Chapter 3
THREE
Tony
Curtains are drawn tight, but a few slivers of light slip through and stab right into my skull. I’m slumped in a chair by the cold fireplace, head pounding like a fucking hammer. Trying to piece together last night.
All I remember is drinking. Non-stop. From the second I woke up, just to make it through the day.
I needed it just to walk into that church without ripping Carlo’s fucking throat out. To stand there and watch him take what should’ve been mine—again.
I remember making it to the reception hall. After that, it’s all broken pieces. Rafael, bottles of booze, pussy, tits, and a bed.
The door creaks open, and Rafael walks in, carrying a cup. The rich, bitter aroma tells me it’s coffee.
He hands it to me and gets to the point. “Don Fernando just entered the lobby. You’ve got three minutes before he gets here.”
I glance down at myself. Completely naked. Fantastic.
“How bad did I fuck up last night?” I mutter, taking a swig of coffee.
“You were shitfaced,” he says flat-out. “Grabbing every skirt that moved. I threw you in a room, paid some girl to ride you till dawn. Then I cleaned up your mess and hauled your ass back here.”
I nod, acknowledging the chaos without a word. Rafael moves to the wardrobe, pulling out a pair of pants and a shirt.
If I’m going to face Don Fernando, I should at least look decent.
I slip into the pants, still fastening the buttons when the door flies open with a loud bang.
Don Fernando strides in, exuding authority.
“Out,” he commands Rafael.
Rafael glances at me, waiting for my signal. With a subtle nod from me, he leaves the room without a word.
Don Fernando smirks. “I could have his throat slit for disobeying my orders.”
I match his smirk, unbothered, and drop into the chair. My shirt is still unbuttoned as I take another long sip of my coffee.
Don Fernando crosses the room and yanks the curtains open. Sunlight floods in, stabbing at my eyes like knives. I squeeze them shut, and the pounding in my skull intensifies.
“But I won’t,” he goes on, his voice cold, laced with disdain. “For you. Just like all the other favors I’ve done for you. And yet, on the night of my eldest son’s wedding, you disgrace me. You get drunk like a street thug and make a spectacle of yourself.”
His anger is evident, but there’s something else layered beneath it: disappointment.
As always, he’s immaculate. His tailored suit fits perfectly, his clean-shaven face betraying no weakness, his presence dominating the room effortlessly. Even his cologne hits the room before he does.
I rub my eyes and let out a mocking laugh.
“Tell your precious crown prince I’m sorry, real heartfelt. And let him know I’ll make it up to him at his next wedding. We both know it won’t be long before he’s single again.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then, slipping his hand into his pocket, he turns on his heel, his back to me, and gazes out at the sprawling view of Rome.
“When are you gonna stop this Hamlet bullshit? Accept it—Carlo’s where he belongs. And so are you.”
The mention of Carlo sets my blood on fire.
I jump to my feet, my entire body shaking with fury. My voice comes out low, a guttural growl as I snarl, “My father was the eldest son of Don Francesco. Your older brother. The rightful capo of this family. And I’m his only son.”
He turns on his heel again, composed as always. Calm, but with a deadly edge.
“Your father, my older brother, eldest son of Don Francesco, was killed in the war. After that, I took over. When I’m gone, Carlo gets it all.”
“When a king dies, his son doesn’t lose the crown just because he’s young. It waits for him. Simple.”
To my surprise, he throws his head back and laughs—deep, full, and unrestrained. It’s rare to see Don Fernando like this; I can count the moments on one hand.
When the laughter fades, his gaze locks onto mine. In the depths of his dark eyes, so much like my own, I see the flicker of flames, embers smoldering beneath the surface.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and brimming with menace.
“Oh, Tony. If I didn’t know better, I’d call you a fool. In this life, we don’t play by royal rules. We live by the jungle. Predator rules.”
He walks up to me, close enough to invade my personal space. He’s testing my boundaries, daring me to back down.
But I don’t move.
I won’t step back.
I’m not afraid of him.
“You know what a lion does when he takes a new pride? Kills every last cub. Slaughters them. Then fucks the lionesses till the old blood’s gone.”
Bastard. What is this? A warning? A threat?
I meet his gaze without blinking. The tension between us thickens, but I won’t look away.
I know he has the power to kill me.
But I’m no cub.
The only thing I have left is my pride, and I’ll burn before I let him take that from me.
He studies my features, and the defiance written all over my face for a long moment before turning away to eye the city below once more.
“I raised you like my own son,” he says quietly.
“How can you even say that?” I burst out. “How dare you? You took my father’s title, his home, his power, and even his wife. My mother is your wife!”
He whips around, fury back in his voice. “I married Carmen for you! I wanted to protect you, to give you the life of a Bruni. I raised you like my own flesh and blood!”
My restraint shatters.
“You gave my fiancée to your bastard son!” I roar. “The woman who was promised to me before she even took her first breath! You handed her over to the son of a whore, a slave who was nothing more than a cheap slut!”
Before I can blink, his hand moves like lightning. He pulls his gun from the leather holster beneath his arm and presses the cold barrel firmly against my forehead.
I take a slow, deep breath, lifting my hands in a mock gesture of surrender, a smirk curling my lips.
“Go on, Uncle,” I say, my voice low and taunting. “Finish it. Do what you should’ve done years ago. Kill your brother’s cub. Erase the last trace of his blood and complete your purge.”
“Goddamn you,” he growls through gritted teeth, lowering the gun.
Without another word, he strides past me toward the door. But before grabbing the handle, he halts, and shoots me a look over his shoulder.
“Dinner at the estate tonight. Bring a gift for your cousin’s wife. Nine sharp. Don’t be late.” His voice leaves no room for argument.
