Chapter 36
Lucio
T he family’s townhouse is a fortress of power and history, a reminder of how deep the Camorra’s roots run in New York. The place smells like espresso, leather, and money; the air is always thick with business, strategy, and the quiet weight of our family’s legacy.
I push through the grand doors, greeted instantly by the warm scent of something cooking in the kitchen—something familiar, something that reminds me of home, of Ma. The second I step inside, she’s there, waiting.
“Lucio.” She says my name the way she always does: like she expects trouble to follow.
I smirk, stepping toward her and kissing her on both cheeks before she can scold me for anything she hasn’t even confirmed yet. “Ma.”
She huffs, arching a brow, giving me that look. The one that sees straight through my bullshit. “You look tired.”
“I look good,” I counter, my smirk deepening.
She snorts, shaking her head as she smooths a hand over my cheek. “Always so full of yourself. Sit. Eat.”
I chuckle, letting her guide me toward the sitting room, where everyone is already gathered.
Emiliano is in his usual spot, legs stretched out, his expression unreadable as he talks in low tones with Romiro.
Val sits beside him, her legs tucked under her, rocking nine-month-old Bianca.
Little Bee’s face is nestled against Val’s shoulder, her tiny fingers curled into Valentina’s sweater.
I move toward Valentina, leaning over to peer down at my niece.
“There’s my little Bee,” I murmur, brushing a knuckle gently across her soft cheek.
She stirs slightly, making another quiet babbling sound.
Valentina sighs. “You spoil her, you know.”
I smile, taking Bianca from her arms and cradling her against my chest. She’s warm, tiny, smelling like milk and something sweet.
“Yeah? And?” I mutter, rocking her gently.
Valentina rolls her eyes playfully. “You act like she’s your kid.”
I grin down at Bianca, who has curled her fist into the chain around my neck, her tiny fingers barely able to grip it.
“She’s the only one around here who doesn’t give me shit,” I say, stroking my thumb over her soft little hand.
“Yet,” Emiliano mutters from his seat, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.
I chuckle, rocking Bianca a little more and watching the way she nuzzles against my chest, completely at peace. Ma watches me from across the room, her sharp gaze assessing.
“One day, Lucio,” she says, voice calm and deliberate, “you’re going to have a family of your own.”
I snort. “Doubt it.”
She hums like she knows something I don’t. And for some fucking reason, that makes my stomach tighten.
I hand Bianca back to Valentina, taking a seat across from Emiliano. The conversation turns to business, moving quickly from the drugs we need to move in a couple of days to the need to find whoever caused the security breach.
Ma, Valentina and Mara sit nearby, talking in hushed words. And the moment is quiet. Too quiet.
Then—the sound of glass shattering.
Everything shifts in an instant. Instinct takes over. I grab my gun; Emiliano does the same. Romiro is already halfway out of his chair.
The front doors burst open, men in masks, armed to the teeth, flooding the house like shadows. Then gunfire.
The first shot rings out, cutting through the room like a blade. Emiliano barely has time to move, his chair toppling back as bullets tear through the air.
He goes straight for Valentina and Bianca, but the gunmen are already turning their sights on them. I barely have time to think, to move.
But Ma does. She throws herself forward, arms outstretched, covering Valentina and Bianca, shielding them with her body.
And she takes the hit.
A shot slams into her chest, another into her shoulder. She gasps, her body jerking with the impact, blood blooming across her shirt and staining the delicate silver chain around her neck.
“No—” Valentina chokes, clutching Bianca tighter, shielding the baby against her chest, shaking.
I don’t have time to process it. Don’t have time to think. I fire.
Once. Twice. Three times. One of the gunmen goes down, blood splattering the walls.
Romiro moves fast, lethal, taking another one out before they can turn on him. But there’s more. Emiliano snaps, a snarl ripping from his throat as he guns down the closest bastard, his rage a physical thing, violent and merciless.
One of the men is still standing, aiming straight for Valentina and Bianca. He shoots the bullet, grazing Val’s arm.
My heart stops. I see red. I put a bullet between his eyes before he can shoot again.
The room is filled with smoke. Blood. The copper stench of death. The last man falls, twitching, choking on his own blood.
The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
And then…
“Ma.” Mara’s voice is sharp, broken.
I turn, stomach twisting. Ma is on the floor, blood pooling around her, her breaths shallow, uneven. Emiliano drops to his knees beside her, hands pressing against the wound in her chest.
“Stay with me, Ma.” His voice is low, urgent, filled with something I don’t hear often: fear.
Her eyes flutter, her hand reaching up, smearing blood over Emiliano’s wrist.
“Val—” she gasps.
Valentina is still clutching Bianca, her entire body shaking, her face pale. She almost died. Bianca almost died.
Ma took those bullets meant for them. I feel my own rage simmering, boiling, turning into something darker. Something I know won’t settle until I spill the right amount of blood for this.
Romiro kneels beside Emiliano, his face unreadable. But his hands are steady as he assesses Ma’s injuries.
“She’s losing too much blood.” His voice is clipped, unfeeling, but there’s a sharp edge to it.
“Get the fucking doctor here now.” Emiliano’s voice is cold, furious as his hands press down harder, trying to stop the bleeding.
I stand, gripping the nearest dead man by the collar and dragging him into the light. His mask is half-off, his face twisted in pain, even in death.
It only takes one look at his tattoo, and I know. The Outfit. Chicago.
I meet Emiliano’s gaze, my grip tightening on the corpse. “These motherfuckers were Outfit henchmen.”
The house smells like gunpowder and blood. My hands are sticky with it, warm and wet, pressing into Ma’s chest, trying to keep her here. Trying to keep her alive.
She’s not moving enough. Her lips part, but the words don’t come. Her breathing is shallow, wet.
“Stay awake, Ma.” My voice is rough, shaking, but I don’t stop applying pressure to the wound.
Valentina is crying, rocking Bianca against her chest, her arm slick with blood from where the bullet grazed her. Emiliano is next to me, his knuckles white, face cold and murderous. But I see it: the terror underneath.
Romiro is already on the phone, snapping orders in rapid-fire Italian.
The paramedics arrive in what feels like a lifetime later, but I don’t move. Not until they pry my hands away from my mother’s body. She’s rushed onto a stretcher, oxygen mask strapped to her face, blood soaking into the sheets they wrap around her.
One of the paramedics tries to pull me back. I shove him off.
“I’m going with her.”
Valentina is shaking, Bianca still clutched tightly against her.
“She’s coming too,” Emiliano says, his voice tight with controlled rage. He glares at the paramedics. “She’s been hit.”
They try to protest, but one look at us—all bloodstained and armed, murder still fresh in our eyes—and they don’t argue.
I help Valentina onto the second stretcher, watching the way her fingers tremble as she grips Bianca, refusing to let her go.
I don’t look back at the house. I don’t look at the bodies we left cooling on the floor.
Because this? This isn’t over.