Chapter 29 Sandro
SANDRO
The gym smells like metal and sweat—a scent that drives and invigorates me. Every strike echoes off the steel beams, the rhythm of fists hitting flesh louder than I’m prepared for this morning. So I grit my teeth and dig in my heels.
“Harder,” I say, bracing for the next blow.
Miko doesn’t hesitate. His punch slams into my ribs with a sound that’s half impact, half thunder. My arm stings, and my shoulder burns from the effort to block him. Still, I can feel the ache of his blow all the way through to my spine.
“Better,” I mutter.
Raf sits on the bench at the far wall, his usual tailored suit traded out for a casual T-shirt that won’t constrict or rub against the stitches in his arm.
He’s pretending it doesn’t hurt, but I know better.
I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his left hand flexes and curls like he’s testing what still works.
Kenji’s bullet damaged a good chunk of muscle last night, and watching my brother be stoic about it only intensifies the guilt.
That should’ve been me taking the hit. Not him.
I never should have left his side.
Miko throws another jab. I catch it, deflect, drive my fist forward and land a solid hit in his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t back down.
“Sloppy,” I say.
“You’re just pissed,” he fires back, voice steady despite his breathing. “You take risks when you’re pissed.”
“Maybe I’m pissed because our brother almost got his head blown off.” I circle him, breath hard. “Because Kenji Tanaka walked into our house and made us look weak.”
Miko exhales sharply. “You’re thinking with your temper again.”
“Does it matter if it gets the job done?”
Before he can answer, Raf’s voice cuts through the room like a whip. “Enough.”
We stop, our fists dropping at the cold command in his voice.
Raf leans forward, his expression carved out of stone. “We do need to have a response for what happened last night,” he says quietly. “Kenji’s still breathing, and the Italians who just pledged their loyalty to me are watching. If we look weak now, we lose everything.”
The words settle heavily into my chest.
Miko wipes sweat from his temple. “Then we take the fight to Kenji.”
Raf nods slowly, his face creased with indecision and doubt. “But we still don’t have the numbers.”
“We can’t keep waiting on the Irish, hoping their alliance will crumble,” I counter, ripping off the gloves. “They’ll drag their feet until the day we die. No more waiting. No more strategizing. We go for the throat. Now. Before the Yakuza see it coming.”
Miko’s brow tightens. “You’re talking about the Tanaka estate.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
Raf studies me, as calm as ever. He doesn’t argue. He just waits for me to say it.
“They think those walls protect them,” I press, my pulse hammering. “But they’re nothing but a cage. And without the Irish as reinforcements to stop us, we can storm the gates and burn the family out before sunrise.”
Miko paces. “Even if the Tanakas no longer have the Murrays’ support, that’s more than just a home you’re talking about infiltrating, Sandro. It has reinforced steel gates, heavy guards. It might not be an operational hub—but it’s definitely a fortress.”
“Then we make their home their grave.”
His eyes narrow. “You’ve seen it once—from the outside. Gio went in alone, when he climbed the wall to save Stephanie. I’ve been as far as their entryway and Zen garden a single time. We don’t know what we would be facing aside from their front gate and the number of guards they put on watch.”
“Isn’t that all we need to know?” I snap. “We’re breaking in, not mapping out blueprints of their layout.”
Raf finally speaks. “Through the front gates?”
I nod. “We hit hard, fast, and without warning—late enough they’ll all be asleep. Then they won’t have time to organize. The longer we wait, the more prepared they’ll be. They’ll be anticipating retaliation. I say we move before they can predict what we have planned.”
Miko hesitates, then looks at Raf. “He’s right. A stealth operation would take time we don’t have. If we go in loud, we can disorient them before they can react.”
Raf exhales slowly, his good hand pressing to his thigh. “You’re talking about slaughter.”
“I’m talking about survival.” I meet his eyes, unflinching. “He shot you, Raf. He could have killed you. He walked right through our front doors—which were supposed to be well defended—and made us bleed in front of our men. You think he won’t do it again?”
I don’t mention the trail of bodies he left in his wake, the guards he killed to make their grand entrance. My brothers don’t need the reminder.
