Iris:

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“Signora Rossi?”

One of my men called from just outside the office door, his voice muffled by the cheap wood. I sat behind my desk, nearly buried under the weight of paperwork from shipping manifests to coded ledgers, and dealt memos with the Bianchi family’s associates.

Being the underboss meant handling every problem the boss refused to touch. Lately, that meant everything. Nicholas had been scarce again, not because he was careless, but because he operated where I couldn’t: behind polished doors, negotiating with politicians, bankers, and foreign contractors, getting what he wanted without ever raising his voice, I ran the streets. I handled the impossible deals that kept our territory locked down tight, crushed threats before they had a chance to grow, and made sure every shipment, every word with rivals, every debt collected—or buried—was accounted for.

Nicholas was the face of diplomacy and influence, moving through gilded halls and whispered negotiations. I was the iron fist working unseen, navigating the back alleys and shadowed corners where loyalty wasn’t given, but bought with fear and respect was earned in blood. This role demanded ruthless decisions, sharp instincts, and a mind always ten steps ahead. The grind never stopped. The pressure never eased. But it was that unrelenting work. Cold, calculated, merciless…that kept us alive. That kept us on top.

He found me when I was running for my life, fleeing a rival family that thought they owned me after my own blood sold me out. I was the daughter of one of Rome’s most powerful politicians, but none of that mattered once my family handed me over like a pawn. Stripped of everything, marked by betrayal, with only a ruthless drive to stay alive. He pulled me out of the fire and into the Bianchi family, gave me a place where I wasn’t a prize or a target, but a force to be reckoned with. I owed him everything…my life, my rise, and my role at the top of the empire he built from the ground up. But even with that loyalty between us, even knowing we’d both die for each other without a second thought... I still wanted to snap his neck clean off every time he left me buried under a mountain of shit no one else had the guts or brains to handle.

“Come in” I said, trying to mask the exhaustion in my voice. I didn’t need anyone thinking I was slipping—not when eyes were already on me, waiting for cracks.

The door creaked open. One of the younger guys stepped in, cradling a stack of fresh paperwork like it might explode. He looked nervous, as if I might lash out just for breathing wrong.

“Boss said you have to sign these as well…” He muttered

I glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. If looks could kill, he’d already be a cold body in the trunk of a car. Still, I just sighed and pointed to a bare corner of the desk.

“Yeah, whatever. Put them here.”

He placed them down gently, like he was handling a bomb, then disappeared without another word. I didn’t blame him. Even I wouldn’t want to be near me today.

Outside my office window, the city of Palermo simmered under the Sicilian sun its crumbling facades and narrow streets steeped in history and silence. The Palermo district was Bianchi territory and had been for decades. Not just in name. In blood. Every street vendor, every butcher, every crooked cop and wide-eyed kid knew who kept this part of town in order. We didn’t ask for gratitude. We didn’t need parades. We had order and, in a city, carved up by wolves, that counted for something.

The Bianchi family ruled with an iron fist, yes, but not one that crushed without reason. We weren’t like the others. We didn’t bleed the people dry. We didn’t leave bodies in alleyways unless someone gave us a damn good reason. That difference was everything. It meant the old women who swept their stoops in the morning nodded when our cars passed. It meant the corner shops never paid late, not out of fear, but respect. Because in a city ruled by mafia empires, the people of Palermo knew one thing for sure: under our protection, they slept a little easier.

We weren’t saints. But we kept the wolves at bay.

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The silence in my office wasn’t peaceful. It was tight drawn thin like wire over a city that never truly slept. Outside, Palermo breathed in low pulses: the buzz of scooters weaving through alleyways, a vendor shouting over a cheap radio, the metallic clatter of everyday survival. Noise, always—but never loud enough to drown out what crept beneath it.

I shuffled a stack of untouched contracts, mind a thousand miles from the ink. My gaze tracked the street outside, but my thoughts already circled somewhere darker.

Then came the knock. Not hesitant. Not loud. Measured.

“Enter,” I said flatly, without looking.

The door creaked open, and Marco stepped inside. He didn’t flinch at my tone—one of the few who’d learned not to. That alone told me this wasn’t routine.

“Well, well,” I murmured, eyes still on the window. “If you’re here, either someone’s dead, or about to be.”

“Closer to the second,” he said, walking forward. “We’ve got something.”

