The speedboat knifed through black water, its engine screaming against the silence of the night. Veronica Caruso pressed one trembling hand against her shoulder, crimson staining the once-elegant silk of her gown. The wound burned, each breath stabbing through her chest, but it wasn't pain that twisted her features. It was fury.
Failure.
The word pulsed in her mind, louder than the churn of the boat. She had been inches—mere inches—from breaking Gabriel Cavelli where it hurt most. Inches from ending Charlotte Rossi and leaving Cavelli hollowed out, weak, begging. Instead, she had been forced to retreat, her body marked, her pride savaged.
By the time the boat scraped against the private dock of the Vitale safehouse, Veronica was half carried, half dragged onto the pier by Vitale's men. Rough hands steadied her, their grips firm but lacking gentleness. Blood had a way of draining sympathy from even the most loyal.
The warehouse loomed ahead, a cavern of steel and shadows. Its walls dripped with damp, and the air was thick with the oil-stink of machines. Crates of contraband—rifles, ammunition, smuggled cash—were stacked in haphazard towers, guarded by men with sharp eyes and sharper weapons.
At the center of it all sat Richard Vitale.
He was a man who didn't need to raise his voice to command silence. His presence alone was a weight. Leaning back in a leather chair, a cigar smoldering between two fingers, he looked more king than criminal, his suit pressed to perfection despite the grime of the warehouse around him. When Veronica stumbled into view, his eyes tracked her with the cool precision of a hawk watching a faltering rabbit.
"You're bleeding," he said, his tone flat, neither concern nor comfort in the words.
Veronica sank into a chair opposite him, tearing a strip from her ruined dress to bind the wound. "A scratch."
Vitale exhaled, the smoke curling upward in lazy ribbons. "And Cavelli?"
Her hand stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming its work. "Alive," she admitted, the word tasting of acid. "But rattled. I had him by the throat, Richard. I had her. He knows now she isn't untouchable."
Vitale's jaw ticked, his silence stretching, heavy. When he finally spoke, the words were quiet, dangerous. "You promised me Cavelli's head on a platter, Veronica. Instead, you bring me excuses—and your own blood."
Her head snapped up, fire flashing in her dark eyes. "Excuses? I put a bullet between them. I saw his face, Richard. He thought she'd die. He was shaken. That kind of crack doesn't seal easily."
Vitale rose, slow and deliberate. The scrape of his chair echoed like a blade drawn from a sheath. He approached, each step measured, circling her like a wolf appraising prey.
"You mistake tremors for collapse," he said softly, his voice threading into her ear as he leaned close. "Daniel's death should have broken him. But it sharpened him. And now, with her by his side? He fights harder. Every wound you give him, Veronica, you forge into steel. And steel is harder to break than bone."
She held his gaze, refusing to look away. "Then we don't wound him—we tear her away. Take Charlotte, and Cavelli's fire dies with her."
For a heartbeat, silence. Then Vitale's chuckle rumbled low in his chest, humorless. He straightened, returning to the table where maps and ledgers sprawled across its surface. With a sharp motion, he swept aside papers to reveal a single red-marked route across the city docks.
"You think small," he said. "You want blood, revenge, spectacle. I want collapse. Cavelli starves us at the edges, cutting supply lines, making our men doubt. He wants to choke us until the Vitale name is a whisper. But whispers are dangerous things—they slip into ears before steel ever does."
He tapped the map with his cigar, leaving a blackened mark. "Here. This is where we strike next. Not with chaos, not with blood on the street. With silence. We'll move the shipments here, out of his sight, while feeding him scraps that keep him chasing ghosts. He'll think he's crippling us, while we tie the rope around his neck."
From the shadows, Rafa stepped forward, the quiet constant at Vitale's side. "Risky," he murmured. "If Cavelli catches even a whiff—"
"He won't," Vitale snapped, cutting the man off. "Because we'll let him win where it costs us nothing. A few crates here, a dead courier there. Enough to keep him hungry. Hungry men don't see the knife until it's in their gut."
Veronica, pale but unbowed, leaned back in her chair. A slow smile curved her lips. "And the girl?"
Vitale's gaze flicked to her, sharp as glass. He let the silence hang before answering, voice cool and unhurried.
"She's not a target," he said finally.
Veronica's smile faltered. "Not a target?"
"She's bait." Vitale's eyes glinted as he poured whiskey into a heavy glass, the amber liquid catching the low light. "So long as she's beside him, Cavelli exposes himself. Every move he makes to protect her draws him further into the open. We'll use that. And when the moment comes…" He raised the glass, the smile that followed cold as the grave. "…we take her. And Cavelli with her."
The warehouse was still, the men around them frozen, listening. The air smelled of smoke and gun oil and blood.
Rafa's gaze flicked toward Veronica. He saw the tension in her jaw, the twitch of her fingers against the chair's armrest. She wanted the kill for herself. Wanted Cavelli broken by her hand, his lover's blood on her nails.
But Vitale's patience was iron. He didn't crave spectacle—he craved inevitability.
At last, Veronica stood, her wound bound, her beauty now sharpened by the streak of violence across her body. "Then I'll wait," she said softly, steel threading her voice. "But when the time comes, Richard, she's mine."
Vitale didn't glance at her. He lifted the glass to his lips, whiskey burning down his throat, his reflection fractured in the amber liquid.
"Pray you're as good as your word," he murmured.
Later that night
The safehouse quieted. Men drifted to corners, sharpening blades, cleaning rifles, whispering in low tones. The docks skirmish had left cracks—some hidden, some plain. A courier with a shattered arm cursed Cavelli's name. A young soldier lit cigarette after cigarette, trying to mask the shake in his hands.
Veronica paced the narrow hallway, her heels clicking against concrete. She hated waiting. Hated that Vitale's grand designs always demanded patience while her blood screamed for action.
She stopped at a broken mirror propped against the wall. Blood had dried against her collarbone, the crimson now a dull rust. She touched it, smearing it between her fingers like war paint.
"You'll see, Cavelli," she whispered to her reflection, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Next time, I won't miss."
Back in the main room, Vitale watched the men. He noted the fatigue in their eyes, the slump in their shoulders. He knew the danger wasn't just Cavelli's bullets—it was doubt, seeping like rot through wood.
He crushed the end of his cigar into the ashtray, sparks flaring briefly. Then he stood, his voice cutting across the warehouse with the weight of command.
"This war isn't about bullets. It isn't about blood spilled on docks or alleys. It's about legacy. Cavelli wants to erase the Vitale name from this city. But legacies don't vanish—they're carved into stone. Into fear. Into silence."
Dozens of eyes fixed on him, fire rekindling in their chests.
"We'll bleed him slowly," Vitale vowed, his words deliberate, each one a nail in the coffin he was building. "And when the time comes, when he believes he's finally won, that's when we strike the killing blow."
The warehouse echoed with the sound of approval—cheers, fists against wood, the steel hiss of knives sliding home into sheaths.
Richard Vitale allowed himself a small smile. Shadows moved more swiftly than light, and by the time Cavelli saw them, it would already be too late.