Chapter 13 Sandro
SANDRO
It’s a punch to the gut the first time I see the state of our family home.
The place where we grew up—the halls I used to sprint down with Gio biting at my heels, where Raf studied late into the night by candlelight, where Leo snuck girls in through the windows while I pretended I didn’t notice—it’s been reduced to ashes and broken bones of stone.
One wing of the house still stands. Barely.
The walls are blackened, the windows shattered.
The roof has caved in on the west side, where my father had his suite.
The fire gutted most of it, left it hollow and rotting.
Every step closer feels like someone wringing my chest tighter, like I’m walking up to the corpse of a loved one.
But corpses don’t breathe. Don’t bleed.
The men standing watch outside, though—they breathe. And I can promise they will bleed.
The Yakuza aren’t stupid enough to abandon the property completely, but they’re not hell-bent on protecting it either. A skeleton crew, just enough to make it look claimed. Like it’s theirs. The rage that boils in me at that thought is enough to make my hands shake until I curl them into fists.
This house is ours. It always will be.
The week that follows is a blur of fists, knives, gunfire, and blood.
Every night we stalk the perimeter, picking off the Tanaka men one at a time.
We make them silent kills when we can manage it—loud ones when I can’t control myself.
Raf coordinates the men, his brain a machine of strategy.
Miko moves like a shadow beside me, quick and clean.
I’ve always been the messier fighter. I don’t do it to look pretty—I fight to break things.
Evi’s brothers fight, too, side by side with us. Her family has served more as grunts, foot soldiers who handle the messy situations that are too minor to require our attention. But they’re strong, brutal in a way that earns my respect fast.
One of them—Cassio, I think—is especially vicious with a blade. He’s the kind of fighter Miko taught me to be, the kind who doesn’t flinch when he slits a throat, just wipes the blood on his sleeve and keeps moving.
The other, Marco, has a sniper’s calm. He takes his time, waits for the right shot. As we infiltrate the Chiaroscuro grounds, he sticks close to Raf’s side, proving a sufficient bodyguard as well as fighter. Together, Evi’s brothers prove themselves worthy of their new rank.
Still, it costs us.
Every fight leaves bodies on both sides. Men we’ve bled with, men we’ve drunk with—some don’t make it home. And by the final sweep, when Raf finally decides it’s time to take not just the grounds but reclaim our home, I’m running on rage and muscle memory.
The air stinks of smoke and damp stone when we slip back onto the estate grounds. The dark night is thick around us, the moon smothered behind clouds, but the glow of cigarettes betrays guards stationed along the broken walls.
There’s more this time. They must have finally realized we’re not going away.
Raf raises his hand, and the men freeze. His eyes scan the perimeter—always calculating, always cold. “Double what we expected,” he mutters. “They know we’re coming for what’s ours.”
Miko palms his blades, his mouth forming a grim line. “Doesn’t matter. We finish this.”
My pulse pounds, steady and hungry. The beast inside me, the one I’ve kept chained too long, stretches its claws against my ribs. Tonight, it gets fed.
Raf turns his head toward us. “No mistakes. Clear each room, floor by floor. Watch each other’s backs.” His voice drops lower. “Leave no survivors.”
We move creeping in through the tree line, cutting down the farthest guards without a sound.
The first wave falls fast—throats cut, muffled grunts swallowed in the dark.
We enter through the west side, which gapes open, too exposed to stand a chance without a full regiment of men.
We’ve increased our numbers tonight as well—enough that we can keep the home we intend to reclaim.
And as our forces flood the blackened remains of my father’s bedroom, pouring silently down the hall that leads to the main residence, no one sounds the alarm.
When we breach the cracked double doors of the ballroom, however, the house erupts. Gunfire explodes from the shadows. Plaster bursts from the walls. A man screams, high and sharp, before collapsing at my feet.
“Down!” Raf roars.
We dive behind the splintered remains of a table. Bullets chew into the wood, spitting splinters across my face.
“Fuck—they’ve got numbers,” Miko growls, exchanging his knives for a couple of handguns and snapping a shot that drops one from the balcony above. “At least fifty.”
“Then we kill fifty,” I bite back, teeth bared. My lungs burn with the smell of cordite, my ears ringing with every blast.
Raf leans out, rifle booming. One man drops, then another.
He ducks back, face spattered with someone else’s blood. “Push forward—we can’t get pinned down here!”
We surge as one, crossing the width of the ballroom to find better cover behind the stage.
Raf is all precision—each shot placed like he’s drawing lines on paper. Miko is thunder, blasting through bodies and walls alike. I’m the storm that follows, slamming a man into the floor hard enough to feel bone snap under my fist. Blood spatters across my shirt, but I barely register it.
“Stairs!” Cassio shouts from behind us, voice sharp with urgency. He points with his barrel toward the winding staircase where shadows move.