I finally turned toward him; my eyebrows raised. “If it’s another port delay, they can sit on the crates and think about their incompetence.” I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “You don’t bring me rumors. So, let’s hear it.”

He slid a folded piece of paper onto the desk. “Message. No signature, but you’ll recognize the hand.”

I picked it up without urgency. My eyes scanned the handwriting. Slanted. Clean. Smug.

Fiore.

Of course.

“‘Enna expands. Palermo falters. Maybe it’s time the island had new order.’”

I read aloud; voice flat. I tossed the note on the desk like it offended the wood. “Poetic. For a family that still counts bullets like rosary beads.”

Marco stayed silent, waiting.

“Their timing’s shit,” I muttered, lighting the edge of the paper with my silver lighter. “They really think Nicholas being away means we’re asleep at the wheel.”

“Port activities changed,” Marco said. “Dock workers talking, some money shifting hands under the table. Low-level movement—for now.”

I watched the message curl into ash in the tray, then looked up at him.

“Find out who’s leaking. Who’s listening to Fiore whispers and pretending it’s just wind.”

My tone sharpened. “If someone’s letting them plant roots on my soil, I want their name, their price, and a list of who they’re breathing near.”

Marco nodded once. “And when we find them?”

I leaned forward, elbows resting on the worn desk, my pale green eyes cold and sharp, like emerald knives cutting through the dim light

“Bring them to me.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“I don’t want bodies dumped in the alleyways,” I said with a cold smirk. “It ruins the scenery and honestly, it’s sloppy. If someone’s selling my city to the Fiores, I want to hear their lies straight from their trembling mouths before I make them regret it.”

Marco’s nod was slow and deliberate. “So, you want to send the message yourself.”

“Of course,” I said, voice low and dangerous. “Let Enna know Iris Rossi doesn’t outsource threats.”

He turned to leave.

“And Marco,” I called, stopping him like a final warning.

He looked back.

“No bruises. No blood. Not yet. I want them scared—still breathing when they figure out how deep the knife really goes. Fear tastes better when it’s patient.”

The door shut behind him. I sat there a moment longer, watching the last of the smoke fade from the ashtray.

The Fiore family thought Palermo had gone soft. That Nicholas was too distracted, and I was too buried to notice the cracks.

They were wrong.

They wanted to test Palermo’s backbone. Fine.

Let them taste how hard it snaps.

I don’t flinch.

I don’t break.

I crush.

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The basement of the Bianchi manor wasn’t listed on any blueprints.

It sat beneath layers of old stone, cut off from the hum of the city above. No windows. No sound but what you brought with you. The air was always cold, no matter the season, and it clung to the skin like damp regret.

It was built for one thing: reminders

I walked down the stairs like I owned the silence. Each step deliberate, the sharp click of my heels cutting clean through the thick basement air. This place, cold concrete walls, dim overhead lights, the stink of sweat and fear soaked into stone, was where illusions went to die.

I wore tailored black suit pants, and a charcoal button-up shirt tucked in with precision, cinched by a black leather belt. My holster rested against my hip, the weight of the pistol was more comforting than threatening. I rarely needed to draw the pistol resting there, but it stayed with me like breath. Like certainty.

The cuffs of my shirt were rolled past my forearms. On one wrist, my silver watch ticked steady. Just beneath it, half-veiled by fabric and shadow, curled the ink of a thorned rose branch…the Bianchi crest. Our legacy. My vow. The thing I’d bled for more times than I could count.

My skin was caramel under the cold basement light. Chestnut hair pulled back tight, not a strand out of place. Pale green eyes scanned the room like they already knew the ending, because they usually did.

I didn’t need to look intimidating.

I was.

Marco was waiting when I stepped in. The two men tied to the chairs flinched the moment they saw me. They weren’t made men, just low-level errand boys for the Fiores, trying too hard to puff up in a room that would swallow them whole.

“Signora Rossi,” Marco greeted with a nod.

I said nothing. Just let my eyes glide across the room, then over them, like I was inspecting a pair of insects pinned to glass. The basement was cold, sterile, quiet. The kind of place where voices carried too far and screams hit the walls like birds crashing into glass.

I took a slow lap around the room, dragging the silence out, making them squirm. I didn’t rush moments like this. Fear needed time to ferment.

“Well, well,” I said at last, casually. “You boys don’t look like much. And yet… here we are.”

The smaller one opened his mouth, some pitiful excuse forming, but I raised a finger without even looking his way. He shut it just as fast.

