ALESSIO
The ranch looks picturesque from the air. Rolling hills. Perfect paddocks. Expensive stables. The kind of place glossy magazines gush over. All I see... is a parasite feeding off my family's fucking territory.
Somebody forgot to tell Cesar and Luciana one very important rule. You don't build an empire inside ours. Tonight... we're taking it back.
The estate sprawls beneath us, alive with lights. Luxury SUVs snake up the long driveway. Valets hustle between Bentleys, Ferraris and Rolls-Royces. Men in tailored tuxedos stroll toward the main house, crystal glasses in hand. A few women in glittering gowns laugh beneath strings of white lights.
If you didn't know what happened behind those walls... you'd think it was another billionaire's charity gala. Contained anger spikes my pulse. The first helicopter flares for the western landing pad. Massimo's.
The second peels off toward the eastern side. Gabe.
Enzo's bird follows moments later, carrying medical supplies, trauma kits, and enough clothing to outfit fifty women.
Mine is last. Exactly where I wanted it.
High above us, almost invisible against the darkening sky, another helicopter continues circling.
Beccs. Olivere. Rossi. The only two men I trust to keep her breathing.
She will land only when I give the order. Not a second sooner.
Our skids kiss the gravel with barely a bump. The rotors keep spinning. The side door slides open. Warm desert air rushes into the cabin. I step onto the gravel.
Behind me, Marco is already moving. My men spill from the helicopter in disciplined silence.
Black suits. Suppressors. Night vision. Death dressed for a formal occasion.
The welcoming committee arrives exactly on schedule.
Four armed guards stride toward us, earpieces glinting beneath the floodlights.
One forces a practiced smile. "Good evening, gentlemen. "
He glances at the helicopter. "Your invitation, please."
I smile back. "Certainly."
His hand reaches out. Mine reaches faster. The knife slips beneath his jaw and out the other side before his smile has time to disappear. His eyes widen. No scream. No warning. Just surprise. Marco catches the body before it hits the gravel.
The second guard starts reaching for the radio clipped to his shoulder. A suppressed shot punches through his forehead. He drops where he stands. The last two barely manage to turn. Two more muffled pops. Then silence.
Four bodies. Four seconds.
Marco kneels beside the first guard, removing the invitation list from the dead man's jacket. He flips it open. "Looks like we're invited after all."
A vicious grin tugs at my mouth. "Excellent."
I straighten my cuff. A streak of blood mars the white fabric. Shit. I liked this suit. I brush at it once. It only makes the stain worse. Oh well. The night's just getting started. I straighten the cuffs of my tuxedo. Showtime. Marco's voice crackles through my earpiece. "Perimeter secure."
Another voice. "East guard tower down."
"West clear."
"Landing pads secured."
My gaze moves towards the massive front doors.
I stroll towards them, nodding at guests in tuxes and evening gowns.
Holding polite conversations and glasses of champagne.
People laugh. Oblivious to what is happening inside?
Maybe. Doubtful. We'll find out. Music drifts out through the open front doors.
More people are mingling inside. I'm not worried about them. The men my brothers and I brought will take care of them. They'll learn tonight that buying women on my fucking turf, in my fucking state —my fucking city— will not go unpunished. The vicious part of me smiles. Big mistake on their part.
I don't hurry. Kings never hurry. I walk. Slow and measured, I return curious glances and smiles, even accepting a glass of champagne from one of the waiters. Every footstep echoes across polished marble.
Nobody notices that all the heavily armed guards are gone.
Nobody notices the small puddle of blood in front of another large set of doors.
I put the glass down on a small table, not having drunk a sip.
I'm not totally without manners. My hands reach forward, and I pull the two large doors open to a sight that makes my blood boil.
An auctioneer stands beneath a crystal chandelier, immaculate in a white dinner jacket.
A young woman—probably not older than nineteen—is displayed on a raised platform.
Her feet are bare; bruises cover the parts of her body that are visible.
She's looking down until the auctioneer forces her head up.
Then I see the empty look as she stares off into nothing.
The auctioneer beams at the crowd. "Do I have two million?"
A paddle rises. "Two million."
Another. "Two point five."
