CHAPTER 1 #2
A Silvestri Lieutenant stops right in front of me, shattering my focus.
It’s Russo. I remember his rat face from the old days, though he's got more gray in his hair now.
His eyes are narrow and suspicious, his breath reeking of garlic and cheap wine, the heat of his body pressing into my personal space.
I keep my chin tucked hard against my chest, staring submissively at the polished floor to project the image of a low-tier grunt who doesn't want trouble.
He lingers, looking me up and down. "I don't know your face," he says, his hand twitching toward his waist. One more second and Russo will ask for my full name.
I cough into my hand, a deep, raspy sound to deliberately wreck my voice before I speak.
"I'm new, sir. From the Palermo docks unit.
" My muscles are coiled like springs. Go away, Russo.
Don't make me kill you yet. If he reaches for his holster, I will have to pivot, snap his windpipe, and go loud right here in the middle of the party.
He stares at me for another agonizing second, then grunts dismissively and keeps walking.
I exhale slowly and shift my eyes back to the bar just in time to see Alessio intercept Fiorella.
He doesn't just touch her; he clamps his massive hand over her bicep, his thick fingers digging into the expensive silk of her dress. He pulls her violently close, leaning in and whispering something harsh in her ear that makes her face go completely pale. Her amber eyes dart frantically around the room, looking for an escape, but she finds only her brother’s thugs staring back at her.
Alessio’s presence makes a move impossible right now, and his aggressive body language toward her is instantly increasing the security urgency around the bar.
Puttana, you'll smile or I'll give you a reason to cry.
I read the words off his lips. Look at him.
He treats his own blood like dirt. I watch the way Fiorella's hand actually trembles as she tries to hold a glass of ice water, the ice clinking nervously against the crystal.
I feel a strange, cold kinship settle in my chest for a fraction of a second.
We are both victims of Alessio, though she doesn't know the extent of it yet.
Alessio finally shoves her arm away in disgust and stalks off to join a group of sweaty businessmen near the band.
Fiorella stands frozen for a moment at the bar, her chest heaving as she tries to control her breathing.
She looks toward the terrace doors with desperate longing.
She needs air. She sets her glass down so hard water sloshes over the rim, and begins to move toward the exit, her pace quickening with every step.
The problem is the two guards posted dead center at the glass doors, cross-armed and vigilant.
I reach up to my lapel and tap my radio mic twice, creating a sharp burst of static on the shared frequency used by the door guards.
Run, little bird. Run right into the dark.
The cage is opening. I hear the frantic swish of her skirts approaching, the loud humming of the air conditioning kicking on above me.
I am already moving, sliding along the wall like a shadow peeling away from the plaster.
I approach the two guards blocking the terrace, keeping my gait fast and confident.
I lean in, muttering fake codes into my lapel mic, then look up at them with wide, urgent eyes.
"North gate breach. Possible intruder. Captain wants all perimeter backup now.
Move!" I use the sharp, demanding tone of a man who fully expects to be obeyed without question.
The older guard hesitates, frowning as he looks back at Fiorella, who is only a few feet away now.
"We're not supposed to leave the door," he argues.
I step into his space, barking at him and using a specific Silvestri security clearance code I overheard earlier by the kitchens.
"You want to explain to Alessio why an Ferraro ghost is in the gardens?
Move!" Stronzo, get your ass to the gate!
I point aggressively toward the north end of the property, my finger steady and demanding.
The smell of their nervous sweat hits my nose, mixed with the static crackle of their radios, before the heavy thud of their boots echoes on the floor as they finally break post and run off.
Irony. I just used my own family name as a bogeyman to clear the path.
Fiorella slips through the glass doors the second they're clear.
The night air hits her immediately, and I watch her visibly relax, her stiff shoulders finally dropping.
She walks straight to the stone railing, leaning over and looking out at the dark, crashing waves of the Mediterranean below.
I follow her out, slipping through the doors just as they click shut behind me.
