Chapter 31 MASSIMO
The elevator doors slide shut, and the air turns thick.
It still smells like her. Like heat and skin and the kind of hunger that doesn't fade just because you step away from it.
Fuck. My chest tightens. That shouldn't have happened.
Not here. Not now. Not before the ground stopped shifting under my feet.
Yet, nothing has felt that good, that right, in… Not in years. Not ever.
I brace my hand against the wall, my breath steady but heavy, like I've just surfaced from deep water.
My knuckles throb where I shattered the mirror, and blood still dribbles out in places, slick and warm.
I take my tie and wrap it around the cut, knotting it hard, willing the pain to anchor me back into control.
My jacket is gone. My shirt is ruined. Blood streaks the white silk, and I don't bother fixing it.
My shoulder holster is exposed; the gun is visible, unapologetic. Let them see. I don't give a shit.
My men stand behind me, silent. Good. Anyone dumb enough to comment on the state of the elevator—or to speculate on what happened inside it—won't get a warning. They can feel it rolling off me. This is not lust. This is the fallout of something that shouldn't have happened.
But it did.
And now there's no pretending it didn't matter.
Her mouth. Her hands. The way she met me without flinching, without apology, like ten years hadn't tried to grind us down into strangers. It wasn't just sex. It was recognition. It was coming home to a place I didn't know existed.
That's what scares me. Because while my body is still humming with it, my mind keeps snapping back to her words.
Bello.
The name turns acidic in my mouth.
I trusted that motherfucker. Trusted him with something more important than territory. More important than money, blood, or loyalty tests. I trusted him with her. With the truth. With the thin thread that tied my past to my future.
With my son.
The realization sits ugly and heavy in my gut. If he lied—if he decided what Jenna deserved to know, what I deserved to lose—then this wasn't a mistake. It was a decision. One that cost me ten years. One that shaped a child's entire life.
The elevator chimes. I straighten, my shoulders lock into place as the doors open.
The casino explodes into light, sound, and motion.
People stare. Of course they do. Blood on my shirt.
Gun in plain sight. My face, still carved raw from whatever I left upstairs.
Let them stare. This is my casino. My floor. My world.
I walk through it like I own gravity. Dealers stiffen. Security snaps alert. Conversations die as I pass. I pull my phone out, dial Enzo without breaking stride. He answers fast. "You're on your way."
"Yes."
A pause. He hears it. "What's up?"
"Make sure Bello is at the meeting."
This time, the pause is on him. During our inner circle meetings, we don't usually bring our seconds. "He's here."
"Keep him there." I end the call and keep moving, boots eating up polished floor, my men fall in behind me like shadows. Whatever just happened between Jenna and me will have to wait. Whatever truth is clawing its way to the surface will be dealt with.
Because if Bello thought he could touch what was mine—rewrite my life, my family, my son—then this isn't just betrayal. Whatever happens next won't be loud. It won't be rushed. It won't be merciful. He didn't start a war. He just forfeited his life.
The SUVs are already waiting in the valet lane.
Their engines are idling, dark glass reflecting the neon lights, money, and fear like they always do.
Same formation. Same drivers. Same discipline.
The meeting is at the Monarch tonight, Enzo's casino.
We rotate locations for a reason. Patterns get men killed.
And right now, we can't afford even the illusion of predictability.
I slide into the back seat, and the door shuts with a soft, final click. My phone vibrates once in my hand with an incoming text.
Oksana.
Unfortunately, Aurelio found a very quick end. Silvestre is still talking.
With all the other truths I'm finding out, Aurelio and Silvestre are so far on the back burner that I'd nearly forgotten about them.
I text back.
Me:
Make it count.
She sends a thumbs-up. I put the phone back in my jacket pocket.
Aurelio and Silvestre. They dared take my blood and now pay with theirs for it.
Deep down, I should owe them a debt of gratitude; if it wasn't for them, I still wouldn't know about Amauri.
That notion is short-lived, however. I don't owe anyone.
Least of all the Valverdes. And with the Venezuelans out of the picture, I can turn my full focus on Joaquín and Mexico.
The fucker is trying to test my borders, probing my city to see where the seams might split. That will be handled. But first, Bello.
The car barely has time to settle into traffic before we're pulling up again. Short ride. I don't waste it thinking about logistics. Those are already locked in place.
The SUVs stop. Doors open. I'm already moving.
Enzo's casino parts the same way mine did.
Heads turn. Voices drop. People step aside without being told.
Whispering follows me like exhaust. I don't look at any of them.
I don't need to. I cross the floor, boots steady on polished marble.
Someone says my name. Someone else nods.
A cocktail waitress catches my eye and offers a shy smile, hopeful, nervous.
I don't slow. I don't acknowledge it. None of it matters.
The elevator doors slide open. I step inside.
The ascent is smooth, silent. Controlled.
Exactly how I feel now. At the top floor, security greets me with quiet respect.
One opens the door without being asked. Another nods once, tightly.
I walk toward the meeting room with my jacket still missing, blood dried dark against my shirt, knuckles bound with a tie.
Let them see. This is what wrath looks like.
The moment I step into the boardroom, everything goes silent. All eyes fall on me. Damiano straightens first. Gabe's jaw tightens. Alessio goes still in that dangerous, coiled way of his. Enzo doesn't move at all; he just watches me, eyes sharp, already counting outcomes.
Bello looks like shit. Gray in the face.
Eyes sunken. Shoulders heavy in a way that has nothing to do with age.
He knows. He's known since the moment I asked Enzo to make sure he was here.
Since the moment Jenna said his name. He doesn't look surprised.
