Echoes of betrayal

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.”

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