6. Adriano
Chapter six
Adriano
I don’t believe in guilt. It’s a useless emotion, one meant for people who still think redemption is real.
That particular line was hammered into my mind long before I was old enough to understand exactly what direction had been chosen for my life.
My father believed guilt weakened the hand that pulled the trigger.
He said men who hesitated didn’t live long enough to matter.
I learned early on that emotions were liabilities, and liabilities got buried.
Still, as I slam the door and walk away from Elena without looking back, something unpleasant crawls up my spine. It’s neither regret nor hesitation, but annoyance at myself.
I shouldn’t even have lingered. Shouldn’t have closed the space between us. Shouldn’t have leaned in when her breath hitched like she wanted to say something but didn’t dare. Wanting me felt like a betrayal to her, and that alone should’ve satisfied whatever twisted instinct pushed me toward her.
I shouldn’t be touching her or thinking about the way she came apart on my fingers like her body had been waiting for that total breaking of the floodgates.
That reaction wasn’t something you fake. I’ve been with women who opened their legs for powerful men because they thought submission earned safety. Elena didn’t submit; she unraveled. The difference matters more than I’d like.
Her lingering heat shouldn’t stay on my skin. Elena Rossi is the enemy’s daughter. And yet, I keep ending up with my hands between her legs instead of on a gun to her head, or around one of these traitors’ necks.
Now here I am, replaying the way her body strained against that leather belt, arched high in desperate surrender. Like a perfect little slut.
I strip out of my jacket, toss it over the chair in my room, and head straight for the sink. Cold water runs over my hands as if it can wash her off me. It doesn’t. Her scent lingers, a mix of vanilla and pure defiance.
That scent doesn’t belong in my world. It’s too soft. I scrub harder, knuckles scraping porcelain, jaw locked. The water numbs my fingers but doesn’t erase the memory I’m trying to kill.
I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. This ends soon, I tell myself. It has to. Sex clouds judgment, that’s rule number one. My father drilled it into me before he ever taught me how to pull a trigger.
“Never fuck what you can’t kill.”
Those words have guided every choice I’ve ever made. Kept me alive where others slipped.
Elena Rossi should be untouchable if this were a clean war, but this isn’t clean. And nothing can ever make it so.
Wars are filth; they rot everything they touch, and the innocent are the first casualty. You win by surviving long enough to watch the other side bleed out.
An idea clicks into place with absolute ease, and once it does, my body relaxes. Fucking her isn’t a mistake. It’s a tactic.
It might be a cruel one, but cruelty gets results. I’ve seen men crumble faster when you ruin what they think is protected. Elena is Enzo Marcini’s pride wrapped in silk and stubbornness. If I touch her, if I pull her into my orbit, this empire will suffer intense damage.
That’s exactly what I’m going for. Irreparable ruin.
Everyone must suffer, and being a Rossi should make you suffer more than anyone. If touching her twists the knife a little deeper into that empire, and pulling her close makes her drop her guard, then I’ll do it without blinking. I must.
There’s no mercy in this game, only leverage. I dry my hands, already calm.
Elena believes she’s fighting me every second she’s near me. That belief will be her undoing. She thinks she is the one who has control. That illusion will cost her family everything.
For now, I have a very important meeting I can’t afford to miss. Two nights ago, I snuck out of the mansion after overhearing a couple of the guards talk about a deal at one of the Rossi warehouses.
The Rossis have been expanding westward quietly. They’ve been able to secure broader supply lines and new buyers. Good for me, expansion means confidence, and confidence breeds vulnerability.
Information is currency. And tonight, I’m going there to devalue their entire investment.
Grabbing my jacket and baseball cap, I walk out the back door, careful to stay unseen by Elena or the other guards. I wonder if she’s managed to gather herself and leave the car yet.
The thought comes unbidden and unwelcome. I push it aside; sentiment has no place on the battlefield.
My phone beeps with a text from my source. Target confirmed. Meeting in thirty.
Efficiency never fails to soothe me.
I type a quick response on my phone screen. I’ll be there.
***
The warehouse sits on the edge of the district, making it easy for me to slip inside undetected, timing the guards by both instinct and observation. This kind of movement is already second nature to me.
I don’t have to be so meticulous, but I didn’t come here to shed blood today. It’ll only jeopardize my mission.
Enzo didn’t officially assign me to this operation, which is exactly why I’m here.
Unofficial jobs are where wars are actually won.
Making my way into the warehouse, I carefully ascend the rusty flight of stairs all the way to a makeshift gallery where I stand in the shadows, arms crossed.