"Three." The buyers laugh.
Sip champagne. Admire the merchandise. The auctioneer smiles wider. "Excellent."
"Do I hear—"
He stops when he sees me. His words die.
The smile disappears. One by one... heads turn.
The room falls silent. A hundred faces. Politicians.
Movie stars. Oil executives. Cartel lieutenants.
Men who've spent fortunes pretending they're respectable.
All staring at me as I keep moving forward without saying a word.
I stop in the center of the ballroom. Hands relaxed at my sides.
Blood drying on one cuff. Gun hanging loose in my hand.
A vicious smile curls across my mouth. "Evening, gentlemen."
Nobody moves. Nobody breathes. I slowly look around the room. Taking my time. Memorizing faces. These men came here expecting to buy women. Instead... they bought themselves a death sentence. I meet the auctioneer's terrified eyes.
"The auction..." my smile widens, "is closed."
The shot echoes before anyone remembers how to scream. I don't like killing one of the major players like this. He deserved a much slower death, but the effect makes up for it. I raise my voice just enough for every last one of them to hear.
"Anyone who isn't here to buy women..." I stare them down cold as the auctioneer's body hits the floor, "has exactly thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn't kill them too."
For one heartbeat... nobody moves. Then the ballroom explodes.
Women scream. Champagne glasses shatter against marble.
Several men bolt for the front doors. They don't get three steps.
Marco's team fans out across the entrance, black rifles rising in perfect synchronization.
Behind them, Massimo's men pour through the broken doors.
The exits disappear beneath a wall of black suits.
One buyer skids to a stop so hard he nearly falls. Another spins toward the terrace.
Gabe is waiting, calmly racking a shell into his shotgun. "Wrong door."
The man freezes. Good choice.
"Everyone stays exactly where they are." My voice cuts through the panic. "You run..." I glance at the growing pool of blood beneath the auctioneer, "you die."
Silence crashes over the ballroom. Only sobbing remains. I slowly look around the room. Massimo enters first, followed by Gabe and Enzo. Massimo acknowledges me with a bob of his head. They'll sort out the buyers. Enzo will find the records.
I have one objective. Luciana. I leave the ballroom behind.
The screams fade into the distance. The ranch—mansion would be a better word—stretches ahead in polished marble and impossible wealth.
Paintings worth millions. Crystal chandeliers.
Persian rugs. Every dollar paid for with someone else's daughter.
Someone's sister. Movement catches my eye.
A woman, at the top of the grand staircase.
She steps into the light, dressed in blood-red silk, and diamond earrings sparkle in the chandelier light.
Her hair is swept elegantly away from her face.
She's still beautiful. Flawless. The kind of woman people turn to watch when she enters a room.
Until they see her eyes. Glacier blue, just like mine.
There is nothing in them but cold calculation and assessment. Like she's measuring the next move.
For the briefest second... I don't see the woman.
I see myself at six years old. Standing on the stairs of a trailer.
Looking up. Thinking my mother was the most beautiful woman in the world.
Funny. Memory has a way of lying. I search for something else.
A hug. A bedtime story. A scraped knee she kissed better. Her tucking me into bed. Anything.
Nothing comes. Not one goddamn thing. Somewhere along the way... the child I'd been invented a mother who never existed. The woman standing in front of me isn't the one I'd mourned. She's a stranger wearing her face.
She descends the stairs without rushing. Each step measured. Elegant. She stops three feet away. Looks me up and down. The blood on my cuff. The gun. My face.
A slow smile touches perfectly painted lips. "So..." Her voice is smooth. Almost amused. "You finally came."
Not Who are you? Not Alessio. Just... acceptance. Like she's been expecting this meeting for years.
I don't answer. She glances toward the ballroom where another shot echoes. "You've made quite the entrance."
"I learned from the best."
A flicker moves her lips. Tiny. Almost invisible. Approval? Regret? It's gone before I can identify it. She tilts her head. "You've grown into exactly the man I hoped you would."
She stops two steps above me. Still looking down. Still trying to hold the higher ground.
"So..." She clasps her hands in front of her. "Now what?"
I don't answer.
She smiles faintly. "You're going to shoot me?"
