Prologue
Giovanni Renzetti
Six Years earlier…
The engine hums beneath us, low and steady like the tension sitting in my chest. I ride shotgun while Tomasso drives, his fingers drumming on the wheel as we wind through the outskirts of the city. It’s past midnight, but sleep is the last thing on my mind. There's a shipment coming in, one that could shift the balance of power in our favor. But something about tonight doesn’t sit right.
Tomasso glances over. “You’re quiet.”
I nod once; eyes locked on the dark stretch of the road ahead. “Just thinking.”
Thinking about the weight on my shoulders, the empire I’m meant to inherit, and the boy I left back at the villa: my little brother, Alessio.
He’s not so little anymore, but he still looks at me like I hold up the sky. And maybe I do, for him. He can’t speak, can’t hear, but he’s sharp and reads lips like a wizard. He is observant, too. Always watching, always trying. He was born into a world that chews men up and spits out the weak, and that world has never been kind to him.
But he’s my brother. My blood. And no matter how cold or cruel the whispers get, I’ve always protected him. Hell, I’ve even broken a few teeth and noses for his sake.
The car slows to a stop in front of the dockyard. Tomasso turns off the engine and reaches under his seat to grab his extra weapon. I do the same. My Glock feels cold in my hand. Familiar and comforting.
“We go in, we talk business, and we get out,” Tomasso mutters.
I nod again. But yet my gut twists.
The minute we step inside, the air changes. It’s too still. The dealer, Salvatore or whatever the hell his name is, greets us with a grin that doesn’t touch his eyes. His men linger in the shadows, too many for a simple deal.
We talk. Numbers. Inventory. But it’s all bullshit. I know it. Tomasso knows it.
Then the first shot rings out, and I confirm what my gut has been telling me.
I have walked into a fucking ambush.
“Cover!” I bark, diving behind an abandoned twenty-foot container as the whole place erupts in gunfire.
Tomasso’s yelling. Bullets tear through the air like thunderclaps. I fire back, chest heaving, mind sharp, until a blazing heat slices through my side. My knees hit the ground. My vision spins. Voices blend together. My fingers slip from the trigger.
And as everything fades, only one thought burns through the darkness;
Alessio.
He’s not ready. God, please let him be strong enough to survive without me.
I come to in a haze of antiseptic, light, pain, and murmuring voices. Tomasso leans over me, surprise lighting up his bloodshot eyes. My father sits in a chair near the window, stiff and silent.
“Finally! You’re awake!” Tomasso exclaims, relief breaking through his voice like a dam.
“How long?” I croak, groaning in pain.
“Three weeks.”
My mind begins to clear slowly. The sterile walls, the beeping monitor, the ache in my ribs. But none of it compares to the blow that comes next.
My father stands and walks toward me. His eyes, red and hunted, fix on mine.
“Alessio is dead.”
What the fuck did he just say?
“What?”