I stay pinned in the deep black shadow of the stone overhang.
A security camera rotates slowly on a motorized mount above us, its red light blinking.
I track its sweeping path, timing my next movement perfectly to slip into its blind spot.
I reach inside my jacket and check the plastic seal on the heavy chemical cloth, making sure the vapors don't leak out and hit me first. Just one breath of peace, Fiorella.
Make it count. The sea won't save you. I stare at the exposed line of her pale throat as she tilts her head back to catch the cool salt mist. It's a fragile, easy target.
Not content with the terrace, she turns and descends the stone stairs into the massive topiary garden below.
She wants to be hidden. She walks quickly down the narrow gravel paths, the high, manicured boxwood hedges swallowing her figure in the dark.
I follow her down the stairs, my footsteps rolling carefully from heel to toe, silent as a fucking grave.
The gravel is way too loud, and one wrong step will cause a crunch that alerts her instantly.
I step off the path, walking on the damp grass fringe at the very edge of the gravel to maintain absolute silence.
Deeper into the woods, princess. You're making this too easy.
The smell of wet earth and sharp boxwood fills my lungs.
The moon is cutting through the clouds, casting long, jagged shadows across the maze as the distance between us closes to twenty feet.
I feel the predator-prey bond tightening like a wire around my neck.
Every snap of a twig somewhere in the distance is a heartbeat.
I reach into my internal jacket pocket and pull out the heavy cotton cloth.
It is saturated with a fast-acting, military-grade sedative.
The sharp, clinical scent of the chemical instantly cuts through the sweet jasmine growing on the garden walls.
I wrap my hand around the cloth in a specific grip that allows me to apply maximum, crushing pressure to the lower half of her face.
The wind suddenly shifts, blowing off the sea.
If the scent reaches her before I do, she’ll turn and scream, bringing every guard on the estate down on us.
Don't breathe, Angelo. Not yet. Focus. One clean strike.
I hold my breath entirely to avoid inhaling the toxic fumes escaping through my fingers.
The cloth feels cold and damp against my skin, the chemicals already stinging my nostrils, my pulse thudding heavy and thick in my thumb.
This is the moment. Everything I have lost, every bloody nightmare for the last decade, leads directly to this five-second window.
Fiorella reaches a small, circular stone fountain featuring a weeping angel in the center of a clearing.
She stops, lets out a long, exhausted sigh, and reaches up to untie the black lace mask.
As it flutters to the gravel, her face is fully revealed in the moonlight—stunning, aristocratic, and worn out.
She leans over and dips her fingers into the cool, trickling water.
I am exactly five feet behind her, a shadow fully detached from the hedge.
She begins to turn, her intuition finally kicking in, sensing a dangerous presence in the quiet garden.
Goodbye, Fiorella Silvestri. Your life ends here.
The debt begins. I shift my weight, my heavy boot sinking slightly into the soft mulch by the edge of the fountain, grounding my legs for the explosive lunge forward.
I look at her beauty with zero emotion. She is nothing but a beautiful statue I am about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
She turns all the way around, her amber eyes widening in shock as they find my scarred face emerging from the dark.
Before the first gasp of air can even become a scream in her throat, I lunge.
My large, gloved hand claps over her mouth with bone-jarring force.
I pin her head back hard against my chest, her dark hair instantly tangling in the cheap plastic buttons of my uniform.
Shhh. Not a word, princess. She is vastly stronger than she looks.
She thrashes violently, and her jaw snaps down.
She bites into the meat of my palm right through the leather of my glove, her teeth seeking my skin with vicious intent.
"Bastardo!" she screams, but it's a completely muffled, pathetic sound against my hand.
I grunt as her teeth sink in deep, a sharp spike of pain shooting up my forearm, but I don't loosen my grip on her face for even a millimeter.
The metallic taste of leather and salt is in her mouth, the crushing, unyielding weight of my chest against her back.
I am surprised by the absolute fire in her.
Most people freeze when death grabs them. She fights.