12. Valerio
VALERIO
By dawn, the warehouse floor is slick with blood.
Not mine.
That is the only mercy this night has offered me.
The cartel crew has been using the place for three weeks. Short-term storage. Guns, cash, product, two stolen vans with fake plates. Nothing big enough to matter on its own, but enough to be insulting.
Tonight, I need insult.
Insult gives me something to hit.
The last man near the loading bay lunges at me with a knife. I catch his wrist, drive my elbow into his throat, and slam him back against the concrete pillar. He drops the knife. I put two bullets in his chest before he hits the floor.
Clean and fast.
Still not enough, I tell myself.
Across the room, Alberto lowers his gun and exhales through his nose. His suit is torn at the shoulder. Blood marks his collar, but I doubt it is his.
He looks more composed than I remember.
That bothers me for reasons I have no patience to examine.
“You good?” he asks.
I reload. “Yes.”
He glances at the bodies between us. “Convincing.”
I give him a look.
Alberto lifts one hand. “Easy. I’m only saying you’re burning hot tonight.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then cool down before you make a mistake.”
Six months ago, Alberto was Luca’s sharp-mouthed right hand, half charm and half knife. Useful. Dangerous. Not burdened the way bosses are burdened.
Now he wears Manhattan on his shoulders.
The heaviest crown in the city.
He inherited territory, enemies, accounts, soldiers, widows, orphans, and the kind of responsibility that ages men between breakfast and dinner. I see it in him now. The stillness. The calculation before every word. The rude wake-up call from reality has done its work.
I respect him more for it.
I resent him a little too.
He has exercised control tonight. I have misplaced mine.
A side door opens.
Leone strolls in with a gun in one hand and a coffee in the other.
He looks around at the bodies, then at us. “Am I late to the party?”
Alberto stares at him. “You think?”
Leone sips his coffee. “Traffic.”
I wipe blood from my knuckles with a strip of cloth torn from some dead man’s shirt. “Cleanup is yours.”
Leone’s expression drops. “Because I’m late?”
“Yes.”
He sighs like I have deeply wounded him. “Fine. Bruno and Lorenzo send their regards, by the way.”
“They were supposed to be here.”
“They're married men. Domestic bliss beats bloodbath.” Leone’s eyes shift to me. “Careful, Greco. Soon you’ll be missing warehouse raids too.”
The cloth tears in my fist.
Alberto’s attention snaps to me.
Leone notices a second too late.
“What?” he says. “Too soon?”
I cross the space between us and grab him by the front of his jacket. He has the good sense to drop the coffee. It splashes across the floor.
“Say one more word about my wife.”
Leone’s hand tightens around his gun, but he keeps it pointed down. He is an ass, not a fool. His voice goes flat. “Let go.”
“Make me.”
Alberto steps between us fast, shoving a forearm against my chest. “Enough.”
I keep my eyes on Leone.
He keeps his on mine.
For half a second, I want the fight. Badly. I want bone under my fist. I want a body that gets back up so I can put it down again.
Alberto pushes harder. “Valerio.”
My name sounds different in his mouth now. Not a warning from another second. A command from a fellow capo.
I release Leone.
He straightens his jacket, jaw tight. “Noted,” he says. “Wife jokes are off the table.”
A wet sound comes from the far corner.
All three of us turn.
A man lies half-hidden behind a stack of crates, one hand pressed to his stomach, blood bubbling between his fingers. I saw him earlier. Expensive shoes. Soft hands. Not warehouse muscle.
Alberto moves first. He crouches, grabs the man by the hair, and turns his face toward the light.
Then he whistles softly.
“Well. That’s interesting.”
Leone steps closer. “Who is he?”
“Rubio’s money man,” Alberto says. “Or one of them. High enough to know things. Stupid enough to be here tonight.”
The man gurgles again.
I take one step forward.
Alberto stands and blocks me.
“No.”
My gaze cuts to his. “Move.”
“You’re too far gone for this one.”
“I said move.”
Leone comes up on my other side. “He’s right.”
I almost laugh. “You want to handle my interrogation?”
“I want the man alive long enough to speak,” Alberto says. “You want him dead loud.”
The warehouse hums around us. Fluorescent lights. Distant water pipes. My pulse in my ears.
I look at the man on the floor. Then at my hand, still shaking from the fight I never got to finish.
They are right and I hate them for it.
“Fine.” I holster my gun. “Call me when he talks.”
Alberto nods. “Go home.”
I almost tell him to go fuck himself. But I don’t. Instead, I leave.
The night air outside is cold enough to cut through the blood heat. I stand beside the car and pull out Valentina's phone from my back pocket.
There are texts from Federica. Several, all from this afternoon.
I stop breathing for one beat before I open them.
FEDE: FYI, I bought your new nephew a Nintendo Switch 2. When you come back, we're having Mario Kart tournaments.
A second later.
FEDE: Also a red dress. Alessio says I look like a pirate villain. What do you think?
Then a photo.
Federica in a dressing room mirror, red dress fitted to her body, mouth curved.
My hand tightens around the phone.
I should close it, knowing that none of these messages were meant for me. But, I look anyway.
FEDE: Hey V. You awake? Can’t sleep. Got any book recs? Preferably something where the male lead is not emotionally constipated and criminally overfunded.
I stare at the message.
Her insomnia is my fault.
I recall my mouth on hers. My hands on her. My cowardice afterward.
I deserve every word she would throw at me if she knew the truth.
Instead, I open the fake thread and answer as my sister.
TINA: Try North and South. Broody man, stubborn woman, class tension, excellent yearning. Very on brand for you.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
FEDE: Victorian yearning. Fine. I’ll allow it.
I lean against the car and close my eyes.
My parents are dead. My sister is alive somewhere I cannot reach. Federica is awake because I kissed her like I had the right.
I put Valentina’s phone away and get into the car.
“Home,” I tell the driver.
Tonight, the word hurts.