He looks like a man who, after living on borrowed time for ten years, just heard the collector knock.
I don't sit. I don't speak.
I pull my gun. The sound of it clearing leather is the only thing that breaks the stillness.
I cross the room in three long strides, grab Bello by the collar, and slam him into the wall hard enough to rattle his bones.
He doesn't resist. Doesn't fight. Doesn't even grunt.
I press the muzzle of my gun into his forehead.
Close. Intimate.
"You told Jenna," my voice is cold, even, and terrifyingly calm, "that I didn't want to see her."
His eyes meet mine. There's no fear in them. Only resignation.
"Yes," he admits.
A breath moves through the room. Someone swallows. No one interrupts.
"You were in the middle of a war," Bello continues, his voice steady, old-school to the end. "Vittorio was circling. Your cousins were sharpening knives. You didn't need that kind of distraction."
"That was not your decision to make," I growl.
"If she stayed," he defends quietly, "you would have lost focus. If she stayed, you wouldn't have won. You wouldn't be standing here right now."
My grip tightens.
"You don't get to decide what I can survive," I say. "You don't get to decide what I deserve."
He exhales slowly. "I did what I thought was right for you."
That's the betrayal. Not the lie. The choice. I lean closer, the gun never leaving his skin. "You stole ten years from me."
His jaw tightens once. "I know."
"You stole my son's father from him," I continue. "You stole her choice. You rewrote my life without permission."
"I knew when I did it," Bello says, finally. "That if you ever found out, I was dead."
Silence crashes down around us.
"The only reason," I say, "that you're not going into the Oven right now…
is because you stood by my side when everyone else tried to knife me in the dark.
" A flicker of something like relief crosses his face.
Not hope. Acceptance. "But make no mistake," I finish, "this betrayal is unforgivable.
" He nods once. No begging. No pleas. No prayers.
Just a man standing by the cost of his choices. "Consider this my mercy."
I pull the trigger. The sound is sharp. Final. Bello's body goes slack instantly, sliding down the wall to the floor like gravity finally remembered him. Blood blooms dark against marble. No one moves. I lower the gun, and smoke curls faintly from the barrel. I look around the room.
"This," I state calmly, "is what happens when someone decides they know better than me."
I holster the weapon. The room exhales, barely. No one looks at Bello's body anymore. He's already been filed away as a consequence.
I turn to Damiano. "Did you find the insider at the club where Mia was killed?"
Damiano doesn't blink. He finishes his scotch, sets the glass down with deliberate care, then takes a seat like we're discussing quarterly earnings instead of murder.
"Yes, boss. Two of them. Security guards.
They messed with the system, camera loop, and door logs.
Both were paid off by a Mexican named José. "
"Where is he?"
"Running," Damiano replies. "My men are on him."
"Good."
I shift my gaze to Gabe. He shakes his head once. Clean. No hesitation.
"So Bello was otherwise solid," I say.
"Yes," Gabe confirms. "No leaks. No money out of place. Nothing else compromised."
That lands exactly where it should. Bello's betrayal wasn't rot.
It was choice. Still unforgivable, but better than more fallout.
I turn to Alessio. He's already leaning forward, elbows on the table, eyes bright with something close to satisfaction.
"Joaquín is hiding in Mexico, on the northern side. I have his exact location."
For the first time in days, something like alignment clicks into place. Fortuna, it seems, has finally decided to stop laughing at me.
Enzo clears his throat. "We caught five more rats. Hired to poison our coke. All of them folded. Same pipeline. Same handlers."
I nod once. "They won't be missed."
No one argues. The pieces are falling where they belong now. Threads tightening. Noise resolving into pattern. What started as chaos is turning back into something I understand. Something I can control. I look around the table, meeting each of my most trusted men's eyes in turn.
"This ends," I declare. "Now. Anyone who thinks they can bleed us quietly will learn otherwise. Anyone who thinks my house is open season will be corrected."
I glance once—just once—at the place where Bello died.
Then I turn back to my men. "Clean it up," I order.
"What do you want to do with Whitford?" Gabe asks, rising.
The room stills again. Whitford is unfinished business. Everyone here knows it.
"He stays where he is," I command. My voice is calm, measured. Worse than anger. "Alive." A flicker crosses Enzo's face. Damiano's mouth tightens. Alessio doesn't react at all. "For now," I add. "What's his condition?"
"Demanding asshole," Gabe replies. "Comfortable enough to remember every choice he made. Not comfortable enough to forget who owns him."
Whitford is leverage. Not against Jenna.
Against truth. Against timelines. Against the men who thought they could move my pieces without asking permission.
I do have a few questions left for him. He talked once.
He'll talk again. And when he does, it will be because he understands exactly how small he is.
Gabe's expression doesn't change. "And when you're done with him?"
I look at the table. At the men who have bled with me. At the empty space where Bello had stood ten minutes ago.
"When I'm done, Jenna will be a widow."
That satisfies them. I straighten my cuffs, already mentally moving past Whitford. He's a footnote. A delay. The real threats are still breathing—Mexico, Joaquín, the men who thought Las Vegas was soft because I was distracted.
Not anymore.
"We move south soon," I order. "Quietly. I want Joaquín alive long enough to understand what he started."
Alessio smiles, sharp and eager. "I'll handle it."
"I know you will."
I turn toward the door; the meeting is already over in my mind. "And someone make sure," I add without looking back, "that Jenna and my son are not disturbed tonight. No updates. No visitors. Nothing reaches them unless it comes through me."
"Yes, boss," comes the chorus.
I leave the room without another word. The blood has been paid.
The house is aligned. And now, now I go back to what matters.
Everything else can wait its turn.