Chapter 13 #2
I agree. "I've been thinking along the same lines."
Steven's death looks different on paper. A dealer overdosing on his own product reads as an accident, tragic, unfortunate, forgettable. The other two don't. Their names travel. Their faces circulate. They make noise.
"Three incidents," Enzo says. "Three different optics."
"Exactly," I reply. "This isn't chaos. It's deliberate sabotage.
They want the inside and the outside looking at me.
" I step closer to the counter, bracing my hands against the cold stone, letting the pattern settle into place.
"They're not flooding the streets," I muse.
"They're not torching entire shipments. They're lacing portions.
Randomized enough to avoid detection. Controlled enough to steer the narrative. "
Bello nods grimly. "Enough to make people wonder which batch is safe."
"And whether buying from us is worth the risk," Enzo adds. "Or dealing."
"Fear," I agree quietly. "But selective. Intelligent."
This isn't a brute-force attack. This is a man—or group—who understands how power erodes. How reputation rots before it collapses.
"They want everyone guessing," I continue. "Dealers watching each other. Buyers hesitating. Our own people doubting the chain of custody."
"And you," Bello says. "Distracted."
I straighten. "They're not trying to take my empire. They're trying to hollow it out. Turn it against itself."
Silence settles over the room.
"Which means," Enzo suggests slowly, "they'll do it again."
"Yes," I agree. "And not where we expect."
I push away from the counter with a decision fully crystallized. "Lock down transport routes," I order. "New protocols. Rotating escorts. No solo runs. Anyone who deviates gets flagged."
Enzo nods without hesitation. I drum my fingers once against the stone. "You two talk to everyone who had contact with that last shipment. All the way down from Pablo. And I want every ounce tested before it goes out. No exceptions. This stops now."
"You've got it, boss," Enzo agrees.
Good.
Because whoever thought they could poison my streets and walk away is about to learn something very simple: I don't miss patterns. And I don't forgive lessons taught in blood.
The drive back to the penthouse is a blur of calculations. The laced coke isn't isolated; it's coordinated. Selective contamination. Enough to spook buyers without triggering full shutdowns. Then the club shooting, clean, precise, timed for maximum visibility. Different methods, same message.
Pressure.
They want me to react. To chase smoke and make mistakes. They want me looking anywhere but inward. I won't give them that satisfaction.
By the time the car pulls into the valet lot, I've already mapped the next steps: audits disguised as loyalty checks, sudden reshuffles, silence where noise is expected. Let them think I'm distracted. Let them think I'm soft.
Moving through the casino is like second nature, so much so that I don't even notice the stares, the flirting, the sudden tension. The elevator ride up is quiet. My men are well-trained and pick up on my mood.
The doors open into the security antechamber, and the guards straighten as I pass. Everything is as it should be. Controlled. Contained.
Then I hear it. My name. Not spoken. Not called. Screamed.
"MASSIMO—!"
The sound rips through the penthouse, raw and terrified, echoing down the hall like a gunshot.
I don't stop. I don't even slow. The sound of my name doesn't paralyze me; it flips a switch.
Fully alert, purposefully, I stride towards the guest bedroom, gun out, safety off.
My senses take in my surroundings instantly: dimmed lighting, sharp neon from outside, nothing moving in the shadows, a slight shuffling sound now that the scream has died out; the only things I smell are bourbon and Gabe's cologne.
Gabe is already there, halfway out of the guest room, hands lifted slightly when he sees me. His expression is sharp, alert.
"I didn't touch her," he says immediately. "She's having a nightmare."
Another scream, broken this time. Hoarse. Desperate. My name again.
I don't answer Gabe. I shove him to the side and move past him, into the room. She's thrashing on the bed, sheets twisted around her legs. Her bandaged hands claw at the fabric; her breath is coming in short, panicked bursts.
"No—please—don't—"
Her body curls inward, bracing for something that isn't there anymore.
I don't touch her. I stand there, watching fear own her even in sleep.
This isn't theater. This isn't manipulation.
This is real. Suddenly, the war outside my walls feels secondary to the one happening right here, in this room, one I never planned for and don't know how to fight.
She screams my name one last time, then gasps awake.
Her eyes fly open, wild and unfocused, and they lock on me. Time stops.
The city keeps breathing outside the windows. My empire keeps bleeding quietly in the dark. Standing at the foot of her bed, listening to my name echo out of her terror, I understand something with brutal clarity: Whatever this war becomes, it's already deeply personal.