CHAPTER 30
LORENZO
The villa was quiet. Just the wind, waves, and the weight of power. The kind of silence only men like me could afford. The kind that came after bloodshed.
I sat at my desk, shirt open, chest bare, whiskey in hand, watching the world burn—because I lit the fucking match.
The woman between my legs was working like she’s done it a hundred times.
I grabbed her hair, shoved her deeper—groaning as she gagged on my cock.
Her throat clenched around me. I liked that sound—the one she made when she choked.
Knowing that she was one breath away from turning blue with the lack of air made my cock throb.
The phone buzzed. I ignored it. Let the world wait. It rang again. I flung the burner towards Marco—my most trusted man. He caught it mid-air, checked the screen and spoke low.
“Ahh, bella… that mouth of yours is fucking magic. I’m about to come.”
I pushed my cock deeper, shoving ropes of cum down her throat. She coughed, wiping her mouth, eyes glazed. I zipped up. Don’t look at her again. Just another throat. Just another hole.
“Who the fuck is it?”
“Chang. From China.”
Of course it’s Chang. Those slippery fucks can’t do one thing straight. Always need a leash. Isabella stood, adjusting her blouse.
She looked at Marco. “Enjoyed the show?”
He didn’t answer. He never did.
I downed the rest of my whiskey, listening to Chang’s voice. Then hurled the glass across the room, shattering against the wall.
“Fuck!”
The cargo’s gone. The merchandise—fucking meat vanished.
“Ambushed,” I growled. “Just before Chinese waters.”
Someone got brave—or stupid. Doesn’t matter. They’ll be dead by the weekend. Isabella poured herself a drink, eyes narrowing.
“Do you know who it is?”
I walked to the window. Waves crash against the rocks. I took a long drag from my cigar, exhaled slowly. Smoke curled around my face like a veil.
She asked again. “Do you think it’s him?”
I turned. Gave Marco a look.
Marcello.
Il fìgghiu di buttana.
Always playing the good boy. Always hiding behind honour like it’s a fucking shield. I should’ve buried him years ago. But he’s finally learning. Violence speaks louder than grief.
“Bella,” I said. “You’re going to Bulgaria. There’s a mole.”
She nods. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
“Good. Now let’s finish what we started.”
She downed her drink, lay herself on the table, spreading her legs like an offering. I fucked her like she owed me something. She moaned, screamed—I didn’t hear a fucking thing. Her voice was just noise beneath my plans. I was thinking about Bulgaria.
Isabella arrived in Sofia before dawn. The warehouse was the usual—reeking of dust and piss. I sent my men to dig through surveillance logs.
One name kept surfacing—Giorgio. He tracked the shipment. Then vanished. His last known contact? A man tied to Marcello. The bastard flipped—he’d sleep with the fishes soon.
Marcello didn’t retaliate often. But when he did, it was always surgical. I’d seen what he did to the man who touched his sister. I knew what he was capable of when someone crossed the line.
And Roxanne—Roxanne was the line.
Isabella had told me about her from the auction night in Rome.
Quiet. Observant. She didn’t speak much, but she saw everything. It all made sense now. This wasn’t random. It was personal.
Every hit on my empire was Marcello’s way of saying:
Back the fuck off.
But I won’t. Even if it meant burning everything. I couldn’t let him win.
Isabella was the perfect tool—seductive and vicious. But Marcello had caught on to her soon. She was nothing more than a liability—something to use, and when she broke, I’d simply let her go.
I never cared about her. Never will. I’ve had better. Smarter. Meaner. She was just convenient. Like a lighter—use it and toss it when it runs out. She’s just another body to warm my bed, and if she becomes the sword hanging over my head, I’ll throw her to the fucking wolves.
I’d already seen the storm coming. I built the shelter before the clouds even formed. Marcello wouldn’t harm me physically.
è ‘na minchia senza palle—tuttu core e niente cazzimma.
(He’s a dick without balls—all heart, no guts.)
He walks like a man, talks like a man—but deep down, he’s just a soft little cunt playing gangster. I’ve seen tougher meat in my kitchen. I knew he’d hurt what I built—on blood and bodies.
