Alessandro's POV
My arms stung like a bitch as I got dressed.
The injury from the shootout still throbbed beneath the fresh cast — a white reminder of how close I’d come to losing the arm altogether.It would stay like that for months, and the thought made me grind my teeth.
I stared at myself in the mirror, jaw locked, chest rising and falling with quiet rage.
What the fuck was I even doing with my life?
Every day I woke up to more blood, more orders, more power — and none of it felt like it meant anything anymore.I hated this work.But at the same time...I liked it.It gave me everything I ever wanted.Control.Fear.Respect.
Power was a drug, and I was addicted.
I glared at my reflection.For a second, I saw through the cracks — to the part of me I buried years ago.The part I swore I’d never acknowledge again.
Maybe I wanted something else.Maybe I wanted change.
And then — a thought slipped in.
Ariana came back just in time.
No.
No.
I shook it off violently, dragging my coat on before I could start questioning myself any further.There was work to handle, and I didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on ghosts.
I stepped out into the corridor — only to find Andrés rushing toward me.
“Abbiamo un visitatore al piano di sotto,” he said breathlessly.“You might want to see who we’ve got.”
My brow arched.“Andiamo.”
We descended the stairs together, and as soon as we reached the basement, the metallic scent of blood hit me.The air was thick with it.
A man sat strapped to a chair in the center of the room, surrounded by my men.His face was a swollen mess — bruises already blooming purple against his skin, sweat dripping from his hairline.
Salvatore noticed me and stepped back to make room.
“Who the fuck is he?”I asked.
“Luca Bianchi,” Salvatore replied.“Worked with Nicola.”
The name made my pulse slow, heavy.
I nodded, slipping my coat off and tossing it onto a nearby chair.“Alright.”
Then I raised a hand.“Ragazzi, stop.”
The room froze instantly.The rhythmic sounds of fists meeting flesh fell silent.I stepped closer until I stood right in front of the bastard.
He looked up at me, blood trickling from his split lip.Young.Small.Scared — though he was trying to hide it.His hair was a matted mess, and dark bruises had already formed around his eyes.
We’d been looking for him for weeks — one of Nicola’s old associates, running from someone who wanted him dead.My men had caught him just in time.
I expected fear.Maybe even begging.
But instead, the fucker laughed.