Raf doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. We all know the truth.
Miko rolls his shoulders and moves toward me again, sparring gloves still on. “Alright, baby brother, show me how it’s done.”
I step in without hesitation, and our fists collide. The fight turns fast—ugly, real. Each punch says what we don’t. Every hit is anger, guilt, desperation as I pour out my frustrations through my fists.
Miko drives an elbow toward my shoulder. I block and return a hard right hook to his jaw. He stumbles, recovers, smirks faintly through the blood in his mouth.
“You think killing Kenji makes it right?” he grits out.
“No,” I snarl, slamming a knee into his ribs. “But that’ll stop it from happening again.”
He twists, catches me off balance, and throws me down onto the mat. The impact cracks through my back, air leaving my lungs in a rush. For a second, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling—breathing, sweating, hating the weakness burning in my chest.
Miko stands over me, offering a hand. I take it.
“You’re not wrong,” he says, voice calmer now. “But we do it right. We hit them when they’re asleep, close off every exit. Raf’s men can take the front. I’ll hit the back flank.”
I nod. “I’ll lead the breach.”
Raf shakes his head. “That’s suicide.”
“Then I’ll die doing my job,” I deadpan.
Raf gives me a look of pure exhaustion. “You would make Father proud, talking like that,” he states dryly, his tone infused with sarcasm.
The words cut deep. My throat tightens. “Maybe that’s what it takes.”
He pushes himself to his feet with his good arm. “You’ll take thirty men. No more. Keep it tight, quiet until we hit. Once the gates go down, we’ll make quick work of it.”
Miko nods.
I can see it already—the gates blowing off their hinges, the flood of our men rushing through the courtyard, the Tanakas scrambling, half-asleep, for their guns. The chaos. The retribution.
“We don’t stop until Kenji’s dead,” I say.
Raf looks up. “Until every Tanaka who stands with him is gone.”
Miko tilts his head. “Including Kenji’s parents.
” He doesn’t say what he really means. He doesn’t have to.
Including Sora’s parents. I hear the words as clearly as if he’d spoken them aloud.
But I refuse to let the thought bother me.
There’s no room for sympathetic concern anymore, even when it comes to our sister-in-law.
Her parents are just as guilty of betraying our family as Kenji—and besides, Sora’s cut ties with them. She must know this day would come.
Raf doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
There’s a weight in the room that’s thicker than silence. Even Miko doesn’t argue. We all know there’s no mercy left to give.
Raf stands, moving slowly. “We brief the men in two hours. No word leaves this house. If the Tanakas get wind—”
“They won’t,” I cut in. “They’ll never see it coming.”
He studies me for a long moment, then nods.
The sparring mats creak as Miko steps back, rolling his shoulders. “Then we move tonight.”
“Tonight,” I echo.
Raf gives one curt nod. “None of them will live to see the morning.” He walks toward the door, his steps deliberate.
With a gruff pat on my shoulder, Miko follows, muttering under his breath about weapons caches and route timing.
I stay behind, moving to the punching bags now that I no longer have an opponent.
The gym feels too quiet without the sound of fists and breath.
I catch my reflection in the wall mirror—sweat dripping down my face, knuckles split and raw, eyes darker than I remember.
I barely recognize the man staring back.
The guilt’s still there, simmering under the surface. I see Raf bleeding. Hear Evi calling my name in terror. Remember her expression after, the hurt and devastation when I told her she was a distraction.
I close my eyes and hit the bag. Once. Twice. Harder. Each impact echoes through the room, as steady as a heartbeat. I keep going until my muscles shake and the skin on my hands splits open. Until I can’t think about Raf’s blood or Evi’s silence or the sound of that gunshot anymore.
When I finally stop, my breath is ragged, sweat running down my spine like water.
Outside, the crisp autumn air seeps through my sweat-soaked clothing—cold, sharp, merciless. I stare up at the roiling gray clouds on the horizon, my fists clenching, and all I can think is, by this time tomorrow, Kenji Tanaka will be dead.
Or I will.