The rage hit me like a wave, hot and blinding, burning through my veins like acid. I wanted to smash something. I wanted to find the traitor and tear them apart with my bare hands. I wanted to make them suffer in ways that would make hell look like a vacation.
But I forced it down. I forced myself to think. Because thinking was the only thing that would keep Zara alive.
“Zara.” I turned to her, my voice barely controlled, a knife's edge away from breaking. “Get dressed. Now. We’re leaving.”
She didn’t argue. She was already out of bed, pulling on jeans and a sweater, her movements quick and efficient. I loved her for that. For not panicking, for not asking questions, for trusting me even when the world was falling apart.
Costa stepped closer, his voice urgent, desperate. “They’re coming for you next, Lorenzo. The Morettis put a hit out on you and Zara. They want to end the Falcone line. We need to get you out.”
“Where?” I was already moving, grabbing my go-bag from the closet, checking the magazines, the spare ammunition, the cash. My hands moved on autopilot, years of training taking over.
“Safe house in Switzerland. I have a plane waiting at the airstrip outside Florence. But we have to move now. The Morettis have people everywhere. They could be here in an hour. Maybe less.”
I stopped, my hand on the doorframe, and looked at Costa. “How do I know you’re not the traitor?”
Costa’s face went white, then red. His jaw tightened, and I saw the hurt flash in his eyes before it was replaced by something harder. “Because I’ve bled for you, Lorenzo. Because I’ve killed for you. Because I’ve buried men for you. Because if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have come here myself. I would have let them find you in your sleep. I’m your fucking cousin, we’re family.”
I held his gaze for a long moment. Then I nodded. “Get the car. We’ll be down in five minutes.”
Costa disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. I turned back to Zara. She was dressed, her hair pulled back, her face pale but determined. She looked at me, and I saw the fear in her eyes, but also the strength.
“Lorenzo.” She stepped closer, her hand finding mine. “I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and promise her that everything would be fine. But I couldn’t. Because I knew the truth.
The Morettis had killed my parents. They had infiltrated my organization. They were coming for the woman I loved. And I was the last of the Vitale family—the last target, the last obstacle between them and total control of the region.
I’d spent years trying to step away from that life. Trying to build something that wasn’t stained by blood or betrayal. I let myself believe I could be different, could be clean, could be worthy of her.
But blood didn’t care about plans. It lingered in my veins, in my name, in every breath. The only inheritance my parents left me, and now it was calling me home.
I pulled Zara into my arms, pressing my lips to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
She pulled back, her eyes blazing with fire. “Don’t you dare apologize. I chose this. I chose you.” Her voice was steady, fierce, but I didn’t miss the slight shake in her hands as they grabbed my arm. “I know the risks, Lorenzo. But I want all of it—because I want you. Not just the good days, not just the safety. I want to stand with you in the violence and the chaos. I know who you are, and I love you for it.”
I kissed her then, hard and desperate, pouring all my fear and rage and love into that single moment. Then I broke away, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the door.
The villa was dark, the moonlight casting long shadows across the marble floor. I moved quickly, my gun in one hand, Zara’s hand in the other. Every sound was a threat—the creak of a floorboard, the rustle of curtains, the distant hum of a car engine.
We reached the back entrance, where Costa was waiting with the black SUV. The engine was running, the headlights off. He opened the back door, and I helped Zara inside, then slid in beside her.
“Go,” I said.
Costa floored it, and the SUV shot forward, tires screeching against the cobblestones. I looked back at the villa, watching it shrink in the rearview mirror. It had been a sanctuary. A place where I had hoped to start a new life.
Now it was just another memory soaked in blood.
The road ahead was dark, winding through the hills, the headlights cutting through the night like a knife. I could feel theweight of everything pressing down on me—the loss, the rage, the fear.
But beneath it all, there was something else. A cold, hard certainty.
The Morettis wanted to wipe out the Falcone family. They had killed my parents. They had threatened Zara.
They had made a mistake.
Because I was still alive. And I was done trying to step out of the business.
I was going to burn their world to the ground. I was going to make them pay in blood and fire and screaming. I was going to find the traitor and make an example of them that would echo through the underworld for generations.