I stopped in front of them, leaning one hip against the steel table. I crossed my arms and let the cool weight of the moment settle.

“You thought you could whisper for Fiore in my streets and not be noticed?” I asked, calm, conversational, like I was asking about the weather. “Enna’s dogs think they can mark Palermo and walk away untouched?”

No answer. Just a twitch of fear in the eyes. Good.

I leaned in, close enough that my breath hit the taller one’s cheek.

“You were warned. This city isn’t neutral ground. It belongs to us. To me.”

I straightened again and moved behind their chairs, slow, thoughtful.

“You’re not soldiers. You’re not made. You’re meat.” My voice dipped into something colder. “And they sent you because meat burns easy.”

They said nothing. Just sweat and swallowed fear.

“Here’s how this works,” I continued, coming back around and resting my hands flat on the table. My eyes met theirs, pale green, sharp enough to cut. “You answer my questions. You tell me who you spoke to, what they promised you, who else is whispering where they shouldn’t be.”

I gave a slow smile. Not warm. Never warm.

“And one of you walks out.”

They blinked. One swallowed hard. Marco said nothing. He knew better than to interrupt me in this room.

“Lock the door,” I said without turning.

He did. The click echoed like a nail in a coffin.

I looked at the two of them—barely men, now frozen in place like prey waiting for the predator to choose which throat to rip first.

“This isn’t a negotiation,” I said softly. “It’s a test. Of how much pain you can sit through. Of how fast your loyalty snaps when you realize the Fiores won’t be coming to save you.”

I took a seat across from them, leaned back, and folded my hands.

“Now,” I said. “Let’s talk.”

The bigger one shifted in his seat, trying to put on a front. “We were just—”

I turned on him fast. Just one step, but sharp enough to make his voice die in his throat.

“I don’t care what you were ‘just’ doing,” I cut in. “You’re on my turf. That’s not a coincidence. That’s a message. So now I’m sending one back.”

I crouched in front of him, leveling my gaze with his. “I want names. Contacts. Every bastard whispering Fiore in Palermo. And you’re going to give them to me. Not because I’m asking…but because this is the kind version of me.”

I stood slowly, dusting imaginary lint from my sleeves. “The other version doesn't leave things so tidy.”

Their silence stretched. The smaller one swallowed hard.

“Look, we…we were only told to watch. That’s it. Just observe. Pass information. That’s all we know.”

I smiled: sharp, humorless.

“Good,” I said. “Because I want more than what you know. I want what you suspect. What you overheard. Every damn word you didn’t think mattered.”

I nodded once toward Marco, who stepped out of the shadows with a notebook and pen.

“You’ll talk,” I told them. “Because this is your only chance to do it with a tongue.”

I turned and walked toward the door, but just before leaving, I paused.

“Oh…and when we’re done?” I glanced back, eyes glinting in the low light. “You go back to Enna. You tell them how we do things in Palermo. You tell them who came to greet you… and how lucky you were to leave breathing.”

I left the door ajar, the faint click of the lock echoing like a promising warning. The muffled voices behind me didn’t need to be loud; I’d hear every confession, every lie, every crack in their resolve.

Palermo was mine to protect, and tonight, I reminded the Fiore family exactly who held the reins.

As I ascended the stairs, the weight of the city pressed in, but I carried it like armor. This war was far from over, and I was just getting started.

Nicholas:

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They say Palermo never sleeps. I say it just learns to dream with one eye open.

I was sitting on a sun-drenched terrace near Taormina when the message came through, faint scent of citrus in the air, espresso cooling at my side, a woman in my bed whose name I wouldn’t remember.

Then: a single buzz on the phone, a name on the screen.

Marco.

I glanced at the screen, thumb hovering over the lock. I already knew what it would be. Marco didn’t write unless Iris had started something. Or ended it.

I opened the message.

“Iris pulled them in. Fiore informants. One talking. One’s not.”

I smiled. Slow. Pleased.

“Of course she did,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

Behind me, the woman traced her nails down my spine. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “It’s barely morning.”

I didn’t look at her.

“It’s always morning somewhere,” I murmured, then sat up and pulled on my shirt without urgency. “Besides… duty calls.”

I slipped on my shirt: linen, ivory, loose at the cuffs, and stepped outside, letting the wind comb through my hair.

“Duty?” she echoed, a laugh in her voice.

