Chapter 11 Sandro
SANDRO
The mats smell like sweat and fresh leather—a cleaner, newer kind of air than the musty, copper-tinged scent of the fighting pits.
I don’t mind it. It’s comforting, in a way, the same way the sound of fists slamming into flesh or the thud of a body hitting canvas can be comforting. Familiar. Honest.
Miko circles me, light on his feet, his eyes sharp and calculating.
He always fights like a man with something to prove, though he doesn’t need to.
He’s lethal, efficient, disciplined. He taught me everything I know about fighting, and still, he could kick my ass into tomorrow if he wanted.
Because he has the patience to outthink me.
My brother is strategy where I’m instinct.
He’s restraint where I’m destruction. He’s the better man I wish I could be, but since I can’t change what I am, I’ll settle for being the family shield, the one who can take the blow, the blade, the bullet and keep on coming.
I roll my shoulders, keeping my hands up, feeling the ache in my muscles from last night. Not from the fight. From Evi. The thought makes my lip curl into a grin, even as Miko lunges.
His gloved fist grazes my jaw, snapping my head to the side, and despite the cushioned blow, I taste copper, feel skin split where my lip was already raw. I spit red on the mat and laugh.
“Distracted?” he taunts, circling again.
“Not enough to let you win.”
I charge him this time, forcing him back with a flurry of jabs. He blocks most, takes a couple, but I land a clean hit to his ribs that makes him grunt.
From the edge of the mat, Raf leans against the wall, arms folded. He’s been watching us for twenty minutes, his eyes never still, his mind chewing through a dozen problems at once. He doesn’t fight with us much anymore—not like he used to—but his head is as much a weapon as our fists.
“While you two are playing,” Raf drawls, “we’ve got bigger things to think about. The Yakuza aren’t going to just hand our home back to us—even if Kenji is dead and their leadership is weakened.”
Miko parries my punch and sends one straight into my stomach. Air whooshes from my lungs, but I grin through it. I like pain. It sharpens me.
“They’re still the biggest family in Chicago,” Raf continues, voice hard. “And with the Murrays backing them, they’re untouchable.”
I snort, even as Miko and I lock up, arms straining. “Nothing’s untouchable.”
Miko breaks free, shoves me back. His chest rises and falls fast, sweat dripping down his temple. “You’re the one who told me their alliance is starting to crack,” he says, glancing at Raf. “Did something happen to make you think otherwise?”
Raf pushes off the wall and paces, running a hand through his dark hair.
“Those were just rumors, Miko. Rumors don’t win wars.
Until we’ve got proof, we treat it like their alliance is intact.
Because if we make one wrong move, we’ll be crushed between them.
Even with the Lombardis’ support, we don’t have the numbers unless we’re certain the Murrays are out.
And then, it will come down to who has the better tactical advantage. ”
I throw a punch at Miko’s jaw, and he slips it, countering with a hook to my ribs. Pain blooms along the already bruised flesh from last night’s fight, but I roll with it, coming back harder. The beast inside me stirs, stretching, eager.
“Then what?” Miko asks, breathless now as he backs up, dodging another jab.
Raf stops pacing, his eyes narrowing. “We pick them off, one by one. The Yakuza still have men watching the house. Our house. They don’t need to be there.
Taking them out slowly, carefully—it’ll send the Tanakas a message, a warning.
If we reclaim the property, we plant our flag again. Show the city we’re not dead.”
My blood heats at the thought. The house, our home—it’s theirs now, but not for long. I want it back. No, I need it back.
Miko wipes sweat from his brow with the back of his glove. “It’s a risk. They’ll retaliate.”
“Of course they will,” Raf says flatly. “But it’s the right move. We start small, chip at their control, let them know we’re coming for them. If we can’t even reclaim what’s ours, how the hell do we expect anyone else to follow us?”
I duck under Miko’s swing, slam my shoulder into his chest, and send him sprawling onto the mat. He lands with a grunt, rolling to his knees, glaring at me.
“You fight dirty,” he growls.
“Just like you taught me to,” I shoot back, offering him my hand.
He ignores it and stands on his own, brushing sweat from his chest.
Raf’s watching me now, really watching, the way he does when he’s trying to read me.
I meet his stare without flinching. He knows.
He always knows. The beast is awake. It’s pacing inside me, restless, hungry.
It wants blood, wants release, and the only thing that truly satisfies it is violence.
The ring takes the edge off, but war is what feeds it.
I’ve lived with this insatiable hunger since I was a boy.
Since our father first looked at me with disgust and told me I would have to stop talking like an imbecile if I wanted to bear the honor of the Chiaroscuro name.
For three years, I was forbidden to speak in his presence.
He wouldn’t even look at me until I could do it without faltering.
And even then, I knew I was a disappointment. I was never like my brothers—I didn’t crave power, didn’t feel the need to talk unless absolutely necessary. Because I’ve always found words… difficult to voice.
I liked peace. I liked quiet. And for that, my father despised me.
He thought I was weak.
So, even after he chose to let me keep our family name, he did his best to beat the weakness out of me. He pushed me to my breaking point.
Maybe even past it.
Maybe he’s what cracked me open and released the beast. I suppose I should thank him for that at least. I remember the first time I felt it—really felt it—the rage boiling, the violence demanding to be unleashed.
He showed me the power I could wield when I hit back, the strength it gave me to protect my brothers, and when I discovered that, I didn’t stop until blood coated my hands.
The beast never went away after that.
Now it’s who I am, what I am—the mad dog of the family, the one they call when they need someone torn apart.
In the end, my father was right. I would rather be a monster than weak.
A failure. A burden to my family. My brothers need a weapon that will ensure no one dares to challenge our power ever again. And that weapon is going to be me.
“We hit the house,” I say finally, voice low, rough. “Tonight.”
Raf arches a brow. “Eager, are we?”
Miko gives me a look—half warning, half challenge. “We need to plan it, Sandro. Not just charge in blind.”
“I’m not blind.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I know what I’m doing.”
Raf’s mouth twists, not quite a smile. He sees the hunger in me, but he won’t stop it.
He knows it’s useful, even if he finds it frustrating to manage sometimes.
And he more than anyone wants to destroy the Tanakas.
For Genevieve. “We’ll make a plan,” he agrees, nodding to Miko.
“But tonight, we start our revenge. One or two of their men, no more. Enough to draw blood without lighting the whole city on fire.”
That’s enough for me. For now.
The beast thrums under my skin, restless but satisfied with the promise. Blood will spill soon. The Tanakas will feel it. And when they do, they’ll know we’re coming for them.
Finally, after months of waiting, we’re ready to take back what’s ours.
And it’s all thanks to the sleeping angel I left thoroughly ruined in my bed.