The days that followed were chaos. Interpol raided the warehouse in Sofia. They came with dogs, flashlights, and warrants.
The girls testified. The ones who were kidnapped, traded and held like cattle.
Photos were leaked. Names surfaced. But I’d made sure that my name was never heard of. Never in ink. My name remained masked. Unheard of.
A few low-level idiots were arrested. None of them mattered. Not to me. Small price to pay for my empire.
I watched it unfold from my villa in Calabria. Stone walls. No neighbours. No noise. Just sea, wind, and silence. And a view that stretched into forever.
I sat in my armchair, cigar in hand, whiskey untouched. My pulse didn’t shift. My face stayed calm. Like a man who’s already buried the bodies and was waiting for the next shovel.
I remembered the souvenir Marcello sent me months ago. The photographer’s fingers—snapped clean. Wrapped in silk. No note. Just fingers.
Later, the message came:
Touch what’s mine, and I’ll come for everything you value.
I had laughed it off. I shouldn’t have. Isabella had warned me. But I didn’t listen to that puttana.
Marcello didn’t retaliate for five months. I thought he’d gone limp. I underestimated the boy who mistook restraint for strength. Now he’s choosing. And he’s dragged me out of hiding.
Isabella had managed to slip out just before the raids came down. She stood in the study, Marco beside her.
“It’s the girl you asked to follow,” she said. “The one he’s protecting. The fat bitch.”
Marco spoke. “They’re not together. No contact. But he’s still shielding her.”
I turned towards them, black eyes gleaming.
“Then it’s time.”
I stubbed out the cigar, grinding the ash into the crystal tray. She paced the room, heels clicking in staccato against the stone.
“We need to disappear. They’re closing in.”
I stayed seated, sipping my whiskey.
“Amuri, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Are you insane? They’ll throw you in prison. You’re an international criminal now.”
I looked at her coldly.
“Watch your tone.”
How dare the bitch speak to me that way?
I slowly walked towards her, then spoke calmly:
“Don’t worry. I won’t take the fall. I have someone else.”
She froze. “What? Who?”
“You, darling.” I kissed her cheek, fingers trailing along her jaw.
“All the accounts are in your name. You signed the papers. You made the calls.”
“You told me to,” she said, voice cracking.
I shrugged. “And you obeyed. Like a good little whore. They just need a face. And yours is a pretty one—a devil behind the mask of an angel.”
She stepped back, voice trembling.
“You’re throwing me under the bus?”
She thought she mattered. That I’d protect her. Idiota. I don’t protect. I consume. And when I’m done, I spit out the bones.
I smiled. “No, bella. I’m giving you a chance to show your loyalty to me. Take the fall.”
“Marcello was right. You’re a monster.”
I laughed—a cruel, guttural sound.
“And you? You’re just my collateral. You were stupid enough to think you were someone special. I kept you around to suck my cock and sign my papers.”
She slapped me. I barely flinched.
“You’re filth,” she spat.
“Says the whore,” I say, lighting another cigar.
“If I’m going down, so are you,” she said, panicking.
“Try all you want,” I said, already halfway to the door.
She stood there, trembling—already erased.
“Ti ammazzu, bastardu!” (I’ll kill you, you bastard!)
When the agents came, I was gone. I had prior knowledge of their arrival. Isabella was arrested. She screamed my name.
But I was already halfway to Montenegro—untouched, unbothered, watching the show.
Now I sat in a new villa. Somewhere colder. Just firelight. Staring at the flames, sipping cheap liquor. Marco entered, silent as ever, handed me a file like it was a death sentence wrapped in paper. I opened it. Her face stared back.
Roxanne.
The bitch he bleeds for. I smiled. Slow. Sinister. The fire from my cigar crackled.
“Let the games begin.”
I’ll burn her world down. And when he comes crawling, I’ll slit his throat with her tears.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire roared. And somewhere far away, she slept—unaware that war had just begun. Unaware that her name would be the last thing he’d scream. All for her.