Chapter 27 Sandro
SANDRO
The gunshot rips through the night like the sky itself is tearing open. The echo of it vibrates through my bones, turning my speed into molasses as I watch Miko launch himself at Raf, tackling him like a linebacker.
But as my twin topples backward, a stunned expression on his face, flecks of blood spray across Anika’s dress like splatter paint. And I know. As quick as his reflexes are, Miko didn’t make it in time. Raf’s been hit.
No.
Instinct slams back in, hard and merciless, and I vault over one of the terrace’s decorative pots and into the ballroom, cutting through the chaos as guests scatter like frightened birds.
Glass shatters, chairs topple as a horrified scream pierces the night, turning my blood to ice.
Confirming what I don’t want to believe.
Raf’s dead.
My twin is gone. It feels like the larger portion of my soul is ripped from my body, leaving a gaping hollowness that threatens to transform into a black hole and consume every living, breathing thing.
I was too late. Too far away. Too distracted to protect my brother like I vowed I would.
Protecting Raf was my job. Protecting all of them—that’s what I’m good at.
That’s what I was built for. And I wasn’t where I should’ve been.
I was in the shadows, with my wife’s lips on mine, chasing something selfish while my brother stood in the line of fire.
The guilt tastes like blood as it crushes the air from my lungs.
Then fury and violence turn my vision red, burning away all other emotions. Gun in hand, I shift trajectory, changing direction from my beeline toward my brother to the man responsible for his death.
This is no longer a rescue mission.
I’m coming for blood.
I spot Kenji Tanaka instantly—the bastard is impossible to miss.
His left eye might be covered with a black patch, his face gaunt and pale, as if his recovery from a bullet to the head was anything but smooth sailing.
Still, even across the crowded room, he’s unmistakable.
That smirk. That posture. The arrogant tilt of his jaw that marks him as a man who’s walked through hell and made friends with the devil himself.
He’s supposed to be dead.
Raf shot him months ago. I saw it myself—Kenji bleeding out, his men dragging his body into the night.
But of course, a cockroach like Kenji doesn’t die that easy.
Of course not. We’ve tried to kill him twice now.
This time, I’m going to do it with my bare hands.
I want to see the life leave his eyes as I wring his neck.
I hardly notice the chaos around me.
The remaining Chiaroscuro guards were slow to react at first, caught off guard by the sudden violence in a night that had been filled with revelry mere moments ago.
But now they jump into action, drawing their weapons as they flood in from the terrace and the far corners of the house to engage the enemy.
Kenji’s Yakuza foot soldiers spread out in response, forming a rough half circle around their leader. And positioning themselves perfectly for me to pick them off. I don’t bother slowing as I raise my gun, pulling the trigger as soon as a target falls into my sights.
The crowd shrieks. Somewhere, heavy glass comes crashing down—a chandelier maybe—shattering with a jarring sound. And I keep shooting, dropping the bastards who will pay for what I’ve lost.
Breath burning, rage clawing its way up my throat, I fire until I’m out of bullets.
Then I toss my gun aside as my eyes narrow on my final target.
Kenji lowers his gun again, aiming—too casual, too confident—and something inside me snaps.
There’s no strategy left. No hesitation.
Just murderous, animalistic rage driven by instinct.
“Kenji!” I roar his name, the sound torn out of my chest, and I lunge forward.
He turns, startled, but his remaining men move to intercept me.
I don’t think. I don’t need to.
Years of training, of street fights and back-alley brawls, flood my body like muscle memory.
The first one swings, and I catch his wrist, twist hard, and hear the weapon drop. The next rushes me, and I drive my shoulder into his chest. The rest is a blur of motion and sound—fists meeting flesh, grunts, the heavy thud of bodies hitting marble. I don’t see faces anymore. Only threats.
Somewhere behind me, I hear Evi shout my name, but I shut it out. She better bloody well be hiding still. I can’t afford distraction. Not when Kenji’s still standing.
