Chapter 2
Gabriel
The first rule is simple. Fear is useful. Respect is better. But loyalty is the only thing that keeps you breathing when the bullets start flying.
The man kneels on the concrete beneath me like I’m his god, like the floor is his religion and the only prayer he knows is pain.
His wrists are tied behind his back, zip ties biting into skin.
His mouth is bleeding, just a trickle at the corner.
A quiet warning, delivered just enough to sting.
Just enough to remind him he is not in control.
Enough to remind everyone watching that I am.
He keeps his eyes down. He’s trying. But not hard enough. Because he’s still here. Because he still thought he could steal from me and walk away.
The warehouse is cold, the kind that crawls through your clothes and settles in your bones.
The air smells like copper, gunpowder, and dust, like blood, guns and money.
My men stand in a half circle, boots planted, guns lowered, like this is just another night.
They’re waiting for me to say the word. Nobody speaks.
The silence is heavy, thick enough to choke on.
They’re watching him. They’re watching me. Waiting for my call like it’s a switch I get to flip. End him. Break him first. Or let him walk out alive and spend the rest of his life paying for the mercy.
I already decided before I walked in.
I slowly step closer, like I’ve got all the time in the world. He sees my face and fear hits him. His shoulders tense. His breath stutters, like his body recognizes me before his brain does. He trembles and then he pisses himself.
Good.
“Tell me,” I say.
He gasps, “Jefe—”
I lift one hand and he stops talking immediately. That’s the second rule: a man learns when to shut up, or he doesn’t live long.
I crouch in front of him and study his face.
I make myself remember it. Not because he matters.
Because this moment does, and everyone’s watching.
The men behind me need to see what disloyalty costs, right here where nobody can claim they didn’t see it.
Time makes men sloppy. Comfort makes them bold.
They need to remember it the next time they start thinking they can test me.
Money makes men stupid. Fear brings them back to reality. Fear makes them shut their mouths before I do it for them.
“You took four crates,” I say.
His eyes dart up for a split second, then he looks away fast. He whispers, “I didn’t—”
I tilt my head. “You didn’t what.”
He’s breathing too fast, panicked. “I didn’t know it was yours,” he says.
I stare at him, then I smile like it’s funny. “Everything’s mine,” I say.
The room goes dead silent. The men behind me freeze, watching, waiting to see what I do next. He gets it now. He didn’t just steal product. He made it personal. He tried to embarrass me. I can live with a lot of things. But disrespect is the one thing I don’t let slide.
I stand and look at Juan, my lieutenant. He’s tall, quiet, dangerous in that specific way, like the less he says, the more damage he can do. He doesn’t ask what to do. He already knows. His hand rests on his belt like this is routine. He’s done this a thousand times and won’t hesitate.
Juan steps forward.
My men shift on their feet, shoulders tense as if bracing for what comes next. Their faces are like granite while they wait for my signal.
I nod my head.
He starts crying and I just watch. Snot running down his nose while he begs for mercy like he deserves it. I walk away before Juan kills him. I don’t need to watch. I’ve got more important things to do.
I head toward the open bay door. Cold air slides in from outside and hits my face. Trucks are lined up in rows, headlights off, engines idling. The night smells like oil, dust, and that faint smell of gunfire that never really leaves this city.
I breathe it in.
“Bang.” Juan executes him.
My men stop shifting on their feet. The side glances stop. Like perfect little soldiers, they stand at attention, awaiting my orders.
A graphic display of bloody violence always creates fear in them.
Juan comes up beside me a minute later. “it’s done,” he says.
* * *
I don’t answer. Because what matters isn’t that it’s done. What matters is why it happened.
The crates would be laughable if it wasn’t a test.
Juan’s phone buzzes, and his face morphs into a mask of rage that makes my blood go cold. He holds the phone out to me. The message is simple: another route got hit. Two trucks didn’t make it through. Product’s gone. Men are gone too.
I don’t have to guess who did it. The Bratva always leaves the same kind of message.
My jaw clenches. This isn’t the first time. it’s the fifth this month. That’s not coincidence. That’s Mikhail testing how far he can push before I strike back.
I hand the phone back to Juan.
“it’s the Bratva,” he says.
“I know,” I answer.
My voice stays calm. It has to. Because the third rule is this. A leader doesn’t show emotion until he can use it. Not to vent. To send a message. To remind people who they’re dealing with. To make somebody pay for what they started.
I walk toward the map in the main office. The city map is pinned under glass. Routes marked. Warehouses. Borders. Names. Lines that mean profit. Lines that get people killed when someone gets greedy.