I don’t think. I charge. My blade flashes, biting into flesh.
A man collapses, gurgling, as another swings a knife at me.
The blade grazes my chest—sharp, hot—but I don’t flinch.
Not now. The pain is nothing compared to the rush flooding my veins.
I slam my elbow into his throat, feel his windpipe crush under the blow. He drops like a stone.
“On your left!” Miko’s shout cuts through the chaos.
I pivot, just in time to catch the barrel of a gun aimed at my head. I wrench it away, bring my knife up, and silence the bastard with a clean slice.
“Clear the hall!” Raf barks, his voice raw.
We storm room by room, boots pounding over broken marble and glass. Men fall under our fire, their shouts echoing off the ruined walls. It feels endless—blood, smoke, gunfire—but slowly, methodically, we take them down.
By the time the last shot fades, the silence is deafening.
I stand in the wreckage, chest heaving, knuckles dripping crimson. My cheek burns faintly where a bullet grazed me, but the beast inside me is still roaring, and I hardly notice. Not now. Not with adrenaline still singing in my blood.
Miko lowers his gun first, sweat dripping down his temples. He scans the hall, jaw tight. “Clear.”
Raf steps over a corpse, eyes narrowing at the carnage. “Welcome home, boys.”
We all fall quiet at that.
The house is ruined—walls scorched, floors shattered, bodies strewn like discarded dolls. But it’s ours.
And it feels like victory.
Miko nods in my direction. “You’re bleeding,” he points out.
I glance down at my chest, where the fabric of my shirt has been neatly cut. Blood stains the frayed edges, but it doesn’t hurt. I shrug. “I’ll live.”
With a grunt, Miko drops the subject, and he and Raf get to work giving orders, organizing the combined Italian and Russian forces, tasking them with clearing the bodies, and sending scouts for any potential lingering threats around our newly reclaimed home.
It’s close to midnight when we finally leave the estate behind, posting guards to hold down the ruinous fort. My body feels like lead, every step weighed down with exhaustion, but it’s a good weight. The weight of victory. Of survival.
We’re filthy, blood-soaked, bruised—but we’re alive, and the house is ours again.
By the time we reach Miko’s home, the lights inside are glowing warm against the night.
Through the glass, I can see Anika, pacing in the foyer.
No matter how late the hour, she always stays up to see him come home.
And as soon as we step through the door, she rushes Miko, throwing her arms around his neck as she buries her face against him.
Miko sweeps his wife’s feet off the floor in a passionate embrace, revealing Evi just beyond them.
I should be used to it by now. For the past week, every time I’ve dragged myself home with blood on my hands, she’s been there, hovering near the door like she’s waiting for me, always steady, always patient.
She doesn’t demonstrate the same level of anxiety as Anika.
Worry doesn’t widen her doe eyes or crease her delicate features.
She doesn’t seem to hold breath, like Anika, until she can see that I’m okay.
But still… it does something to me.
My chest tightens, my heart stumbling in its rhythm when her face lights up the moment she sees me.
It’s radiant, hopeful, a smile that could cut through smoke and the darkest midnight.
And for a moment, I forget the blood drying on my skin, the ache in my bones.
Because she doesn’t stay up each night waiting for all of us. She’s waiting for me.
I’ve never been the charming twin. I’ve never been the Chiaroscuro brother women smile for. That was always Raf’s role, or our older brother Leo—the charisma, the easy grin, the glint in the eye that drew them in.
I’ve always been the shadow in the corner, the man they fear to approach. Strength earns respect, yes, but never affection. Yet here she is, looking at me like I’m the only man in the room.
Evi comes forward without hesitation, weaving between the others, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m glad you made it home safe,” she says, her soft voice sincere.
I don’t know what to do with the way those words land in my chest. But it unleashes an emotion within me that I’m unfamiliar with and entirely unprepared for.
Before I can answer, she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine. The kiss is gentle, fleeting, but it steals my breath all the same. My hands twitch, aching to hold her, but I don’t lift them. They’re covered in blood, and I don’t want to stain her pretty dress.
Her palms find my chest instead, pressing lightly against me. Heat flares under her touch—and then pain. A sharp sting that makes me suck in a breath before I can stop myself.
Evi stills, her fingers tentative as they slide lower, and when she pulls them away, they’re slick with crimson. Her eyes widen as she stares down at her hands, blood dripping from her fingertips.
“Sandro…” Her voice breaks on my name, half whisper, half gasp. “You’re hurt.”
Oops.
I glance down for the first time, really looking. Since Miko pointed it out earlier, the front of my shirt has been soaked through, the black fabric darker where blood has seeped into it. I’ve lost a considerable amount of blood.
But I don’t flinch. Don’t let it show.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her, though the cut must be deep if I’m bleeding this badly.
Evi’s gaze snaps up to mine, horrified.