He watches me cut through his men, expression flickering from amusement to something that almost looks like disbelief. Then fear.
Good.
One of his guards drops a weapon—not a gun, but a ceremonial blade, the kind the Yakuza carry like a second soul.
It skitters across the floor, and I grab it without breaking stride.
The handle is smooth, carved bone. The blade sings when it slices the air—and buries itself in the chest of Kenji’s last remaining guard that stands between us.
Kenji takes a step back as his guard drops like a stone.
“You always were the wild one, Sandro,” he says, his accent curling the words like smoke. “No sense of discipline.”
“Discipline’s overrated.”
He smirks, but it’s weaker now as his gaze darts around the room, gauging distance, options, exits.
The crowd’s scattering in every direction, guests ducking for cover and fleeing for the door as our security finally breaks through Kenji’s line, gaining the upper hand. Somewhere, I hear Leo shouting orders, Gio barking for the guards to seal the gate.
But all I see is Kenji.
“You came to the wrong house,” I tell him, voice low and lethal.
“I came to remind your family that alliances have consequences.”
“Funny. When you’re the one who broke our alliance in the first place.”
For a split second, our gazes lock—the unspoken promise of what comes next—then one of Kenji’s men yells something in Japanese, and his composure cracks. He must realize he’s outnumbered. Or maybe he just realizes that I won’t stop until one of us is gone.
Cursing under his breath, he backs toward the entryway. “We’re done here.”
“Not until you’re dead.”
But my approach is cut short as he gives a sharp gesture, barking a retreat, and my clear path is flooded with fleeing Yakuza.
His men move fast, grabbing the wounded as they cover Kenji’s exit.
The air fills with the sound of running feet, shouts, the grind of tires outside as their vehicles pull away.
And just like that, they’re gone.
The silence that follows is deafening.
For a moment, no one moves. No one breathes.
Then the sound of a pained groan wrenches through my body like a bullet, and I whirl.
Miko’s on his knees, hunched over Raf, Leo and Gio watching from a short distance—as Raf slowly, painfully pushes himself up onto one elbow to look at me.
My heart lurches.
He’s not dead.
I’m sprinting toward him before I even make the decision, my feet carrying me forward of their own accord.
Raf’s sitting up now, his suit jacket shredded at the shoulder, blood soaking through the fabric.
And Miko rips the sleeve clean off to get a better look before pressing his hand against the wound.
“It just grazed him. Missed anything vital,” Miko says, voice tight as I collapse beside my twin on the hard stone floor, searching Raf for any further injuries.
He gives Miko a weak glare. “You didn’t have to tackle me that hard,” he grumbles. “I think you broke a rib.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome for saving your life,” Miko shoots back, though his voice is laced with too much relief to sound irritated.
Anika pushes through the cluster of people gathering around them, her face pale but furious.
“You idiot,” she hisses, slapping Miko’s arm.
“You have a wife and a child on the way. What were you thinking, throwing yourself in front of a bullet?” She’s shaking with either fear or rage, the blood spattering her dress making her words all the more grave.
And when Miko looks up at his wife, his expression softens.
He opens his mouth, closes it, then sighs as he comes to a stand and takes a cautious step toward her.
“I didn’t really have time to consider a list of pros and cons.
I guess I’m just hardwired to protect my brothers,” he says, extending a blood-soaked hand as if trying to calm a frightened animal.
But she takes a step back, swatting it away as tears well in her eyes. “Don’t you ever do that to me again,” she insists, her breath hitching.
“Topolina,” Miko objects, trying again, but Raf cuts in. “She’s right, Miko. You have your own family to think of now. Your own legacy and empire. I appreciate your support, your loyalty. But you don’t get to trade your life for mine. Never again. Understood?”
Miko frowns down at him, then gives a single, grudging nod. Only then does Anika throw her arms around his neck, and her soft sobs fill the room as she buries her face against his chest, Miko’s arms wrapping around her.
“How bad is it?” I ask Raf, nodding to his shoulder now that it’s bleeding freely once more.