Luca is already there.
He isn’t cartel. Not really. He’s the link between families.
Italian. Sharp. All business. He knows how to talk to men like that and make them listen.
The kind who swear they’re legitimate while they wear expensive suits and sip whiskey like it’s a religion.
The kind who call it tradition, like a nicer word changes what they do.
He speaks their language. He flatters the right egos.
He speaks about respect and heritage and family values while the deal gets done underneath, where nobody has to admit what it really is
He looks up as I enter. His expression is neutral, which means the news is worse than I like.
“Jefe,” he says.
I don’t sit. I don’t pour a drink. I don’t pretend this is a meeting. This is war.
“Talk,” I tell him.
Luca slides a folder across the table.
I hate folders. Folders mean someone else already decided something, and now they want me to agree with it. I open it anyway. Inside is an offer from the Italians. The Alliance. The ones at the very top. The family that owns every Italian family under them.
I scan the papers quickly. Ceasefire agreement. Shared intelligence. A percentage of territory. Combined forces against the Bratva.
Then my eyes stop on the line that matters.
Marriage agreement.
I don’t move. I don’t blink. Juan watches my face. Luca watches my hands. They’re waiting for a reaction.
They don’t get one. Not yet.
“What is this,” I ask softly.
Luca clears his throat. “The Alliance wants something that will tie our families together.”
I let out one breath. “And they think a wedding stops men like Mikhail,” I say.
Luca doesn’t answer, because he knows the truth. A wedding doesn’t stop war. A wedding just changes the battlefield.
Juan’s voice is low. “The men won’t like it.”
I look at him. “My men don’t get a choice.”
Juan’s jaw tightens. He knows. He doesn’t argue. Because marrying outside of cartel blood isn’t just politics. it’s insulting. it’s a vulnerability. it’s giving my enemies a clear entry straight into my home.
Luca flips a page.
Savannah Amato.
Cassio Amato’s sister. The Alliance leader’s direct bloodline. I stare at the name. Amato carries weight, the kind of power that makes lesser men tremble in fear.
“The sister,” I say.
Luca nods once. “Yes.”
Juan mutters, “They’re offering you a princess.”
I don’t smile. Princesses are still prisoners. And women used as peace offerings always end up dead when the treaty falls apart.
I close the folder. My mind races. This is not a light decision. This is a neatly packaged trap wrapped up in contracts and polite wording meant to make it look civilized.
If I refuse, the Bratva keeps taking my routes and laughing while they do it. If I accept, my own men will smell weakness and try to tear me apart from the inside.
The Alliance knows it. They don’t want friendship. They want control.
Luca leans forward. “Cassio wants it done fast, before the Bratva hits again.”
Juan’s voice turns rough. “He’s using her. If the Bratva attacks while she’s present, it will force retaliation.”
I look at him. “This is how our world works. don’t act shocked, Juan. You know better.”
The room gets eerily quiet. The truth sits heavy between us.
I walk to the window and look out at my compound.
Lights everywhere. Guards with guns. Trucks readied for battle at any moment.
I think about the Bratva. I think about Mikhail.
I think about the way he keeps testing me on purpose, over and over, because he wants me to lose control.
He wants to see what I’ll do when I retaliate, how far I’ll take it.
And I think about the dead man who stole four crates.
Somebody planted the idea in his head and made him think he could pull it off. He was dumb and greedy enough that even a small idea set him on fire. Someone’s testing my leadership from the inside.
I turn back to the table and tap the folder once with my knuckles, quiet. The men flinch, because they know every tap means something.
I look at Luca. “Set up the meeting.”
Luca’s eyes widen. “Tonight?” he asks.
“No,” I answer. “Tomorrow.”
I pick up my jacket. Juan steps closer. “You’re really doing it.”
I stare at him, my voice lowering. “I’m not doing it,” I say. “I’m taking it.”
Juan’s throat works. He nods once, because he understands. I’m not walking into this like someone’s handling me. I’m walking in like they already owe me, and I’m here to collect.
I head for the door, and as I pass the warehouse again, I don’t look inside. I don’t need to. The message was delivered.
Now I deliver mine.
Because if the Alliance wants a marriage, they’re going to learn what it means to give me something and not get it back.They’re going to learn what it means when I say mine. And if Savannah Amato is the price of peace, then she’s going to carry my name.
Not because I’m kind.
Because war demands sacrifice.
And I’m willing to pay it.
Tomorrow I meet Cassio. I’ll sign the treaty. Tomorrow I take the bride.