16. Wrong Move
Wrong Move
Damian
The city stretches beyond the window, sprawling and alive, its endless hum vibrating against the glass. Cars weave through congested streets, neon signs flicker against the dusk, and people move like ghosts below—oblivious to the war brewing in the shadows.
But I feel detached from it all.
The towering skyline, the constant movement, the pulse of the world outside—none of it matters.
Not when I know what’s coming.
The call came early, dragging me from restless sleep and shoving me straight into the chaos I’ve spent years mastering. The second Enzo’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp with urgency, I knew—this wasn’t just business.
Now, standing in my office, my back to the city, my mind is already five steps ahead, working through the consequences, the possible plays, the unavoidable fallout.
“The Corsini crew,” Enzo repeats, his expression grim. “They've been seen meeting with the Berettis again. This isn’t just casual business talk, boss. It’s a move.”
I roll my shoulders, forcing the tension to bleed out of my muscles. The Corsinis. A family that’s spent years teetering between alliances, playing the game of neutrality while waiting for the highest bidder to call their loyalty into question.
And now, it seems, Dante Beretti has made them an offer.
“They wouldn’t switch sides unless they had a reason,” I mutter, turning from the window to face my right-hand man.
Enzo’s dark eyes flicker with something dangerous. “Dante’s been making promises. Protection. Money. Control over the west side.” He hesitates. “And from what I hear… they’re considering it.”
Considering it.
The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, the familiar burn of anger settling into my chest like fire. This isn’t just a betrayal in the making. This is a test.
The Berettis want to see how far they can push me before I retaliate.
“They want to see if I’ll break,” I say flatly.
Enzo’s jaw tightens. “And will you?”
I exhale slowly, shaking my head. My voice is steel. Cold. Unshaken.
“No.”
The Corsinis are making a mistake. If they think the Berettis can offer them something better, they’re delusional. I’ve spent years keeping them in check, ensuring their so-called neutrality never tipped too far in one direction.
If they choose to switch now, they’re not just picking sides.
They’re choosing an enemy.
I turn back to the window, watching the city breathe beneath me. The skyline is a kingdom of lights, glittering and untouchable, a world I built with blood and power.
And if the Corsinis think they can play both sides—if they think they can walk away unscathed—
I’ll remind them who holds the real power.
I’ll remind them who owns this city.
The air in the study is thick with tension, suffocating in its weight.
I sit behind my desk, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished wood. The dim glow from the single desk lamp throws jagged shadows across the room, stretching toward the ceiling like silent, watchful specters.
Across from me, Ricci, one of my lieutenants, stands rigid—shoulders squared, his gaze locked on the floor.
Not speaking. Not yet.
Smart.
The silence stretches, sharp and unyielding. I let it linger.
I watch the way Ricci’s fingers twitch at his sides, the slight clench of his jaw. He’s nervous.
Good. He should be. Finally, I lean forward, breaking the stillness.
“How long have you known?”
Ricci flinches. It’s subtle—a flicker of hesitation, a barely-there shift in his stance—but I catch it. Too long.
My fingers stop drumming. The tension in the room tightens, like a noose drawing taut.
“We weren’t sure,” Ricci admits, his voice tight. “Not until today.”
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back. Whispers.
The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I hate whispers.
They’re the prelude to betrayal. The first crack before an empire collapses from within.
“You don’t bring me whispers, Ricci.” My voice is quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes something violent.
"You bring me facts. You bring me solutions. You don’t sit on information like this and wait until it becomes a problem.”
Ricci swallows hard. “I didn’t think it was real.”
I move fast.
The chair scrapes violently against the floor as I stand, my presence towering over him.
“You didn’t think,” I repeat, voice a deadly whisper. “And that’s exactly why the Berettis are moving pieces across the board while you’re standing here, waiting for permission to open your damn mouth.”
Ricci clenches his jaw, his spine straightening like a soldier bracing for impact. “I take full responsibility, boss.”
I study him. Measure him. I don’t like mistakes. I tolerate them even less. But right now, Ricci’s failure isn’t the priority. The Corsinis are.
“Get out.”
Ricci hesitates—like he expects something worse. But when I don’t move, he gives a short nod and turns, disappearing through the door like his life depends on it.
The second he’s gone, Enzo steps forward from where he’s been leaning against the far wall. “He got off easy.”
I don’t respond.