“It’s nothing,” he insists, glancing down at it as he turns to show me.
Miko was right. The bullet just grazed him, but the laceration’s still deep.
“You’ll need stitches,” I observe, turning to scan the crowd for Evi.
My heart stutters when I don’t find her immediately by the pillar where I left her.
“Evi!” I call, my head snapping around as panic surges through my chest.
Then I spot her weaving her way through the crowd, first aid kit in hand.
“I’m here,” she says breathlessly as she rushes toward us, dress swishing, eyes wide with concern.
My wave of frustration with her for disobeying me and risking her safety is quickly chased away by relief and gratitude that she could recognize what we needed so immediately.
Her hands are trembling as she drops to the ground beside Raf, but she’s steady enough to assess his wound.
“I can patch you up to slow the bleeding until a doctor gets here,” she says, her gold-flecked eyes flicking in my direction.
“Or I can stitch you up. But I don’t have anything to numb the pain. ”
Her calm, level voice surprises me. I can see she’s shaking underneath, but she doesn’t let it show.
And while I’m certain she’s used to sewing me back together by now, I highly doubt she’s been through a gunfight before tonight.
Still, she’s put on a brave face and works methodically to clean Raf’s wound, getting right to work as she waits for his decision.
“Stitch me up, dottoressa,” he teases, giving her a faint smile.
“I’ll live with what you have tonight. But remind me to get you any medical supplies you need,” Raf says, casting me a sidelong glance that silently calls me an idiot for not having thought to provide her with the proper tools before now.
Evi blushes but gets to work, preparing her needle and thread as soon as the cut is properly sanitized.
“You married a good one, Sandro,” Raf observes as he watches my wife work, her hands growing steadier with each stitch.
I swallow hard. My throat feels raw. “Yeah,” I manage, though my voice barely comes out.
Because now that the fighting is done and the ballroom is empty of all but our family and soldiers, the guilt of my inattentiveness has come back with crushing force. I should’ve been there. Should’ve been between Raf and that bullet. Not Miko, who—like Raf said—has his own family to worry about.
Instead, I was hiding in the shadows, chasing a stolen moment I didn’t deserve.
Standing, I slowly scan the ballroom. The damage is everywhere—shattered glass, overturned tables, blood smeared across the marble of the room Evi worked so hard to put back together. At least ten dead bodies litter the space.
But it could’ve been so much worse.
Leo’s talking to the guards, coordinating a sweep to ensure none of Kenji’s men remain.
Gio’s near the doorway to the entry, already calling contacts to confirm the Yakuza’s escape route.
Miko’s still soothing Anika, cradling her against his chest as he quietly takes the lead, organizing the cleanup.
We’ve survived another hit. Barely.
But I know this isn’t the end.
When her work is done, Evi tapes a bandage over Raf’s stitches, and I help him up, clasping his good hand and hauling him off the floor. He flinches as he stands, his other hand going to his side, and I wonder if he really might have that broken rib he gave Miko a hard time about.
My guilt intensifies, and I scowl as Raf gives me a single nod, then strides across the room to relieve Leo of his temporary command.
Evi rises beside me, her hand brushing mine—tentative, grounding. “He’s going to be okay,” she says softly.
I nod, staring at Raf’s pale face, at the blood that’s soaked through his usually pristine suit, the missing sleeve Miko tore away to ensure the wound wasn’t critical. “Yeah.”
But inside, something’s breaking.
The adrenaline starts to fade, replaced by the heavy thud of shame, regret. Every heartbeat is a reminder of what almost happened—what could have happened—because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
Evi studies me quietly, her brow furrowed. “This wasn’t your fault, Sandro.”
I laugh bitterly. “Wasn’t it?”
She opens her mouth to argue, but I turn away, unable to stand still. The energy burning through me has nowhere to go. All my life, I’ve been the fighter. The one who takes the hit so others don’t have to. That’s who I am.
And tonight, I failed at the one thing I was made for.