Fuck.
Enzo abandons his defensive stance and moves to stand beside me. His breath catches at the sight.
Suddenly, a broad back fills the frame and approaches the battered Pierre. The man pinches Pierre’s chin between his fingers, forcing his head up. “Want to beg now,wop?” he sneers.
The accent is thick. Easy to place.
“Russians,” Enzo spits in disgust.
“F–fuck you,” Pierre chokes out, summoning enough strength to launch a bloody glob of saliva directly at his tormentor’s face.
The unseen man flinches back, then explodes forward,driving his fist into Pierre’s face. “Wrong move,wop,” he growls, and signals to someone off-camera.
A few seconds later, another man—undoubtedly another Russian thug—steps into view, though his back is also turned to the camera.
The newcomer stops beside Pierre, calm in a way that’s almost worse, and flicks open a small pocket knife, the blade catching the light as he leans in close. “You should not have done that.”
Then the first man finally turns around to face the camera, and my blood turns to ice.
Sergey Volkov. Thepakhanof the Volkov Bratva.
“Motherfucker,” Enzo curses under his breath.
The Russians have been tentative allies to my brothers and me for a couple of years now. And sure, it’s no secret that Sergey has always been hungry for more power—more reach in my city. But he’s never had the balls to make a move against us. Just the occasional snide comment when he brings us new supplies of arms.
Guess now we know where we stand.
“Moretti,” Sergey’s voice slithers through the speaker as he wipes Pierre’s defiance from his face. “You see what became of your man? Found him lurking in my territory. A spy of yours? You–”
Pierre’s agonizing scream drowns out Sergey’s words, forcing my gaze behind him. The second Russian is dragging the blade down Pierre’s arm—from the top of his right shoulder, past the crook of his elbow, down to his wrist—and judging by the spray of blood, he’s nicked an artery.
Sergey spins towards his man, unleashing a barrage of angry Russian, clearly pissed at having his little monologue interrupted.Always the fucking showman.
He turns back to the camera, irritation obvious in his dark eyes. “Anyway, by the time you get this, your man will be longdead. I could ship his body parts to you, but why waste the postage?” He chuckles. “My dogs will feast on the flesh of wop for the first time in their lives. I hope wop flesh is tasty and doesn’t give them–”
“Why does he keep referring to us as wops and?—”
“Shhh,” I shush Enzo. The slur is nothing new—a derogatory term meant to dehumanize Italians.
“ —poisoning.” Sergey pauses to laugh at his own joke, then his lips curl into what he thinks is a victorious smile. “A new king is coming for your crown, Moretti. So enjoy that throne while it lasts, because soon, it will be mine.” He punctuates his declaration with a wink, and the video cuts to black.
“Fucking Volkov!” Enzo explodes, pacing away from my desk. “What the fuck was that?”
What indeed?I muse, my mind racing through possibilities. Where’s this sudden courage coming from? This… delusion to think he can challenge me? Has everyone gone mad for real? They’re all forgetting who I am so soon? “You said this came in last night? While we were at Inferno?” The same night the FBI struck. Coincidence?
She makes you soft. Enzo’s warning creeps into my head, uninvited—and with it, Emilia’s face.
I banish her image instantly, locking it away in a fortified corner of my mind. I don’t need her up there clouding my judgment right now. Not when I need to be the monster everyone fears.
With a calm that masks the fury burning in my veins, I power down the phone and return it to its box, covering it as best I can. “Go burn it. Then toss the ashes into the Hudson,” I instruct Enzo.
He studies my face, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his. “You’ve got that look. That calm-before-the storm look.” He grabs the box and heads for the door, whistling low under his breath. “Sergey just fucked himself, didn’t he?”.
More than he could possibly understand.
Fucking Russian. He thinks he’s untouchable in Long Island? That territory might not officially belong to the Nightshades, but that doesn’t mean my tentacles don't stretch there. Hell, I can reach any fucking idiot in any corner of the entire damn country.
Sergey Volkov just signed his own death certificate—along with every one of his men.