Below me, crates are lined up neatly on pallets. I already know from my source that they contain pharmaceutical-grade chemicals.
My source had submitted details of all participants in this deal to me, and as they walk in one after the other, I make a mental note of them.
Christian Lorenzo, Enzo’s right-hand man, sits with a couple of guards flanking him on both sides, a glowing cigarette in hand.
There’s Matt Genon, their big-time supplier. One person isn’t here yet.
One of Rossi’s major buyers, Victor Hale. An American rat with nothing but money and loyalty, he laughs too loudly as he waltzes in, shaking hands with Lorenzo and slapping one of them on his shoulder like they’re friends instead of future allies.
That laugh echoes unpleasantly.
I catalog exits, the timings of their movements, guns, and the placement of every visible weapon; every man in the room is marked in my head within seconds.
If bullets fly, at least three would go down before they even draw. Hale might even survive it.
If this deal goes through, the Rossis expand west, and that can’t happen. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, my thumb already hovering.
For several weeks, Hale had been receiving anonymous texts from a supposedly interested buyer—someone who was willing to pay three times what he usually sold his stuff for.
This mysterious buyer pushed him to contact the one person fast gaining ground in the west: Enzo Marcini. Seeing as this business would be beneficial to both of them, Rossi and Hale decided to cast their disdain for each other aside and partner on this consignment.
Tonight, the first shipment from Rossi’s supplier landed, and they’re both here to inspect it.
Greed is the easiest language to speak fluently to men like them.
What they don’t know is that their big buyer is me, and tonight, that deal comes to an end. My thumbs touch my keypad as I send a text from another anonymous number. The shipment has been contaminated. Rossi plans to double-cross you. Pull out now or lose everything.
Heads are sure to roll tonight. And I just can’t wait.
Hale’s phone buzzes. I watch his smile die in real time, bringing mine alive.
He steps aside, brows knitting as he scrolls. He looks up sharply, eyes scanning the room like prey that finally smells blood. He whispers to his second-in-command, and he stiffens.
I’m loving this. If Hale takes the bait, that’s about a hundred million in loss for Enzo Marcini. And this is only the beginning.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore, Lorenzo. Your stuff isn’t pure,” he announces confidently. I know Hale has never trusted the Rossis, that’s why I sowed the doubt from his end.
“This is bullshit,” one of the Rossi men snaps as Hale starts backing away.
Hale shakes his head, already pulling off his glove. “You didn’t tell me about contaminants.”
“There are none,” he insists. “This deal is solid.”
Matt steps forward, eyes fixated on Hale as he grabs one of the jars in the middle of the room. “I supplied and sealed this off myself. You can taste it.”
Hale bares his teeth with a forced grin. Reaching his little finger into the lid of the jar, he takes one last glance at Lorenzo before dipping it in.
The smell of sizzling flesh fills the room at once. Hale’s yelp tears across the dense silence. His men reach for their guns immediately, firing at Matt first, then turning on Lorenzo and his men.
“Fucking Italians!!” Hale screams, holding his burning pinkie. It was a great idea to replace their stuff with low-grade acid.
Laughter almost tears past my throat.
I’ve been studying the key men for weeks — the supplier, the handlers, the drivers. Patterns never lie.
The driver’s route hasn’t changed in years. Same highway. Same timing. Same coffee stop just outside the city, where he kills fifteen minutes and trusts that sealed jars mean safety.
That trust was my advantage. After QA was done at the supplier’s warehouse and all paperwork was signed, all it took was that one stop at the coffee shop for my men to move in and switch a few jars, right at the very top of the shipment.
They replaced the most accessible ones, the first ones within reach, exactly where I predicted the tester would pick from on the night of the deal.
“I can promise, Hale, we had nothing to do with it.” Sweat is dripping from all over Hale now, a small tuft of smoke curling up from his finger.
Hale scoffs, voice thickening with anger. “You Rossi boys always try to act innocent.” He turns on his heel, gestures sharply to his men. “We’re done here. I never want to set eyes on you or Enzo Marcini again, or I’ll be taking back more than my pound of flesh.”
As soon as he turns around, the room erupts. Bullets fly everywhere as men collapse to the ground like dominos, including the supplier.
I don’t stay to watch it implode completely. We’ll all hear about it in the morning.
Heading for the exit, I type a text to my source: Bait taken.
It’s boring watching them bicker in the fallout, so I increase my pace and head back to the mansion.
A slow smile tugs at my lips. Cheers to the first of many.