Luca straightens, folding his arms. "I’ll handle the docks with my crew. Take their shipments, cut off every line of supply, make sure there’s nothing left to rebuild. The Lombardis think they can operate in the shadows, but they’ve gotten too comfortable. We make them bleed out in the daylight."
I nod. "Good. While you tear down the docks, my men and I will move on their core leadership. We take their captains, their lieutenants, their men who keep this machine running. If we do this right, there won’t be anyone left to call the shots."
I glance at Enzo. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, but his fingers linger near the hilt of the blade strapped to his side. Waiting.
"You," I say, softly, "are going to make sure there’s no one left to pick up the pieces."
A slow smile curls at the edges of his mouth.
I step toward him, meeting his gaze. "Take out their leadership. One by one. Make it hurt. Make it final."
He slides the knife back into his belt. "I can do that."
I look around the room, at the men who have fought beside me, killed beside me, men I trust with my life, with Sofia’s life.
"This isn’t just about the Salvatores." A chill creeps into my voice. "This is about sending a message. We don’t bow. We don’t break. We don’t fucking lose."
A ripple of agreement moves through the room. The decision has already been made.
Luca rolls the map back up, meets my eyes across the table.
"We leave in an hour."
I nod once, turning away. The room erupts into motion, men preparing weapons, checking ammunition, finalizing their squads.
As I step into the hallway, my mind sharpens with only one thought: I won’t let Sofia live in fear.
I move through the dim corridors, past oil paintings and marble statues, past the ghosts of the men who built this family before me. The weight of what’s to come isn’t just in my mind—it’s in the very bones of this house, soaked into its walls, whispering through the cracks like an omen.
By the time I reach the bedroom, my blood is still running too hot, my pulse too sharp from the conversations I’ve just left behind. The plans are set. My men are preparing. Everything is in motion. And yet, when I push the door open and step inside, the only thing that matters isher.
Sofia is awake.
She’s sitting against the pillows, her hair a wild mess from sleep, her fingers absently tracing circles over the fabric of her shirt just above her stomach. My chest tightens at the sight. Ather. The mother of my child, watching me with eyes that see too much, searching my face like she already knows I’m about to walk out that door into something neither of us can control.
I hesitate, standing at the threshold longer than I should.
Then I move to her, sinking onto the edge of the bed, exhaling slowly. The tension doesn’t leave my body, but it shifts—melting, reforming into something quieter as I reach for her. My fingers brush her cheek, and she leans into the touch, just enough for me to feel the warmth of her skin against my palm.
"You’re leaving," she murmurs. It’s not a question.
I nod.
She swallows, her throat working as her fingers curl into the sheets. "Is this it?"
Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through me sharper than any bullet ever could.
I don’t lie to her.
I never have.
I won’t start now.
So, I press my forehead to hers, my lips brushing against her skin, and I tell her the only truth Icangive.
"Everything will be okay."
She exhales, shaky and unsure. "Promise?"
