind blacked-out glass in blurred lights and grey buildings, none of them worth remembering.
Our SUV follows two cars behind us.
Matteo arranged it before we left the loading bay.
One of our men drives it with the hotel plates already swapped.
A rented sedan sits between us, tinted windows, no connection to my name.
Anyone watching through a traffic camera sees a delivery van leave first, then a sedan, then an SUV with no driver worth noticing.
The hotel disappears behind us.
Francesco turns his head toward the small window in the rear door.
“You came prepared.”
I look at him and say nothing.
His mouth twitches. “You always did enjoy turning business into a lesson.”
“This stopped being business when you walked into my room with a gun.”
“You would have done the same.”
“No.”
He laughs under his breath.
“No?” he asks. “You kill men for less.”
“I kill men for reasons.”
“And I had mine.”
Camron lifts his head at that.
His face is grey. Sweat runs down his temple and into his collar. His hands are tied behind his back, but he still tries to crawl away when Francesco looks at him.
Francesco smiles.
“Tell him, Camron.”
Camron shakes his head.
Francesco’s smile widens. “Go on. Tell your Don why you sold him.”
Camron says nothing.
Gianni’s hand closes around the back of his neck.
Camron flinches.
I lean forward. “Answer him.”
His eyes move to mine.
“I was scared.”
Francesco snorts.
I keep my gaze on Camron. “Of me?”
Camron swallows. “Of being pushed out.”
Nobody says her name.
Francesco’s eyes move between us, searching for the opening.
Camron breathes faster. “I gave you years. I made what you needed. I kept quiet. I never asked questions.”
“You asked for money.”
“I earned it.”
“You had it.”
“I wanted protection.”
“You had that too.”
He lowers his head.
Francesco leans back against the van wall. “He wanted respect. That is all. You should have given him more.”
Camron turns on him with pure contempt.
His mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
That breaks him more than fear does.
The van turns off the main road. The sound beneath us changes. Smooth street becomes loose gravel. Rainwater spits up beneath the tyres.
Francesco listens.
“You’re taking us outside the city.”
I do not answer.
He shifts, testing the tie around his wrists.