My hands are still curled into fists at my sides, my breath even but weighted. The storm inside me is building, the anticipation of war crackling in the air like the seconds before lightning strikes.
Ricci’s incompetence will be dealt with later. Right now, I have bigger problems.
“We need to move.” My voice is calm, but fire burns beneath it. “If Dante thinks he can turn the Corsinis against me, he’s about to learn how wrong he is.”
A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at Enzo’s lips. “About time.”
The war room is silent, thick with the weight of unspoken violence.
I stand at the head of the long, polished table, its surface littered with surveillance photos, marked-up city maps, and reports detailing the Corsini family’s movements.
This room isn’t just for planning.
It’s a battlefield in its own right.
And tonight, I’m preparing for war.
Across from me, my most trusted men sit in grim anticipation. Rico and Salvatore, both seasoned enforcers, study the documents before them with the sharp-eyed focus of men ready to spill blood.
Enzo stands nearby, arms crossed, his posture tense but watchful, waiting for my orders.
The dim glow from the overhead light flickers, casting fractured shadows along the walls. The atmosphere buzzes with controlled aggression, every man inside knowing what’s at stake.
I reach for a grainy photograph on the table—an image of Dante Beretti shaking hands with a Corsini representative. The telltale sign of an alliance forming.
My jaw tightens as I let the photo drop from my fingers.
“Dante’s not just making moves,” I mutter. “He’s buying loyalty.”
Marco scoffs, rolling his shoulders like he’s itching for a fight. “The Corsinis are weak. They don’t want war.”
“No,” I agree, “but they want power. And power is a language Dante knows how to manipulate.”
Salvatore exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard. “We could squeeze them. Hit their money, their businesses. Make them regret even considering it.”
I shake my head. “Not yet. We don’t show our hand unless we have to.”
A full-scale assault is premature. The Corsinis are testing the waters—gauging how much resistance they’ll face before committing to the Berettis completely.
That gives me a narrow but critical window to manipulate the board in my favor.
I turn my attention to Enzo. “How deep is Dante in with them?”
Enzo’s expression darkens. “Deep enough. He’s making promises he can’t keep—territory, security, protection. If we don’t act soon, they might take the risk.”
A muscle ticks in my jaw.
Dante thinks he can outmaneuver me. That he can undermine my empire by shifting alliances.
He’s about to learn that I’m not just a piece on the board.
I’m the one who flips the table.
“We cut him off,” I decide, my voice ice-cold. “Make sure his promises don’t mean shit. Hit his supply lines. Drain his bank accounts. I want him isolated and desperate.”
Enzo nods, already pulling out his phone to make the calls.
I exhale slowly, my hands pressing against the table as I stare down at the strategy laid before me.
This isn’t just a power play anymore.
This is control.
And I refuse to lose it.
But even as my mind locks onto the plan, something in my gut twists.
A whisper of unease.
A sense that something is off.
Like I’m missing a crucial piece of the puzzle.
The war is escalating.
But deep down, I know—this isn’t just about my empire anymore.
It’s something much worse.
The war room hums with tension, the air thick with anticipation. I should feel grounded—my plan is in motion, my men are ready, every detail calculated and controlled. But my gut won’t settle. Something is wrong. Not just with Dante. Not just with the Corsinis. Something bigger.
The door swings open without warning.
Enzo enters, moving fast, his boots striking the marble floor with urgent purpose. The sharp set of his jaw tells me everything before he even speaks. Something has happened.
I straighten, my gaze locking onto him, the weight of the moment pressing down. "Che succede?" My voice is sharp. What happened?
Enzo hesitates. It’s slight—barely a flicker—but I catch it. And that alone sends a slow, calculated burn through my veins. Enzo never hesitates.
“The Berettis—” he starts, his voice tight. “They have Alessandra.”
The world stops.
Silence swallows the room whole. Then—my heart slams against my ribs. The words echo in my skull, sinking into my bones like poison. I don’t move. Don’t react. But something inside me—something dark, something primal—begins to stir.
I stare at Enzo, my body utterly still. “Say that again.”
Enzo’s throat bobs. “Dante took her.”
There are very few things in this world that can shake me. I built my empire on power, on control, on always being one step ahead. But this—this is a direct attack. A declaration of war that crosses a line no one should have ever dared to cross.
Alessandra.
My little sister. My blood.