“Riposa in pace.”
Giovanni slumped forward. Blood spread beneath the chair, slow and dark.
I stood still. The gun warm in my hand. My heartbeat even.
The air felt colder now. The act complete.
I pulled out a handkerchief, wiped a single drop of blood from my shoe.
Italian leather.
My father always said it mattered.
“You don’t walk into a room looking like a mess and expect to be taken seriously.”
He taught me how to polish my shoes before he taught me how to shoot.
I turned to the shadows.
“Clean this up.”
Two men stepped forward. Silent. Efficient. One covered the body, the other undid the restraints.
“Make sure he’s found with dignity,” I said. “He was still one of ours.”
They nodded.
I holstered the gun and adjusted my cuffs. The cold brushed against my skin, but I barely registered it.
Giovanni made his choice.
And I made mine.
I holstered the gun and pulled my phone from my pocket.
Three missed calls from Dante.
I stared at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering over the notification. The urge to call him back was there, but so was the weight of everything I’d just done. Dante trusted me to handle things while he was away, to keep the city intact while he played husband on his honeymoon.
And I would.
I sighed and slid the phone back into my pocket.
The car was waiting outside, engine idling, the headlights cutting through the early-morning haze. The gravel crunched beneath my shoes as I walked toward it, the sound sharp in the stillness.
I opened the door and slid into the backseat. The leather was cool against my skin, the faint scent of cologne lingering in the air.
“Take the long way,” I told my driver as I shut the door. “Past the port.”
He nodded wordlessly, putting the car into gear.
The tires crunched softly as we pulled out of the lot. I leaned back in the seat, the muted hum of the engine filling the silence as I watched the warehouse disappear in the rearview mirror.
Another piece off the board.
That’s what it means to be underboss. You don’t just carry out orders. You make the hard decisions when no one else has the stomach for it. You clean up the messes. You protect the family—even from itself.
The port came into view, sprawling and silent beneath the glow of sodium lights.