I gave her a half glance and a full smile. “It’s a family thing.”

She pouted. It was probably cute. I didn’t check. I was already buttoning my cuffs.

Outside, the Sicilian coast stretched out, golden and ruthless. Beautiful and jagged, like Iris when she’s calm. That was the dangerous version of her. And if she was handling interrogations personally, we’d already passed the point of diplomacy.

 My phone buzzed again.

More details. Names, Loose ties to the Enna docks, Lower-tier men.

I lit a cigarette and brought it to my lips.

Then I called Marco.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Boss.”

I leaned against the stone railing of the terrace, overlooking the slow pulse of Taormina. Below, the city breathed in warm shadows and golden streetlights. I took a slow drag from my cigarette.

“Did she do it herself?”

“Yes, sir. Took them down to the basement. Didn’t let anyone else touch it.”

I smiled, smoke curling from my lips. “Of course she did.”

“One of them broke. Gave up a few names. Street rats, mostly. But it’s something.”

“She let one walk?”

Marco hesitated. That was answer enough.

“She said he had a message to deliver.”

I exhaled a soft laugh: low, amused, edged in affection. “Let me guess—he’s limping.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“And Marco?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Iris something for me.” I let the pause stretch, just long enough to tighten the line. “Tell her she’s beautiful when she’s furious, but it’s when she’s calm that I remember why I’m afraid of her.”

Click.

The call ended, and I stayed where I was. Soon, I’d be back in Palermo.

And if the Fiores thought Iris was the worst thing waiting for them, they clearly hadn’t missed me enough.

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 The wheels touched down in Palermo just after dawn, kissing the tarmac like they knew they were home.

I stepped off the jet without hurry, inhaling the air like a man savoring his first drink after too long gone. Salt, smoke, cigarettes. Palermo still reeked of all its sins.

A driver waited beside a sleek black car, engine running, posture perfect. He gave a small bow.

“Welcome home, Signore Bianchi.”

I smiled the way people trust warm, practiced, with just enough fatigue to make it human. “Grazie. Tell me the espresso in this city hasn’t gone to hell while I was gone.”

He chuckled: nervous, flattered. “It hasn’t, sir.”

“Good. One crisis averted.”

The city blurred past the tinted windows as we pulled onto the road. Palermo stirred under the early sun, bleary-eyed and beautiful in her own feral way. She was a jealous lover, this city. She remembered who fed her, who fought for her, and who wore her name with pride.

And the people—ah, the people—they adored me.

The man who shook hands at baptisms and kissed cheeks at funerals. The patrons who paid for their festivals, protected their businesses, kept the wolves from the doors. Nicholas Bianchi. Palermo’s golden son.

They didn’t see the teeth behind the smile. They weren’t supposed to.

The phone buzzed in my hand. A photo. Bloodied shoes in a hallway I knew too well. Marco’s message beneath it:

‘He ran. Just like she wanted.’

I grinned.

Iris.

She didn’t need violence to leave a scar. Her calm was a scalpel. And when she was like this: still, quiet, terrifying…God help anyone who thought her predictable.

I leaned back, resting my head against the seat as the manor came into view, its iron gates yawning open like a beast called to heel. The guards stepped aside. One of them gave a stiff nod. No smiles.

 Smiles were for the city.

Respect lived behind the gates.

As we rolled through the courtyard, I reached for my sunglasses and slipped them on. My reflection in the tinted glass smiled back at me: well-dressed, clean-shaven, harmless. The lie everyone wanted to believe.

And when the time came, I’d make sure they still loved me, right until I put the knife in.

Because when Palermo needed a prince, I gave them one.

But I’ve always been the king.

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The front door was already open when I stepped from the car, as if the house itself had been holding its breath.

Inside, the air was cooler, stone and shadow, the faint smell of aged wood and Iris’s perfume. I passed the foyer, nodding at the guards, moving through silence that had teeth.

She didn’t come to greet me.

Of course not.

I found her in the study, back to me, sleeves still rolled, arms crossed as she stared out the window toward the back courtyard. There was blood on her cuff, just a fleck. Nothing about her posture said "welcome home."

“Iris,” I said, smiling like I always did when I knew I shouldn’t. “You’ve redecorated. The tension’s a nice touch.”

She didn’t respond. Just that sharp, cold silence that always told me she was more pissed than polite.

I stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like walking through a minefield I’d helped bury.

“You’re late,” she said without turning.

