No more holding back. My fist drives into his mug–bone, muscle, cartilage giving way under the force. A right hook twists him against the restraints. A left splatters blood across the floor. I hit him again, and again. Until the bravado is gone. Until nothing’s left but his broken breathing.
“Stop,” he rasps. “Please, Capo MacBrady… I’ll tell you anything.”
I grab a rag, wipe his blood off my knuckles, and drop it on the floor. “Start talking.”
His head lolls, blood threading from the corner of his mouth as he chokes out, “All I know is… Leo was meeting someone. Someone Lorenzo planted inside your syndicate.”
A rat.The weight of it slams into my chest like a cinder block. “We’ve got a mole in our house,” I mutter, the words tasting like rust. There’s a rat among us. One of my own men.
“What the fuck,” Sebastian mutters. He voices exactly what we’re all thinking. Collin moves, and one of his blades is out. In the next instant, it’s buried deep in Davide’s thigh. A strangled scream tears from Davide’s throat, his body convulsing against the restraints. The fresh metallic scent of blood saturates the air. Collin leans in, his voice calm and chillingly precise.
“Recognize me, don’t ya?” Collin’s lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smile. “When it comes to pain, I’m an artist. You?” He twists the blade slightly, sending another jolt of agony through Davide’s body. “You’re just my latest canvas. Save yourself the ordeal. Tell us everything.”
The stench of piss cuts through the room. “I–I don’t know who it is,” Davide gasps. “I swear I was told to watch the front door. Leo went inside and met with… whoever it was.”
My jaw ticks. “Liam. Call the others. Now.” Collin keeps working until Davide and the driver are nothing but spent, bloody husks, wrung dry of every usable detail, which isn’t much.
An hour later, the rest of my brothers file into the tunnels–except Johnny, who stayed with Aria. I wait until the last footsteps settle before speaking. “Lorenzo has a rat inside our walls.” Silence tightens around us like wire.
Troy’s face is pale, rigid with pain he refuses to acknowledge. “I gotta ask straight up,” Troy says, voice rough. “How do we know none of us is the rat?”
Collin doesn’t even blink. “Because if it were one of us, Lorenzo would’ve moved already.”
Troy exhales. “Fair.”
“Yeah, good point,” Trent mutters. “So how do we flush the snake out?”
“We go through our men,” my tone cold enough to frost the air. “One by one.”
Jake cracks his knuckles over his phone. “Point me at anyone even remotely suspicious. I’ll have their digital trail before they can blink. If someone’s dirty, I’ll find it.”
Collin sheaths his blade. “If even a whisper of suspicion lands on one of ours, I’ll carve them apart myself.” No one doubts him.
“Liam, Trent, Sebastian–clean this mess. Fast.” I nod at the bodies. “We have dinner in a few hours. After that, we tighten our ranks and start questioning everyone.”
Thomas–usually the calm one–shifts beside Gabriel, eyes flicking around the room before settling back on me. “Here’s what I don’t get,” he says. “If Lorenzo’s got a man on the inside, why hasn’t he hit us where it actually hurts?”
I meet his gaze. “Because he’s waiting for his moment,” I say. “Before he gets it, we’ll find the snake… and cut its head off.”
Thirty-Three
“It’s easier to hate him when he’s cruel. It’s the kindness that’s dangerous.”– Aria Boschett.
I don’t know what to do with his kindness; not when cruelty would be easier to hate. Now, I’m left alone with the mess he created inside me. The car hums along as we wind back toward Cyan’s Crescent Bay estate, but my mind refuses to settle. It keeps replaying the day in jagged fragments.
First, that receptionist, all glossy lips and hungry eyes, practically drooled over Cyan like he was a winning lottery ticket with abs. My thoughts keep circling back to what he didfor Nonna. She’s safe, happy, and well taken care of… hell, Iamthankful. Now my mind is tangled with the question: Why? Cyan went to such lengths, spending that kind of money and making sure my grandmother had not just a place to sleep, but a home? Why build her an entire world where she could wander and still be safe?
I didn’t even get to thank him. Once he finished his phone call, he gave one brief apology—he had to leave. Collin’s on his way to pick him up. Then he was gone, leaving me alone with my questions and the echo of his absence. Somewhere beneath the possessiveness and the threats and the violence, there’s a man. Not only a ruthless criminal, but someone I’ll maybe like to know.That’s naïve. Isn’t it?
Shaking my head, pushing the thought aside as I focus on something I can understand–my Nonna’s beaming smile. Spending the afternoon with her went better than I could have hoped for. Even though she still didn’t recognize me, we’d gone grocery shopping together. The grocery store looks like a real one, complete with aisles and a cashier. Except no one used actual money. It’s all part of the dementia village experience, ensuring that its residents felt independent while remaining safe. The best part? She liked me. She actually asked if I’d visit her again.
I clutch my phone a little tighter, remembering how I’d also exchanged numbers with Dr. Saaha. She was new to the area, and when she asked if I could show her around sometime, I said yes without hesitation. Maybe it’s her easy-going personality, or maybe I’m craving some kind of normalcy. I’m looking forward to something for the first time in a long while.
Walking into the house, I’m enveloped by the rich, mouthwatering aroma of caramelized onions and searing meat. My stomach growls in response, but the sensation is secondary to the unexpected warmth curling in my chest. It feels like my past. Like home. The thought unsettles me so much I nearly back out the door. I follow the smell into the kitchen instead. Rosa stands at the stove, humming softly as she stirs a pot, absorbed in her own little world. She doesn’t see me at first. I stand there watching, and it hits me all at once.
For a heartbeat, I’m thirteen again, chin propped on the counter, watching my Nonna cook. The low hum of her voice, the clatter of wooden spoons against cast iron. The way the kitchen wrapped around us in warmth and steam. My chest tightens. It’s stupid. It’s just Rosa cooking. But the way she moves with effortless ease, the quiet joy, is the same. A lump rises in my throat. I shove it down.
Rosa turns, finally noticing me, and startles, a hand flying to her chest. “Diyos, Aria—you scared me!”
