Page 108 of Brutal Heir

A cut to the judge’s ego, reputation, and career plans.

Nothing fatal. Just painful enough to get him to back off the House of Diamanti.

But if her mother were to show up, and the judge learned she was on Italian soil? That would be the equivalent of a dull ax, hacking everything to a bloody mess.

I reached for my own phone and pressed a number in my favorites.

“Yes, boss,” came the answer after only one ring, despite the international time zone change.

“The contingency plan we discussed for Sabrina’s mother, Abriana Dolce Badalamenti.”

There was a long pause. “Yes.”

I caught my reflection in the mirror. By the end of this, would I still be able to stand the man who looked back?

“Do it.”

Without waiting for a response, I disconnected the call.

I turned my back on the mirror and finished changing.

* * *

I made my way down the winding hidden staircase to the sala d'armi.

The air hung thick with the scent of aged leather and faintly oiled steel. Shadowed racks of blades lined the walls—rapiers, foils, and épées—each one whispering of forgotten duels and centuries-old rivalries.

As the lights flickered on, they illuminated the worn parquet floor, scarred with the ghostly scuffs of countless assalti, as if every botta dritta and parata e risposta had etched its own sinister memory into the room’s very bones.

After adjusting my guanto imbottito, I selected a slender fencing foil, its balance perfect as I tested its weight with a flick of my wrist. The polished blade gleamed under the lights, a silent promise of precision and discipline.

When I took over the palazzo, I converted its gymnasium into a sala d'armi, a room of arms, which suited my purposes far better.

Never a man with the patience to lift weights for no reason or run miles to nowhere on a treadmill like a rodent, I preferred the deliberate exertion of fencing—the perfect interplay of attacco, defense, and strategy.

The strict rules of etiquette and engagement in fencing were neat and orderly.

You either struck your opponent or you didn’t.

It was controlled. Disciplined. Elegant violence in the name of sport.

I tapped the handle of my foil against the side of my breeches while I waited for the computer program to engage the bersaglio elettronico. The life-size practice dummy would record my colpi validi, hits to the valid target areas, as well as track the speed and precision of my strikes.

I stepped into guardia and adjusted my posture into the classic Italian stance, my knees bent, my weight forward on the balls of my feet.

I executed a fluid affondo, the blade cutting through the air with precision, followed by a finta di sotto to bait an imaginary defense. I continued my relentless barrage of botte segrete and coupés, weaving feints into perfectly timed lunges, when a low whistle interrupted me.

Wiping my forearm across the sweat in my eyes, I turned to face my brother Arcangelo. Dressed in his full monsignore garb—a black Roman cassock and purple faille fascia sash around his waist—he leaned against the sala d'armi entrance with his arms crossed over his chest.

“What did that dummy ever do to you?”

“Aren’t you too busy running the shadow evil empire to bother me?”

Arcangelo chuckled as he stepped into the room.

Running his hands over the sword rack, he selected a rapier and tested its balance with a flessione of the blade. “I’m taking the day off. It’s some religious holiday.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”