I exhaled. “Got held up.”

“Don’t bother.” Her voice was flat, sharp as a knife. “I spent weeks cleaning your mess while you were off playing the gentleman with politicians. You left the family in chaos.”

I felt the sting, but not surprise. She never minced words.

“That had to be done,” I said. “The family needed those connections.”

 She whipped around, eyes blazing that fierce, pale green I’d known since the day I saved her from the firestorm that was her life. “Connections?” Her voice dripped with ice. “You call playing nice with politicians while I was left holding the damn line connections? You left Palermo to drown in chaos while you played the perfect gentleman.”

I met her glare without flinching. “I did what had to be done. Politics keep us alive longer than guns alone ever will.”

She snorted, folding her arms like she was daring me to argue. “Alive? You think smooth smiles and handshakes replace loyalty? The streets don’t care about your fancy diplomacy, they care about power and respect.”

I stepped closer, my voice dropping low, calm but sharp. “You held the streets. I handled the shadows. Together, we keep the family standing.”

She tilted her head, a slow, mocking smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Standing? Is that what you call it when Fiore rats are bleeding on our steps and our allies are questioning whether you still breathe?”

“I trust you to remind them,” I said. “With clarity.”

Her smile vanished. “Don’t twist this into flattery. I’m not one of your soft-suit contacts you can charm into forgetting the smell of blood.”

“I’m here now.”

She laughed—dry, hollow, like the echo of something that used to be human. “A ghost with good timing.”

Then nothing. Just a breath.

“If you disappear again…”

“I won’t.”

She snapped her gaze to mine, mouth twisting. “Of course you will. It’s your signature move.”

I didn’t argue. The truth didn’t need a second voice.

But this time, if the ground gave out beneath us, I wouldn’t be the one watching from a distance. I’d go down with the wreckage.

I hadn’t been gone that long. Not long enough to forget how to fight, or how to lead. If anything, I was stronger, sharper, more dangerous. Still, leaving her to handle this mess alone left a bitter taste I couldn’t shake.

Iris was fierce, no doubt. She could hold the family’s pulse steady,  better than most. But she shouldn’t have had to. Not like that. Not without me.

I didn’t doubt myself, not for a second. I knew what I was capable of. But guilt? Yeah, that was different. That was the part of me that hated knowing she faced hell while I was somewhere else. That I trusted her to bear that alone.

Iris didn’t need me to survive.

But I wasn’t about to let her do it alone again.

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Iris:

The door clicked shut behind him, the echo lingering longer than I expected. Silence wrapped around the room like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. I leaned back in my chair, eyes fixed on the dark stain marring my cuff, a stubborn reminder of the fight I’d just finished.

Nicholas. Always arriving too late, always carrying the weight of decisions made without me. His presence filled the room for a moment, then vanished like a ghost leaving behind cold air.

I clenched my fists on the desk, feeling the hard grain of the wood beneath my fingers. He talks about loyalty and fighting together, but words alone don’t stitch the wounds left by his absence. Not when I spent nights unraveling his mess, blood and broken trust staining every step.

There was no room for weakness here, not in Palermo, not in this family. I was forged by fire, but fire could burn out. And sometimes, I wondered if the part of me that believed in him was just smoke.

Outside, the city carried on, indifferent and hungry. Somewhere, the Fiore family smiled, knowing the leverage they still held, the secret tied to my blood, the past that never truly let me go.

My father, Matteo Rossi, was a man who played the game of power with a polished smile and a ruthless hand. To the world, he was untouchable, a pillar of respect. But I saw the cracks beneath the marble, the fragile threads holding us together.

The Fiore family found those cracks and widened them with a secret so dangerous it could shatter everything. They didn’t just want to take my family down, they wanted to own us.

And so they took me.

I was just a girl when they handed me over, a bargaining chip in their endless war for control. They wrapped their claws around my family’s legacy and squeezed until they bled, using me as proof that loyalty had a price.

Then Nicholas Bianchi stormed into my life.

He saw past the chains—the scars etched deep, the silence I wore like armor, the walls I built stone by stone. Where others saw a broken girl, Nicholas saw a warrior forged by fire and betrayal. He pulled me from the Fiore shadow, dragging me into the Binachi fold, not as a rescued pawn, but as an equal, a weapon shaped by pain and sharpened by resolve.

But rescue was no salvation.

