The Russo mansion stood like a monument to excess and age-old power, nestled in one of New York's most exclusive neighborhoods. The wrought-iron gates creaked open at the approach of Lorenzo's sleek, black Maserati, the low purr of its engine announcing the arrival of a man whose presence didn't need introduction. The mansion, sprawling and regal, was just as Lorenzo remembered it—grand, cold, and filled with ghosts in tailored suits.
His driver pulled up to the circular driveway and swiftly got out, opening the back door with practiced ease. Lorenzo stepped out, dressed in a three-piece suit that clung to his frame like custom-made armor. The crispness of his shirt, the shine of his shoes, and the unlit cigar between his fingers all spoke volumes. He didn't come for pleasantries. He came for business—or blood.
He didn't knock.
He never did.
The ornate front door swung open under the force of his push. The marble floors echoed with the click of his shoes as he strode through the long hallway. Artwork lined the walls—classical paintings framed in gold, each more expensive than the last. A pretentious display of wealth, Lorenzo thought. Predictable.
Voices floated in from the living room. A woman's high-pitched laugh, sugary and thin, followed by the low murmur of a man's voice—Salvatore. Lorenzo tilted his head, recognizing it instantly. Without slowing his pace, he walked straight into the room.
Salvatore was seated on a velvet couch, a drink in hand, with a girl curled up beside him. She couldn't have been older than twenty-two, all legs and fake laughter, her hair platinum-blonde and her heels sky-high. The same girl Rose had seen with Salvatore that night at the club. She was laughing at something Salvatore said, fingers grazing his chest, until she noticed Lorenzo.
The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees.
Lorenzo cleared his throat.
Salvatore's head snapped toward him, color draining from his face. He stood up quickly, the drink in his hand sloshing slightly.
The girl blinked, confused, not recognizing the man who had just entered. She remained seated, her gaze flitting between them. Salvatore didn't even look at her.
"A word," Lorenzo said flatly. No greeting. No expression.
Salvatore nodded. "Go," he told the girl.
She huffed in annoyance but stood and sauntered off, heels clacking against the floor like gunshots. Lorenzo watched her leave before sinking into the couch she had just vacated. He didn't bother removing his coat. Salvatore poured him a drink out of habit and placed it on the coffee table, then poured one for himself.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Salvatore asked, settling into a chair across from him.
Lorenzo didn't answer immediately. He took in the room, his gaze sweeping across the furniture, the thick curtains, the dim chandelier overhead.
"I see your house is still the same," he finally said. "Dull, lifeless. And filled with the scent of girls young enough to be your son's partners."
Salvatore's smile faltered for a moment. He laughed it off, but it was brittle. "You know how it is."
"No I don't. I don't need to fuck young girls to stay young." Lorenzo saud leaning forward, placing both hands on his knees. "You brought me the deal from the bratva," he said. "It was promising. Beneficial. I'll even admit, Sergei is a man I've always wanted to work with. But..."
He trailed off, watching Salvatore with a sharp gaze.
Salvatore froze. "But?"
"The deal is off."
Salvatore's glass nearly slipped from his hand. "What? Why?"
Lorenzo didn't blink. "That boy—Nikolai Ivanov—killed my son."
The words dropped like lead between them.
"He killed Fabio. Shot him. And then ordered his men to desecrate the body. When we found him, he was unrecognizable."
Salvatore's breath caught. The story had spread quickly—how Nikolai had killed a man who drugged and tried to rape Rose. But no one knew who the man was.
"That… that was Fabio?" he asked, stunned.
"Yes. My son. My only son. He wasn't perfect, but he was mine. And Nikolai crossed a line I cannot allow to stand."
Lorenzo's jaw clenched, the veins on his temple tightening. He looked like a man barely holding onto his rage.
Salvatore hesitated. "What do you plan to do?"
"He killed my son to save that former whore of yours."
"Rose?"
"Yes. Rose. So she will suffer for it."
"But why not go after Nikolai directly?"
Lorenzo snorted. "That's suicide. Nikolai is Sergei's weapon. Trained. Ruthless. Protected. Striking him directly could ignite a war I'm not ready to fight. Because attacking Nikolai would mean attacking Sergei himself."
"So instead, you go after Rose?"
"Yes. She's his weakness. I've seen the way he looks at her. I've heard how he killed without hesitation to protect her. I want to tear out the heart he's hidden behind that bulletproof armor."
Salvatore's throat went dry. "And what do you plan to do with her?"
"There's an auction coming up," Lorenzo said, voice cold. "A private one. High-profile. For girls. I'll make sure the highest bidder is someone who'll show her more hell than she's ever known. I want Nikolai to live every day knowing she's suffering, and that he can do nothing to stop it."
Salvatore leaned back, rubbing his jaw. "You want to sell her into trafficking?"
"Yes," Lorenzo said simply. "Is that a problem?"
Salvatore faltered. "Uhm… no. But how do you plan to get to her? She's always under Nikolai's watch."
Lorenzo's eyes gleamed. "She's close to your son, right?"
Salvatore shook his head slowly. "Alejandro won't help you with this."
"He doesn't need to know. Just convince him to take her out somewhere. A crowded place. Somewhere she can disappear. Somewhere he'll be too distracted to notice what's happening. You will plan every detail and tell me when and where. I'll have her out of New York by the time the clock strikes midnight. Nikolai won't find her."
Salvatore's fingers drummed against the armrest. "And if it fails?"
"It won't," Lorenzo said sharply. "Because if it does, you'll have much bigger problems than explaining to your brat why his friend vanished."
He stood up, smoothing down his coat. He leaned over and patted Salvatore on the shoulder.
"We might be the same age," he said. "But we are in different leagues."
With that, he turned and walked out, his footsteps echoing in the silence.
Salvatore remained seated, staring at the spot where Lorenzo had stood. His palms were sweaty. His throat was dry.
He had given Rose away to Nikolai, thinking it was the end of his problems. That she would be out of his life and he'd reap the benefits of a truce with Sergei. But now, the deal was off. And he had to use his own son to lure her into a trap.
A trap that would damn them all.
He poured himself another drink. And this time, he drank it all in one swallow.