Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig under the tires, sounds amplified, pregnant with unseen possibilities.
The silence now throbs with an undercurrent of danger. I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, and push deeperinto the black. Rico sits in the passenger seat, his gun resting on his thigh, his fingers drumming against the grip in a slow, steady rhythm. Behind us, a second car follows, carrying two more of my men. I don’t need an army for this.
Mancini isn’t worth that kind of effort.
What heisworth is my time. My undivided fucking attention.
The forest stretches endlessly around us, a suffocating expanse of towering trees and thick underbrush. It’s the kind of place where the world forgets you exist. Where men disappear without a trace.
Fitting.
I keep my grip tight on the wheel, my knuckles white as I force my breathing to stay even. My anger has settled into something colder now, something sharper. I don’t need rage for this. I need clarity.
And I need Mancini to understand exactly what happens to men who betray me.
The cabin emerges from the darkness like a forgotten relic—small, unassuming, built decades ago for men who used to hunt animals, not traitors. It’s been used by the Salvatore family for years, not for leisure, but for business. The kind of business that doesn’t leave loose ends.
I pull the car to a stop a few yards away, cutting the engine. The other vehicle does the same, the headlights clicking off one by one until we’re swallowed by the night.
No one speaks.
I step out, the cold biting through my shirt, but I don’t feel it. The door to the cabin is slightly ajar, the glow of a single hanging bulb seeping through the crack. Someone is waiting inside.
Enzo, the family hitman, stands at the entrance, his expression unreadable. He gives me a small nod, then moves aside. No words are needed. I already know what’s waiting for me beyond that door.
I walk in.
The scent of sweat, blood, and damp wood hits me first.
The place hasn’t changed in years. The walls are bare, stripped of anything that might make it feel like a place meant for living. A fireplace sits unused in the corner, its stone blackened with old soot. The floor creaks under my boots as I step inside, my shadow stretching across the wooden panels.
And in the center of it all—Mancini.
He’s tied to a chair, his wrists bound behind him, his ankles secured to the legs. Blood stains his collar, trailing from a fresh cut along his temple. His suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened, but his posture is upright. He lifts his head slowly, one swollen eye struggling to open, and looks at me.
The man who once stood at my side, who swore loyalty to this family, now looks like a caged animal.
Fear and defiance war in his gaze.
I take another step forward.
Mancini’s mouth twitches, bloodied lips curling at the edges. And then, despite everything—despite the position he’s in, despite the fact that I could end him in the next breath—he smiles.
The silence holds, unmoving, pressing in from all sides. Across the room, the clock ticks, each sound carving into the stillness, marking the seconds with an unnerving steadiness.
Mancini shifts in his restraints. He’s putting on a show, trying to mask the fact that he’s already lost. But I know the look in his eyes. He’s calculating, running through his last plays, trying to see if there’s any way out of this.
There isn’t.
I pull a chair from the corner, dragging it across the floor, the legs scraping against the wood like a blade against bone. I lower myself onto it, facing him, elbows resting on my knees, my hands clasped together as I study him.
"Let’s not waste time." I go straight to the point. "We both know how this ends. But how much it hurts before then—that’s up to you."
Mancini swallows, his throat bobbing, but he lifts his chin. "You think you can scare me, Marco?" His voice is hoarse, but there’s still arrogance there. "I’ve known you since you were a kid. Imadeyou."
I let out a quiet breath, nodding slowly. "That’s the problem, Antonio. Youthinkyou made me. But if that were true, you would have seen this coming."
I glance at Rico, who steps forward and presses his boot against Mancini’s knee, forcing a sharp grunt from his throat. Mancini jerks in his chair, but the bindings keep him locked in place.