I carried the weight of betrayal and loss like a second skin, scars hidden beneath every calculated move and every quiet moment of vulnerability. Nicholas didn’t just see the woman I was; he saw the woman I could become. Together, we rebuilt what had been shattered…my trust, the family’s power, and something fragile but fierce: hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, we could rewrite the destinies carved out for us by blood and violence.

I wasn’t just his underboss. I was his equal in every brutal calculation, every gamble in the dark. And together, we were a force no enemy could ignore.

Every move Nicholas made, whether on the streets or weaving through the shadowed corridors of political power, felt like a step closer to the edge of that darkness. And I wondered, not for the first time, if the past was ready to catch up with us both.

If it did, would we burn together? Or would one of us be left standing in the ashes?

Iris:

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Nicholas had left with his usual storm of words and promises, but the truth hung heavy between words unsaid, wounds barely covered. I felt the weight of his absence more than his presence. He carried the shadows in his own way, but this battlefield was mine to hold. Or so I convinced myself.

That’s when I saw it.

A folded piece of paper, tucked under the edge of the heavy oak desk, almost deliberately placed where I would find it.

I picked it up slowly, my fingers tightening around the cold, thin sheet. The ink was cruel, deliberate:

“The past isn’t buried, Iris. The dirt beneath your family’s marble can’t stay hidden forever. Bend or watch it all burn.”

The words cut sharper than any blade.

I swallowed hard, the room seemed to close in. It wasn’t just a threat; it was a promise. The Fiore family had never forgotten. They never would.

Memories crashed in…my father’s proud smile at council meetings, the careful way he held himself like a man who owned the city’s secrets. The whispered deals behind closed doors, the subtle nods that shifted power with a glance. But beneath that polished veneer lay rot, a poison hidden beneath marble pillars and velvet drapes. The cold night when everything shattered played on repeat in my mind…the night I was torn from my home, handed over like a prize in a transaction drenched in betrayal. The Rossi legacy, once a beacon, had cracked and bled into the shadows of my present.

I clenched my fists on the desk, feeling the rough grain dig into my skin, grounding me. Nicholas’s voice echoed softly in my mind, his words about loyalty, power, and the fragile thread holding us together. Yet loyalty felt hollow, a fragile shield against the ghosts that circled, waiting for the moment to rip us apart.

I crushed the paper in my fist for a heartbeat, then let it fall. This wasn’t just about power. It was about survival, mine, Nicholas’s, the family’s.

But survival demanded more than loyalty. It demanded fire.

The note still burned in my pocket as I stepped into the dimly lit war room…a fortress of shadows and whispered decisions. The walls, lined with maps and photos, held the history of every strike, every alliance, every betrayal the Bianchi family had endured. Tonight, they’ll witness another chapter.

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 Marco stood by the table, sharp-eyed and silent, already piecing together the puzzle without needing orders. He was always ten moves ahead, the only one who could stay quiet without fading into the background.

 Lucia was hunched over the operations map, her dark curls tied back tight, cigarette dangling from her lips like it owed her something. Logistics chief, old-school Sicilian, and the last person you wanted to disappoint. She’d been with the family longer than some of our men had been breathing, and she had scars that didn’t need to be seen to be felt.

Elias leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossed, a smirk curled into his mouth like he was already halfway to the gunfight. Young, hungry, and a little too eager to prove himself with blood. He was smart, but reckless... loyal, but green. The kind of soldier who'd either rise fast or burn out gloriously.

The door opened behind me, and Nicholas stepped in…unhurried, like time bent for him instead of the other way around.

He entered quietly but with that familiar, unshakable presence. Tall, well-built, his broad shoulders filling the doorway like a force of nature. His hair, a tousled dirty blonde, caught the faint light, a wild contrast to the cold, calculated man I knew beneath the surface. But it was his eyes that held me…their light blue depths calm and piercing, like the calm before a storm, harboring secrets and fire in equal measure.

There was a raw masculinity in him, an undeniable strength that made the air between us pulse with tension and something darker…something unspoken, yet fiercely alive.

Every line of his well-defined face, every movement carried the weight of a man who ruled with an iron will, but whose charm was a weapon just as sharp.

His gaze locked with mine, searching, weighing. I could see the burden he carried behind that calm exterior, the same burden that clenched my own gut.

I didn’t greet him.

Lucia nodded. “He lives.”

“Barely,” I muttered.

He ignored it. Of course he did.

