Chapter 6
Rodrigo sat slumped in the worn leather chair behind his massive desk. The polished surface was littered not with ledgers or maps of territories, but with sleek, matte-black monitors.
One displayed a live feed from the infirmary wing of Giana's bed, her form covered by crisp white sheets, an IV line snaking from her bandaged hand to a bag of clear fluid hanging beside her.
Her face was swollen, and her left hand was bandaged, the tips of her fingers peeking out, raw and red where nails had been ripped away.
Rodrigo had scrubbed the blood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub the images of her hurt from his mind.
He forced his gaze to the adjacent monitor.
This one pulsed with clean, clinical lines: heart rate, respiration, blood oxygen saturation, blood pressure.
Green numbers flickered steadily. Normal.
Alive. He tried to reassure himself that Giana was safe here under his roof, but his body wouldn't listen.
Old habits die hard. One moment, he was pacing the sterile hallway outside the infirmary, vibrating with useless energy while the Colleoni family physician tended to Giana's wounds. The next, he was in this office pulling up the cameras to check in on her.
Rodrigo hadn't set foot back in the infirmary since the doctor had finished. The sight of Giana hurt was like acid on his skin. Worse, it threatened to crack the icy control he'd barely managed to reassemble after the slaughter in Izmir. Watching her remotely was safer for both of them.
A soft chime sounded from the door's security panel, and Dario stepped in, closing it behind him with a soft click. His face was pale beneath its usual tan, etched with lines of exhaustion, but his eyes were alert as they took in Rodrigo's hunched posture.
"How is she?" Dario asked, his voice low, cutting through the humming silence.
Rodrigo stared at Giana's vitals. "Doctor Rossi says the physical damage is not life-threatening. No internal bleeding. Her back teeth can be replaced, but her nails might not grow back properly. The sedation and antibiotics he gave her should last a few more hours."
Dario nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the infirmary feed. "Christ, Rodrigo. What they did…"
"They're dead," Rodrigo stated, the words dropping like stones.
"All of them. The ones in the building. The driver of the van Iz tracked.
The spotter Leo identified from the Bodrum CCTV.
" He finally turned his head, meeting Dario's eyes.
"The one with the pliers is breathing for now.
He's in the cells and will talk. Eventually.
The doctor will keep him alive in the meantime. "
Dario held his gaze for a long moment. He knew what 'eventually' meant. Knew the methods Rodrigo employed to extract information when rage outweighed patience. A shadow passed over his face. "You think it is the Sicilians, like Giana said?"
"Mostly Sicilian muscle," Rodrigo confirmed, his gaze flicking back to Giana's vitals.
"Hired hands working for one of the old families.
You see the one with the scarred eyebrow?
Iz got a hit. Anton Volkov. Ex-Spetsnaz, freelance wet-work specialist who is known to have done jobs for the Falcone clan out of Palermo more than once. "
"Falcone?" Dario's brow furrowed. "Old man Falcone? He's practically retired. Runs his olive oil and wine imports and pretends he's legit."
"I was thinking of his nephew, Vincenzo," Rodrigo corrected. "Ambitious little shit who thinks the old ways are too soft. Probably assumed the Sorrentino fortune was ripe for the picking. Thought he could hurt my…"
His hand clenched into a fist on the desk, the knuckles white. It wasn't just about the money, the legacy. It was about her. Giana was worth a thousand Vincenzos.
Dario stared at him, his expression unreadable. He moved to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter of single malt sat. He poured two generous measures into heavy tumblers and brought one glass to the desk, setting it down within Rodrigo's reach.
Dario leaned a hip against the table and drank from his glass. His eyes followed Rodrigo's gaze to the pulsing green lines. "You're being creepy, watching her sleep."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation, laced with a weary understanding that scraped against Rodrigo's raw nerves.
Rodrigo didn't deny it. "She's safe here."
"For how long?" Dario's tone was neutral, but the implication was clear.
Rodrigo had removed one immediate threat, but the world was full of Vincenzo Falcones. Full of Anton Volkovs. Full of men who saw a name, a fortune, and a beautiful woman as a prize to be taken.
"As long as it takes," he stated. He tore his gaze from the screen, meeting Dario's steady look. "I will make her safe. I have to."
Dario swirled the whiskey in his glass, looked at Rodrigo, and his face softened.
"You got her back from them, big brother," he said quietly, "but can you protect her from yourself? Would you be able to let her go a second time?"
The questions landed like well-aimed punches, low and unexpected.
"If she asks me to, I will," Rodrigo forced himself to say. "Once it's over."
He had done it once, believing it was the right thing to do, and look what had happened the moment he had set her free.
His mother had seen Giana as an asset, a jewel to be kept locked up. Rodrigo had never seen Giana that way. Everything he had done over the years had been to keep her from being fought over by the other families.
Rodrigo leaned forward, his elbows digging into the polished wood, his gaze locking onto Dario's.
"There's nothing I won't do to keep her safe.
I'll burn every crime family to the ground if I have to.
I will make such an example of them that no one will ever dare think of the name Giana Sorrentino ever again. "
The words were a low, raw confession of his monstrous truth. He would become the very demon Gabriella had tried to forge him into if that was what it took to ensure no one ever touched Giana again.
Dario didn't flinch. He took another slow sip of his whiskey, his expression thoughtful, almost sad.
"But will she thank you for the ashes?" he asked softly.
Rodrigo stared at his brother, but he didn't see him.
He could only see Giana in the cage, bruised and bleeding, her eyes wide with terror.
He saw her spitting defiance at Gabriella's feet when they had taken her from where she was studying abroad in Paris to tell her that she was now their prisoner.
He saw her forcing him to watch her take her own virginity, a furious, heartbreaking act of reclaiming control.
Giana had told him she hated him, and Rodrigo accepted it as the price of keeping her alive. He had set her free, hoping… what? That the hate would fade? That she'd return to him willingly? That she'd see his cage for the sanctuary he'd always intended it to be?
Now she was hurt because of his absence.
Would she look at him, standing amidst the smoldering ruins of everything he'd destroyed in her name, and feel gratitude? Or would she see only another jailer, another monster, holding her captive in a fortress built on the bones of her enemies and the ashes of her freedom?
Rodrigo slowly turned his head back toward the screens. The infirmary feed showed only the still form under the sheets, the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The vital signs monitor glowed steadily, a constellation of green assurance.
He reached out, not for the untouched whiskey, but for his laptop.
His finger hovered over the trackpad. He could pull up the external perimeter feeds.
Check the guard rotations. Review the threat assessments Iz and Leo were undoubtedly compiling on the Falcones and all the other old families. He needed to do something.
Rodrigo still didn't answer Dario's question. The silence stretched, only by the hum of machines and the unspoken, terrifying truth.
Gratitude was a flower that rarely bloomed in the scorched earth left behind by monsters, and Rodrigo knew he could endure Giana's hate.
As long as she was alive, what did he care?