Wasting no time on a reply, he yanks the door open and leaves.
***
The basement reeks—damp, blood, shit, piss, rot. Enough to turn your stomach. Adding to the misery are the guttural screams of the man hanging upside down from the ceiling, his cries ricocheting off the grimy walls.
I glance down at the report in my hand. The bastard’s been making a fortune from underground boxing matches. I lift my eyes to the man briefly. His body is a mangled mess, his skin split and torn from the lashes I’ve already delivered, and his face is beyond recognition.
What the fuck do these idiots think? Running bets on my turf? Think I won’t find them? Won’t drag them here and break every bone? Won’t slit their throats and dump the bodies?
Another scream and my patience runs out. I draw my pistol and fire a single shot straight into his skull. Then I let the report slip from my fingers, dropping it onto the blood-soaked floor. Rising from my chair, I move toward the staircase with unhurried steps.
Rafael adjusts his jacket, barking orders for the cleanup before falling into step behind me.
“Someone’s waiting in your office.”
“Who?”
“Someone with info that’ll make your day.”
There’s a hint of excitement in his voice that grabs my attention. I push open the basement door, breathe in air that doesn’t reek of shit, and turn to him.
“What kind of information?”
“The kind that could be very useful to you down the line.”
I arch a brow at him. Rafael rarely gets this worked up about anything. Whatever this is, it’s worth hearing.
When we enter my office, the man waiting for me stands out immediately. One look at him, and I’ve got him pegged as a farmer. Everything about him gives it away: his calloused hands, the rough, worn clothes, sun-scorched skin, and the faint smell of livestock hanging in the air.
He stands when I enter, shoulders slumped like the world’s crushing him.
I drop into my chair, leaning back slightly, and flick a hand toward him. “Go on. Talk.”
“Mr. Bruni,” the man begins. “My name is Uberto Augusti. I knew your late father, Don Federico. In my youth, I swore an oath of loyalty to him.”
I rest my forearm on the desk and tilt my head slightly.
“I’m guessing you’re here because you want something. And in exchange, you’ve got information for me. Am I right?”
His face grows even more grim. If he was young when my father was alive, life has aged him far beyond his years. The weight of whatever brought him here clings to him like a shadow.
He nods, slow and ashamed. “That’s right, Mr. Bruni.”
“What do you want?”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a photo, hesitating as his eyes dart nervously to mine. I gesture to Rafael, and he comes forward, takes the photo, and hands it to me.
It’s a picture of a teenage girl. She’s holding a small white lamb, her black hair framing a soft, innocent face. She’s standing near a riverbank, her smile faint but gentle, untouched.
“This is my daughter. Luna.”
He pauses, struggling to draw in a deep breath before continuing. “She’s only fourteen. She disappeared three days ago.”
I’ve already got the whole picture. Still, I ask, “Why come to me? Shouldn’t you be talking to the police?”
“Everyone knows what happens when a girl goes missing in our village, or the towns nearby. We all know where they end up.”
He swallows hard, his voice dropping to a broken whisper. “Where they’ve taken my daughter… it’s beyond the police’s reach, Mr. Bruni. I’m certain she’s in your uncle’s hands. Giuseppe.”
So, I was right. My dumbass uncle thinks his human trafficking operation is some kind of well-guarded secret. But in reality, even a backwoods farmer knows exactly what kind of filth he’s running.
Time to get to the point.
“All right,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “What have you got for me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I know where Sophie is.”
The name hits me like a jolt. My posture straightens, and my ears tune in sharply. I glance at Rafael, who’s grinning from ear to ear.
“Sophie?” I ask Uberto. “Gianni’s adopted daughter?”
“Yes, Mr. Bruni.”
“She’s dead.”
“She is. But not in Italy. And not years ago, like you’ve been told. She died two years ago in a car accident in Chicago. Before that, she married, and she gave birth to a daughter. A girl named Emily. A girl with her mother’s eyes.”
I exhale slowly, lean back in the chair, and speak in my firmest voice.
“How do you know?”
“The man who smuggled her out of the country was my brother. No one else knows. Sophie’s uncle, the one who planned it, and my brother, they’ve both been dead for years.”
Sophie, Gianni’s adopted daughter.
Gianni was a traitor, a soldier executed years ago, along with his wife. He left behind two daughters. Sophie, the child of his second wife, and Amara, the daughter from his first marriage.
Amara was handed over to Don Fernando as a slave. She became the woman who birthed Carlo, the bastard. She died years ago, rotting in the grave.
Sophie was supposed to meet the same fate, given to Giuseppe as nothing more than property. But at the last moment, word came that she’d been killed in a car accident.
Or so they claimed.
Sophie might be dead, but her daughter…her daughter is just as valuable. In time, she can become the perfect weapon to burn Carlo. A trump card I keep close until the moment I need to reopen the case on his traitorous bloodline.
“If Giuseppe has your daughter, I’ll get her back.”
I swear, the man looks ten years younger just hearing those words.
I raise a finger, point it at him, and add, “But if I find out you’re lying, your daughter’s fate will be a thousand times worse than whatever Giuseppe had planned for her.”
“I swear on my life, Mr. Bruni. Every word is true. I’ve already given all the information to your associate.”
Rafael gives me a quick nod.
I wave my hand toward Uberto, dismissing him. “You can go.”
“I’ll have confirmation by tonight whether he was telling the truth,” Rafael says after Uberto walks out the door.
“You know what to do if he is.”
A sly, wicked grin spreads across his face. “I know. By morning, they’ll find Uberto in the street with his throat slit.”
I incline my head.
I’ll get his daughter back. But if his information checks out…he won’t be leaving this city alive. Loose ends have a way of biting you later.