After a slight pause, I laid the crumpled message flat on the table, smoothing it out with deliberate calm.

“Fiore’s reaching out,” I said, voice steady. “And they’re not hiding anymore.”

Lucia didn’t flinch. She exhaled a slow drag. “They never were subtle. Just slow. Slower than they used to be.”

“Not slow enough,” Marco said, dropping a thin file onto the table. “Port chatter. Enna hands moving product through our docks. Quiet, but steady.”

I flipped the file open. “How quiet?”

“Quiet enough to fool the guards. Not quiet enough to fool me.” His voice was sharp steel.

Elias leaned in. “Then let’s burn the docks. Send a message.”

I didn’t move. “And what message is that? That we’re amateurs with matches and no patience?”

He blinked but said nothing. Good. I wasn’t in the mood to teach with blood tonight.

Nicholas frowned. “How far up?”

“Too far,” Lucia answered. “Customs clearance, warehouse keys, freight manifest control. They’ve got hands on the levers.”

“And we let this happen under our nose,” Elias muttered, not bothering to hide the heat in his voice.

I turned slowly toward him, my voice like frost. “We didn’t let anything happen. We’re just the ones cleaning it up.”

Nicholas tapped a photo on the map. “This one…what’s his name?”

“Paolo Ferri,” Marco said. “Mid-level. He’s the bridge between Enna and Palermo distribution.”

I crossed my arms. “He doesn’t live to see the end of the week.”

Lucia raised an eyebrow. “You want a clean disappearance or a messy lesson?”

I hesitated.

“Clean,” Nicholas said, reading my silence like scripture. “Not yet. Let Fiore think we’re still playing diplomats. Then we gut their pipeline.”

Elias slammed a hand on the table. “Every day we wait, they spread.”

I looked at him. “And everybody we drop publicly gives them a martyr. They want chaos, Elias. Let’s give them silence instead. Let’s make them guess who's already dead.”

The room went still.

Nicholas nodded slowly. “We take Paolo quietly. Squeeze him. Burn his lines after we’ve mapped them.”

Lucia leaned forward. “And if Paolo doesn’t break?”

I smiled, cold and quiet. “They always break.”

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Nicholas’s fingers hovered over the edge of the file Marco had closed.

“Iris,” he said, voice low and even. “There’s something else.”

I didn’t look at him.

The silence stretched between us like a loaded gun.

Lucia shifted into her chair, eyes narrowing. Marco didn’t move. Elias blinked but said nothing.

Nicholas exhaled.

“You know the Fiores didn’t get their claws into your father by chance. It wasn’t just blackmail. It was complicity.”

That word slid into the room like a knife.

I looked up.

“What are you saying?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. “Matteo wasn’t a victim. He made a deal. Years ago. With the Fiores. Before you were even handed over.”

My hands curled into fists on the table.

Nicholas kept going, soft and brutal. “Your father helped fix two elections. Laundered campaign money through shell charities. Signed off on a hit…one that silenced a union leader pushing for oversight on the ports. It was Fiore muscle, but Matteo gave the name. Gave the green light.”

The war room went cold.

Lucia swore under her breath. Marco looked away, jaw tight.

I didn’t breathe.

“You knew?” I asked, my voice flat. Empty.

Nicholas nodded. “For a while.”

“How long?”

His jaw clenched. “Since before we brought you in.”

The blow hit somewhere I didn’t have armor.

I stood slowly, feeling the blood drain from my hands. The air turned sharp, metallic. Rage made it hard to breathe.

“You kept it from me.”

“I protected you.”

I laughed, bitter and raw. “From what? The truth? From knowing my father was already selling me before he even looked me in the eye?”

Nicholas stepped forward, quiet, calm, dangerous.

“I protected you from a distraction that could have gotten you killed. You needed clarity. Purpose. Not ghosts.”

I met his gaze, voice ice-cold. “Don’t tell me what I needed.”

Lucia stood too, trying to cut down the storm. “We don’t have time for ghosts or guilt right now. We’ve got ports bleeding and rats crawling through the woodwork.”

But I barely heard her.

Nicholas’s voice dropped again. “Iris… you’re not your father.”

“I know that” I snapped. “Because I would’ve burned before I let them have me.”

A beat of silence. It hurt more than it should’ve.

“I’m not angry because you lied,” I said finally. “I’m angry because you thought I couldn’t take the truth.”

