Another shipment.
His voice is low, steady. “Same as before. Small crew. Professional. No traces left.”
The memory of the last hit sharpens immediately. The men we caught. The silence they thought would save them. It hadn’t. But this—this is cleaner. Too clean. Whoever’s behind it knows what they’re doing.
Tomasso’s tone stays steady. “We went back over the first hit. Looked deeper. The money trail is slower than we’d like, but we got a lead.”
I glance at him, waiting.
“Vittorio Greco.”
The name lands in my mind like a weight I’ve heard before. I know him. His name is famous in our world. Vittorio is the kind of man who wears polish like armor, smooth enough to stand in any room. Snake-oil charisma over a darker truth. The kind of man who funds his own reach by putting others in debt, and making sure they never stop paying.
Tomasso’s gaze doesn’t shift as he goes on. “I kept digging. He’s more than just another financier. He was close to Renato Marchelli. Your wife’s father.”
Renato. Everything keeps circling back to that fucker. I say nothing.
Tomasso continues. “The connection isn’t surface. Renato owed him more than money. From what I was able to piece together, Greco has been bankrolling him for years. Not out of generosity. Out of expectation. There’s talk—old talk—that Renato promised him something when the time was right.”
I already know what it is before Tomasso says it. There's only one thing that's of value Renato could exchange with Greco.
“Liliana,” I say, a deadly calm washing over me.
“Liliana,” Tomasso confirms.
The word settles hard in my chest.
“That’s the rumor,” he adds. “He funded her father with the understanding she would eventually be his. He’s been patient for a long time. Your marriage to her changed that.”
The pieces shift. The docks. The hits. The precision of every move against me. This isn’t about money. This isn’t about territory.
This isn’t business. This is personal. And now he’s not just aiming at my shipments. He’s aiming at her.
If Renato is involved, he’s made the same mistake twice. I let one go before. Twice will be unforgivable.
The drive to the docks is quiet, the kind of silence that leaves space for the weight of the thought. The road stretches long and flat, the city pulling away behind us until it’s nothing but open asphalt and the hum of the engine.
Salt hits the air before we even see the water. The docks spread out ahead, familiar in the sharp bite of brine and the low groan of wood under pressure. My men are already in place, stationed with precision.
The cargo is secured. Damaged, but intact. The insult isn’t in what’s been lost—it’s in the attempt. In the fact that someone thinks they can keep coming at me without consequence.
I walk the length of the pier, my steps slow and deliberate. The old boards groan under my shoes, each sound sharp in the quiet.
“This is the same hand as before,” I say to Tomasso, my voice low but certain.
He nods once. “It’s Greco. He’s not hiding his reach. He thinks you won’t see it until it’s too late.”
My gaze shifts to the water. The tide rolls in slowly, steady, carrying faint traces of reflected light on its surface.
Vittorio Greco.
Renato’s friend. His financier. A man who has built a career on patience, convincing himself it makes him untouchable.
I turn from the pier, decision final. “Double the security. Lock every route. Nothing moves without my word. And start preparing a message for Greco. He needs to understand that touching what’s mine isn’t a game he can afford.”
Tomasso doesn’t argue. His phone is already in his hand, fingers moving as he starts the call.
But my mind is already gone from here.