The corners of my mouth lift. "You'd like that." Her eyebrow arches. "Quick. Painless." I slowly shake my head. "No, I've got something much better in mind."
She sighs dramatically. "Oh..." A dismissive wave of her hand. "How theatrical."
Another shot echoes somewhere inside the mansion. Neither of us so much as glances toward it.
"Let's not waste each other's time." Her voice is calm.
Professional. "As business people..." She descends the last two steps.
"What is it you want?" She studies my face.
"A percentage?" Silence. "The operation?
" Another beat. "My territory?" She smiles knowingly.
"I always suspected one of the Vegas families would eventually come knocking.
" She tilts her head. "I simply didn't expect my own son. "
I stare at her. Her son, now. Interesting. She's still doing it. Negotiating. Calculating. She genuinely believes we're standing here discussing a merger. Not one woman or man in that ballroom matters to her. Not one. Just profit. Just leverage. Just power. I almost pity her. Almost. "No."
The smile falters.
"I don't want your business. I don't want your territory. I don't want your money." For the first time... confusion flickers across her face, disappears.
"What, then?"
I take one slow step toward her. "I want answers."
She opens her mouth. I hold up a hand. "No." Her brow furrows. "Not about you."
I take another step toward her. "Not about why you left me."
For the first time since she walked down those stairs... her composure cracks. Barely. But I see it. Until this moment, she'd still believed she controlled the conversation. She doesn't. Not anymore. And I'm enjoying every second of watching that realization settle in.
There was a time I wanted answers. The six-year-old who stood at the window waiting for his mother to come home deserved them.
Hell... even the man I became searched for them.
Not anymore. Nothing she could say would change the last eighteen years.
Nothing she could say would make up for the birthdays she missed.
Or the scraped knees she never kissed. Or the childhood she abandoned me to, alone with Lenny.
I see her now. Not as my mother. As she is. Ruthless. Calculating. Narcissistic. A sociopath wrapped in silk and diamonds.
I might as well have been an inconvenience she couldn't afford. Fine. That inconvenience grew up. And tonight... it came back.
"About the Collector," I answer her question. "And about you."
She laughs. Not loudly. Just enough to tell me she finds the request amusing. "You've always asked the wrong questions."
"I've learned."
"Have you?" She looks toward the ballroom. "The Collector won't appreciate this."
"The Collector’s opinion no longer concerns me."
"Perhaps." She folds her arms. "But mine should."
"No." I smile. "It really shouldn't."
I press two fingers to my earpiece. "Marco."
His voice comes immediately. "Boss?"
"I found her."
"You want us to bring restraints?"
I look Luciana straight in the eye. "Yes."
She laughs again. "You honestly think you're taking me prisoner?"
"I know I am."
She shakes her head. "You've inherited your father's arrogance."
I chuckle. "No. I inherited yours."
Marco appears a few seconds later with two men. They stop a respectful distance away. Luciana doesn't even look at them. She keeps her eyes on me.
"If you wanted a conversation..." she smiles coolly, "there were easier ways."
I shrug. "Probably. But none of them would've ended with you answering my questions."
She studies me for a long moment. Then—to my surprise—she calmly extends her wrists. No struggle. No screaming. No threats. Marco hesitates. I don't. He slips the cuffs around her wrists. Click. Click.
Luciana glances down at the steel. Then back at me. "You've planned this for a long time."
"No." I meet her gaze. "I've been waiting for it."
She smiles. "So have I."
She still thinks she knows how this ends. A bullet. A quick death. A martyr to her own story. She's wrong. I don't know whether heaven and hell exist. I honestly don't care. But I do know this... if there is a hell... Luciana Vitali has earned her place in it.
And if there isn't... I'll make damn sure she burns for her sins in this one.
Luciana Vitali has spent decades treating people like commodities.
Selling them. Breaking them. Destroying lives, one transaction at a time.
I'm going to dismantle everything she built.
Piece by piece. Her empire. Her allies. Her secrets.
And when there's nothing left... then I'll decide what becomes of her. Hell can wait.
For now... she belongs to me.
On my signal, my men take her to one of the choppers. The next time I'll see her, she'll be by the Oven.