Chapter 7
Luca
Blood spattered across the concrete floor as Tony Vassallo's head snapped back from another punch. I circled him slowly, leather gloves protecting my knuckles, not his face.
"Let's try again," I said, voice deadly calm. "Who are you working with?"
The former bartender spat blood onto the floor of the club's basement storage room. His left eye had swollen shut, and his breath came in pained gasps.
"I told you," he mumbled through split lips. "Nobody. I just talk shit when I'm drunk."
The security footage playing on the laptop showed otherwise. Tony, huddled in conversation with a shadowy figure in the alley behind my club. The timestamp: three days ago.
I nodded to Marco, who stepped forward and grabbed Tony's hair, yanking his head back.
"Lying to me isn't a mistake you get to make twice," I said, pulling a knife from my jacket. The blade gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights. "Who. Are. You. Working. With?"
Terror flooded Tony's remaining good eye. "Please, boss. I swear, I don't know his name. He approached me after you fired me. Said he knew things. Said we could make money together."
I pressed the tip of the blade against the soft spot below his jaw, where the thrum of his pulse was visible. "What things did he know, Tony?"
"About you and the Moretti girl," he gasped. "Said your marriage was bullshit. Said you two hated each other. That it was all for show."
Ice slid down my spine. "What else?"
"That's it, I swear! He just wanted me to watch the club, tell him who comes and goes. Said he'd pay me for information."
Something about Tony's story didn't add up. He was too small, too insignificant to be the mastermind. Just a pawn in someone else's game.
"This man," I pressed. "What did he look like?"
"I never saw his face. Always wore a hood, kept to the shadows."
"Voice? Accent? Height? Build? Give me something, Tony."
"Tall. Broad. Spoke like he was educated." His breathing grew labored. "But he knew things, boss. Specific things about the Moretti family. Called your wife 'la principessa' like he'd known her since she was a kid. And he mentioned her uncle by name—Giuseppe."
Tony's voice dropped to a whisper. "He showed me a photo once, boss.
Your wife as a little girl, maybe eight or nine, standing next to Giuseppe Moretti at some family gathering.
Said he'd been watching the family for years, waiting for the right moment.
The marriage—your marriage—wasn't part of his original plan, but he adapted. "
That confirmed my worst fears. The enemy wasn't just watching from outside—he was already here, among my people.
I stepped back, wiping the blade clean. "Find out who he reports to, and maybe you walk out of here alive."
Hope flickered in Tony's battered face. "I'll try, boss. I swear. He's supposed to call me tomorrow night."
I nodded to Marco, who released his grip. Tony slumped forward in relief.
"Set up surveillance," I instructed Marco. "I want that call monitored. And get him cleaned up."
I left the basement, heading to my office. The club was beginning to fill with early evening patrons, music pulsing through the main floor. I scanned faces as I passed—which one of these people was betraying me?
Everyone looked guilty when you were searching for traitors.
In my office, I stripped off the blood-spattered gloves and washed my hands. I'd ordered Angelo to keep Sienna away from the club today. She didn't need to see this side of our business.
Strange how I suddenly cared what she thought of me, when just six weeks ago she'd been nothing more than a strategic alliance.
Her face flashed in my mind—the defiance in her eyes that first night, the vulnerability I sometimes glimpsed, the way she'd felt pressed against me. The unexpected possessiveness I felt whenever another man's gaze lingered on her too long.
This wasn't part of the plan. These feelings were dangerous. A liability I couldn't afford.
And yet, the thought of someone threatening her made something feral and violent rise within me.
My phone buzzed with a text from Angelo: Package arrived for you. Hand-delivered to front entrance. No courier ID.
A chill slid down my spine.
Bring it up, I replied. Carefully.
Angelo entered only a few minutes later, holding a small manila envelope with gloved hands.
"No suspicious weight or sounds," he reported. "Security scan shows no electronics or metal inside."
I turned the package over in my hands, and before he stepped out of the room, Angelo hesitated. "Francesco's been asking detailed questions about Mrs. Romano's daily routine," he mentioned, voice even. "Says it's for comprehensive security coverage, but..." He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.
"What kind of questions?" I asked, my attention sharpening.
"Meal times, when she exercises, her sleep patterns. More detail than seems necessary for perimeter security." When I didn’t ask anything else, Angelo slipped out into the darkened hallway, back to his post.
I filed the information away, another piece of the puzzle I was still assembling.
Once alone, I carefully opened the envelope. A single photograph slid out, along with a folded note.
The photograph showed Sienna and me entering our penthouse six weeks ago, the night of our wedding. Her dress was torn, my tie loosened. My hand rested possessively on the small of her back.
But the note told a different story.
THE FAMILIES BELIEVE THE LIE. I DON'T. TIME IS RUNNING OUT. 200,000 NOW.
The price had doubled. But that wasn't what sent ice through my veins.
The note was written in red—a rusty, brownish red that could only be blood.
And in the corner of the photograph, someone had drawn an X over Sienna's face.
