8. The Mole Revealed #2
I twisted the blade slowly. “You’re going to tell me everything. Who approached you. How long you’ve been feeding Beretti information. Ogni. Fottuto. Dettaglio.”
Every. Fucking. Detail.
Claudio gasped, his face pale and slick with sweat.
“I—I only gave them surface-level shit at first. Routes we changed up anyway, low-level deals that wouldn’t hurt us.
But Antonio—he knew. He always knew when I was holding back.
He—” Claudio shuddered. “He said if I didn’t start feeding him real intel, he’d kill my sister. ”
I stared at him, my grip tightening around the knife. “Your sister?”
He nodded frantically, desperation seeping into his tone. “She’s all I have, Damian. They sent me a video—had a fucking knife to her throat—” His voice broke. “I thought if I gave them just enough to keep them happy, I could protect her. I didn’t know they’d go after you. I didn’t—”
I yanked the knife out of his leg, cutting off his words with another sharp scream.
He gasped, his entire body convulsing.
“You didn’t think,” I said coolly, wiping the blood from the blade against his shirt. “That’s your problem, Claudio. You thought you could play both sides. You thought there was any other way this would end.”
I pulled my gun from my waistband and screwed the silencer onto the barrel.
Claudio’s chest rose and fell in sharp, erratic gasps. His eyes darted between me and the weapon in my grip, the fight in him extinguished by the reality of his fate.
He opened his mouth—whether to beg, to plead, or to curse me, I didn’t care.
Because it didn’t matter.
The second the barrel leveled between his eyes, it was over.
A moment of silence.
Then bang.
The gunshot shattered the quiet, ringing through the warehouse like a death knell.
Claudio’s body jerked once, his head snapping back. Blood bloomed across the concrete beneath him, dark and final. His eyes—wide, glassy, still pleading—remained open. Unseeing. Dead.
I let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of his death to settle into the air, thick and suffocating, wrapping around the room like the lingering scent of gunpowder.
Claudio’s body lay crumpled on the cold warehouse floor, blood pooling beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the concrete.
The metallic tang of it clung to the air, an unspoken reminder of the cost of betrayal.
I didn’t look back.
I already knew what I’d see—the lifeless eyes, the slack jaw, the finality of what I had done. There was no satisfaction in it, no relief. Just the cold, methodical acknowledgment that a necessary task had been completed.
I slid the gun back into its holster, my movements precise, practiced. My pulse remained steady. My breathing even.
But the room around me?
It wasn’t still.
My men stood rigid, watching, waiting. Not in shock—no one here was unfamiliar with death—but in understanding. They knew what this meant, what it reinforced.
Loyalty isn’t optional.
The lesson had been carved into the bones of every man in my organization, but tonight? Tonight, it had been burned into their skin.
I shifted my attention to Enzo, who was already watching me. He gave a small nod, an unspoken acknowledgment. He had seen the moment I pulled the trigger. He had seen how I didn’t hesitate. He had seen that I didn’t blink.
And he approved.
“Get rid of the body,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Two men immediately stepped forward. They didn’t need more instructions. They knew what to do. They had done this before.
Claudio was no longer a person.
He was a problem that had been handled.
The men lifted him without a word, carrying his body toward the loading dock. The steel doors groaned as they were pushed open, allowing the cold night air to rush inside, carrying with it the faint scent of rain.
I turned my gaze back to the remaining Beretti soldiers still kneeling on the floor.
They had witnessed everything.
And now, it was time for them to deliver the message.
I stepped forward slowly, letting the weight of my presence settle over them like a shadow stretching in the dim warehouse light.
Some refused to meet my gaze, their heads bowed in silent submission.
Others—stupid, defiant bastards—held their chins high, as if daring me to make an example of them next.
It was tempting.
I crouched down in front of one of them, tilting my head slightly. He was young—mid-twenties, maybe—but he already had the hardened edge of a man who had seen too much, lost too much. His jaw was clenched, his hands bound behind his back, but there was something in his eyes.
A flicker of something. Not fear. Recognition.
I studied him for a long moment.
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Luca.”
I nodded slowly. “Tell Antonio what you saw tonight.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his expression unreadable.
“Tell him,” I continued, my voice dangerously calm, “that I am not a man to be crossed. Tell him that his reach is not as long as he thinks it is. Tell him that when he comes for me again—because we both know he will—I’ll be waiting.”
Luca didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe too hard. But I saw it in his eyes—the understanding that tonight, I was letting him live.
It wasn’t kindness.
It was strategy.
“You send that message,” I murmured, standing to my full height, “and maybe next time, I won’t have to send it with a bullet.”
The remaining Beretti men were yanked to their feet, forced to march toward the open warehouse doors, where they would be dumped back onto the streets like the garbage they were. Some limped. Some were dragged. But all of them understood.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
I turned away as the last of them disappeared into the night.
Enzo stepped beside me, arms crossed over his chest. “That was risky.”
I arched a brow. “Letting them go?”
He nodded. “Could come back to bite us.”
I smirked slightly, reaching into my pocket for a cigarette. “Let them run back to Antonio. Let him think he still has a hand to play.”
I flicked the lighter, the flame briefly illuminating my face as I brought the cigarette to my lips.
Then, as I exhaled a slow curl of smoke, I muttered, “I want him to feel safe before I burn everything he has to the ground.”
The night felt heavier as the last of the Beretti men were dragged away, their bodies broken, their spirits even more so.
The scent of blood still lingered in the warehouse, a stark reminder of the message I had just sent.
The floor remained stained with Claudio’s betrayal, and I had no intention of scrubbing it clean.
I took another slow drag from my cigarette, watching as Enzo lingered beside me, his expression unreadable. He had been with me long enough to know when something weighed on me, even if I didn’t say it outright.
“They’ll retaliate,” he said, his voice steady, matter-of-fact.
I smirked slightly, exhaling a curl of smoke into the cold night air. “Of course they will.”
Antonio Beretti wasn’t a man to take a loss quietly. He’d want blood for this, even if he was smart enough to know he couldn’t challenge me outright. No, he’d wait. He’d plan. He’d strike when he thought I was weak.
But that was the thing about men like Antonio.
They never understood that I didn’t have weaknesses.
“Let him come,” I muttered, flicking ash onto the concrete. “Let him play his game. We’ll be ready.”
Enzo studied me for a long moment, his fingers tapping lightly against his forearm. “You’re sure about letting Luca live?”
I met his gaze, my expression unreadable. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Because there was something different about him. He hadn’t cowered the way the others had. He hadn’t begged for his life, nor had he spat in my face. He had listened. Understood.
I wasn’t just sending a message to Antonio.
I was planting a seed.
One that might prove useful.
“We’ll see what he does with a second chance,” I said, keeping my voice even. “Some men know when to get out of the way. Others? They’re smart enough to switch sides.”
Enzo didn’t argue, but I could see the wheels turning in his head. He didn’t trust easily. Neither did I. But war wasn’t just about brute force—it was about strategy, about knowing when to break a man and when to bend him.