Nicholas looked at me, and I saw it… that flash of guilt, not for what he said, but for how well he’d meant it.

The kind of guilt that doesn’t apologize.

Just stays.

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Nicholas:

The door shut with a finality that felt personal. Like the room itself had the sense to leave before things got ugly.

Now it was just us.

Iris hadn’t moved. Not yet.

She stood at the edge of the map table, back straight, shoulders sharp, eyes fixed on the mess we’d just unearthed. Not the ports. Not Paolo. The past…her past. The one I’d kept buried in silence and good intentions.

I waited for her to say something.

She didn’t.

Iris didn’t move. She stood by the table, unmoving, the only thing in the room more dangerous than the maps, the knives, or the war itself.

I watched her. Always watched her.

The world could end, and I’d still be watching her.

She didn’t speak, but I felt the fire rolling off her like heat off asphalt. Contained. Blistering. Ready to scorch everything in reach.

And still, she was the most dangerous thing I’d ever loved.

I never said it. Never would.

That was the game we played.

But God… I worshipped her in a way that made empires feel small. I would tear down cities, gut kingdoms, smile while the world burned if it meant she’d keep standing.

I took a step forward, careful. Controlled. Like everything else I did when I was near her.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

Her head turned slightly—just enough for her profile to cut through the low light. Her voice came out cold. Precise.

“That’s the problem. You thought there was a version of this where I didn’t bleed.”

God. That tone. I’d rather she screamed. Instead, she gutted quietly.

“You want to own me”

I watched her walk to the window, away from the table, away from me, the tension trailing behind her like smoke.

"I don’t want to own you," I muttered, rough and unyielding "I want you to come to me on your own terms."

Her lips curled into a bitter smile. “You think I’d choose you freely? In this life? Don’t mistake survival for desire.”

I closed the distance between us, every movement deliberate, slow enough to let her feel the weight of it. My hand hovered just an inch from her arm, but I didn’t touch…Not yet… Just the threat of contact.

“I’m not the man you think I am,” I said, eyes locked on hers, unwavering. “But I’m the one who’ll be standing when the whole world burns around you. Whether you want me there or not.”

Her breath hitched, just slightly. A flicker of vulnerability flashed through those guarded eyes before she slammed it down like a steel door. Her shoulders stiffened, jaw tightening.

“Don’t mistake me for your salvation,” she spat, voice rough, but there was a tremor beneath it. “I survive because I’m damned good at it. With or without you.”

God, how I wanted to reach out, to pull her close and swallow every scar, every broken piece she carried. But I swallowed the ache instead, locking it deep behind steel.

“You’re not alone,” I said, voice barely above a whisper, but there was fire in it…a promise she refused to admit she needed.

Her eyes flicked down to my hand, still hanging in the space between us, before darting back up to mine, sharp and guarded. “Then don’t leave me.”

That one word cracked the armor. Her whole body shifted toward me, a breath closer, a heartbeat shared.

I swallowed hard. The words I wanted, the confessions, the desperate pleas, stayed buried. Instead, I let my fingers brush lightly over her wrist, a touch soft enough to be denied, fierce enough to be felt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, cold and certain.

We stood there, silence louder than any scream. A war of wills, bruised hearts, and a damn twisted kind of love neither of us dared speak aloud.

Iris’s breath was shallow, her eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to move, to touch her, to prove her right about everything she'd just accused me of. She stood rigid, shoulders squared like she was ready for a fight…but there was something else beneath the armor.

 A flicker. A pulse. That unmistakable pull that had always existed between us, sharp as a blade.

“I don’t trust promises,” she said again, but softer this time. Less weapon, more warning.

“Then don’t,” I said, stepping closer, slow and deliberate…like a wolf circling a flame. “Just feel this. Whatever the fuck this is between us.”

She didn’t back away. Her chin lifted, defiant, lips parted just slightly. Close enough now that I could feel her breath when she spoke. “You think desire makes this real?”

“No,” I murmured, “But it makes it impossible to lie about.”

Her body tensed, and for a second, I thought she might slap me...or kiss me. Maybe both. And God, I would’ve welcomed either.

Her eyes flashed, something electric snapping between us…hot and dangerous. Like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. I reached out, brushing the backs of my fingers down the line of her jaw, featherlight. She didn’t stop me. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re a fucking addiction,” I muttered, voice low and uneven. “Every time I get near you, I forget who the hell I am…what I’m supposed to be.”