My vision tunneled, narrowing to that crude X slashed across her features. A wave of rage surged through me, so intense my hands shook. Beneath the fury, an unfamiliar sensation clawed at my chest—raw, visceral fear.
Not for myself. For her.
When had she become someone I couldn't bear to lose?
I pulled out my phone and called Angelo.
"Get a security detail to the penthouse. Now."
"Boss?"
"Sienna doesn't leave without at least three men accompanying her. Clear?"
"Yes, boss."
I tried Sienna's number next. No answer. I sent a text: Call me. Urgent. The message delivered, but wasn’t marked read.
The knot in my chest tightened. In our world, silence was rarely innocent.
I studied the photograph again, looking for clues. The angle suggested someone had been waiting in the shadows near our building. The timing implied they'd been watching, waiting for that precise moment.
Planned. Calculated. Personal.
Hours blurred together as I reviewed security footage, looking for faces that appeared too often, eyes that lingered too long. Three cups of coffee later, a pattern began to emerge.
A server named Claudia who always seemed to be working when Sienna and I made public appearances. Who always positioned herself within earshot. Whose shifts corresponded with nights when sensitive meetings took place.
I pulled up her employment file. Twenty-six. No criminal record. Hired three years ago, early in my rebuilding efforts. Recommended by...
The name stopped me cold.
Salvatore Ricci.
The same Calabrese underboss who'd been so interested in my marriage. Who'd insisted on meeting Sienna. Who'd made veiled threats disguised as congratulations.
My mind raced through the implications. Ricci had planted Claudia long before my wedding—before I was even out of prison. This wasn't opportunistic blackmail. This was a calculated, long-term operation targeting both me and the Moretti family.
But why? What did Ricci stand to gain from exposing our arrangement?
I leaned back in my chair, everything clicking into place with chilling clarity. Ricci wasn't after money. He wanted chaos.
If our fake marriage was exposed, the fragile peace between the Romano and Moretti families would shatter. The power vacuum would trigger a bloodbath, and the Calabrese family would be perfectly placed to sweep in and claim territory while we slaughtered each other.
Divide and conquer. The oldest strategy in the book.
But there was more. Ricci had been unusually friendly with Giuseppe Moretti at the last summit meeting. The same uncle who stood to inherit if anything happened to Sienna's father.
The picture darkened further. Not just a war between families, but a coordinated coup—eliminate the heads of both dynasties, install puppets loyal to the Calabrese, and control the entire eastern seaboard.
And Sienna and I were the lynchpins that needed to be removed first.
Ricci had miscalculated. He thought our marriage was our weakness when it might be our salvation. Because now I had a reason to protect the Moretti interests as fiercely as my own.
And he'd made it personal by threatening Sienna.
I reached for my phone when a security alert flashed on my screen. Motion detected in the secondary storeroom—the one we'd converted to a temporary holding cell for Tony. I swiped to bring up the feed, but the screen remained black.
Camera disabled.
My office door burst open without warning.
Dante, one of my most trusted security men, stood in the doorway, breathing hard, eyes wide with alarm.
"Boss, we've got a problem," he said, hand already on his weapon. "Tony's dead."
The words hit like a physical blow. Not because I cared about Tony, but because of what it represented.
"What? How?" My voice came out steady despite the adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins.
"Sliced throat. Clean, professional. And that's not all." Dante swallowed hard. "We've got a breach. Basement entrance compromised. Security cameras down."
Someone had walked into my stronghold, killed a man under my protection, and walked back out.
A message written in blood: Your house is not secure. Your people are not safe. You are not in control.
And if they could reach Tony in the most secure part of my building, they could reach anyone.
They could reach Sienna.
The intruder was already inside.
This wasn't business anymore. This was war.
"Lock down the club," I ordered, pulling my gun from its holster. "No one in or out. Find Marco and—"
My phone rang, cutting me off. Unknown number, but the area code was from the penthouse building. The staff. They never called unless—
Ice flooded my veins before I even answered. "Mr. Romano," Maria's voice was shaking. "It's Mrs. Romano. She's collapsed. We can't wake her up."
The world narrowed to a single point of clarity. Tony's death, the breach, the threats—all of it became background noise against one screaming thought.
"I'm on my way," I said, already moving. "Call Dr. Raines. Tell him to meet me there. Emergency."
I shoved past Dante, racing toward the private elevator. "Marco!" I roared. "Lock down complete. I'm going to the penthouse. No one follows unless I call for backup."
As the elevator doors closed, I pulled out my gun and checked the chamber. The drive would take twelve minutes. Twelve minutes where Sienna was unconscious and vulnerable. Twelve minutes where whoever had breached my security could be making their next move.
My finger hovered over Angelo's number—he was stationed near the penthouse. "Get to my apartment. Now. Mrs. Romano's in danger. Secure the perimeter until I arrive."
The elevator couldn't move fast enough.
Whoever had infiltrated my stronghold had just made this personal. If they'd done anything—ANYTHING—to harm her, I would burn this entire city to find them.
But beneath the cold rage, a different fear kindled. Raw and visceral.
Not for myself.
For Sienna.
And the terrible realization that losing her would destroy me in ways prison never could.