Sunlight streams through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, cutting the light skirting around the polished marble floor in hard, golden strips. The distant hum of the city outside seems a universe away. I have slept — if you can call it that — in a silk‑lined guest room that more closely resembled a luxury suite than a prison cell. Rest, trust, acclimate were all on offer.

I didn’t.

My eyes opened before dawn. My mind was a blur of all the options: escape routes, security detail weak points, that spiral staircase I found last night. I pushed on the door — it was locked of course. But I had my rotations down of the guards now. 6 and all of Marco's men went off shift. Once the lock clicked, I had half an hour before I had to be ready.

I rose on shaking legs and put on clothes I pulled from the dresser: a plain black tee, skinny jeans, and boots — soft, black ones, practical, silent. My wedding dress was piled beside the chair, surreal proof of my old life. I stopped, my fingertips grazing the intricate lace. I swallowed, remembering: that girl died last night. I am Isabella Rossi, survivor.

There’s a soft tap on the door that startles me. I press back against the wall, my hand tightening around the doorknob. There is a click from the lock and the door opens an inch.

"Your turn," comes Dante's baritone rumble, dripping with insinuation. Only his eyes and that blade-sharp scar can be seen. He’s dressed in a tailored dark shirt and pants — no suit today, but still sharp, imposing.

“I am,” I say, and I shuffle out of the way to let him in. Marco is standing behind him, stolid, arms folded.

Dante surveys me coolly. “Good. We move in fifteen.”

Marco’s eyes dart to me, assessing. I lift my chin.

“Follow me,” I say, and I cannot miss the tone of that phrase.

A ghost of a smile from Dante surfaces. “Right this way.” He gestures down a long hall of modern art — cold abstracts that taunt me with their indecipherable shapes.

We take the elevator down to the basement. Behind the doors are corridors that have been styled to resemble a high‑end bunker: the steel walls, lacquered in obsidian, are illuminated by hidden LED strips that emit a murky light. Dante takes me to a steel door — he swipes a card and the panel goes live. The door whooshes open, and the light from a single overhead lamp illuminates a cavernous room: the map chamber.

My breath hitches. Floor‑to‑ceiling screens flash satellite images. Tables are littered with ancient leather‑bound ledgers, mounds of intel files, and — most importantly — a detailed relief map of Lagos and its surroundings, which includes a map scrawled with notes.

In the middle is Dante, crossing his arms. “This is where you come in.”

I step forward, heart pounding. My body involuntarily seizes when I see the map: the port docks we used to control, the trucking routes upon which we used to impose our taxes, the safehouses sprawled across the coastal highways. And now, it is all crisscrossed with red lines: Salazar supply chains, distribution hubs, transit corridors.

I swallow. “Your intel is impressive.” My voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Half these roads Rossi hasn’t touched in nearly a decade. The cartel has rebuilt them.”

Dante nods. “Which is why I’m coming to you for help. We focus on where they are weakest — because that is where their supply is most vulnerable.”

I scroll through the map: a cluster of sponge factories on the coast of Ajah, reached by snaking backroads through shantytowns; a dilapidated fish market transformed into a cartel fort; a hidden airstrip outside Lekki. I know them all. In those back alleys I’ve brokered deals; I’ve bribed those guards.

“Your people have info gaps,” I press on, gesturing at a wad of notes scribbled with chalk at the fish market. “They’re no longer getting the old bribe channels across Lagos Island. “Strike that supply drop and you cut off Salazar from his most significant distribution source.”

Dante takes a step closer, his breath hot on the back of my neck. “Show me.”

I slip my fingers beneath the edge of the table, lean in, draw lines on it with my finger on the map. My pulse races, my skin prickles where his shirt touches mine. I fight the urge to recoil. This is business.

I indicate a thin ribbon of road cutting through a residential neighborhood. Here old waterway tunnels go under those houses. Tainted city officials sealed them off to traffic but I know where the maintenance hatches are located. If you put surveillance there, the moment anything is shipped, you’re looking at it before it gets on a main road.”

He looks at the map like it’s a beloved painting. “Risky. If Salazar gets wind of this, they’ll murder everyone around.”

“Agreed,” I say. “But the option is they rush the city. You need leverage.”

Dante’s eyes flick to mine. He nods. “Do it. Overnight.”

My pulse thunders in my ears. “I will require two squads, unmarked cars, and a safe house near the hatch.”

He goes to reply, but hesitates. Marco takes a step closer, removing a palm-sized tablet from his jacket. He raps and hands it to Dante.

Dante looks and hands it to me. A pit sinks into my stomach as I read the file names: Rossi Safehouse — Ajah; Rossi Contacts — Underworld; Rossi Asset List — Confidential.

“They have you on the inside,” I say, jaw clenched. “How far have they probed?”

Marco answers before Dante can. “They know everybody who is important in your network. They have tabs on your side hustles. But not these tunnels.” He points at the map. “Not yet.”

I nod, face set. “Then we move fast.”

Dante is watching me with inscrutable, still silver eyes. “Think of this as your initiation test,” he whispers. “If you win, we go to the next phase.

My eyes meet his, firmness explodes in my eyes. “I won’t fail.”

He points at the map with a finger. “At 0600, teams depart. You will guide them. Now we find out what else you can do.”

The lights dim. My throat goes dry. Suddenly I’m painfully conscious of every thrum of my pulse, every breath. I’m in Dante’s world now, where his rules are the only rules.One wrong move and one gunshot will seal my fate.

I inhale, steadying myself. “Understood.”

Dante takes a step back, motioning for us to leave. I take one last look at the map, committing the backroads, plea points and sharps to memory. This is my opportunity for revenge — and my one chance at survival.

We go back up the elevator, reversing our steps. As the doors open I see the rotation of guards: Marco’s men are on time, luminescent IDs clipped to their chests. They nod to Dante and me and give us no sign at all. I understand that in Dante’s world, no one is actually friend or foe until they have earned it.

Back at the penthouse suite, the sun rises over the skyline. The city is stirring, not knowing enough of the war growing in its nooks and alleys. All shining towers and packed streets are threatening. I’m standing at the window, feet in boots on the cool marble floor, watching Lagos come to life.

There is a soft rap at the door and I am pulled from my thoughts. Marco enters, lugging a tray: two steaming mugs of black coffee and a plate of Nigerian puff‑puff.

He puts it on the ground in silence. I pick off a puff‑puff, bite in — sweet dough disappearing on your tongue. I down the last of my coffee in three long gulps, the bitterness cutting right through the adrenaline.

Dante comes up to the window also, a mug in hand. He sips from it and looks at me. His expression is incongruously soft, the sharp steely corners softened down a notch, and it’s unexpected.

“You did good,” he murmurs. “Not everyone could have latched onto our missing intel so quick.

I shrug, playing it cool. “It’s my past. I know where we’re vulnerable.”

He looks at me for what feels like centuries, and I am naked under his gaze. Finally, he nods. “Then you’ll be indispensable.”

Twisting in my stomach — part pride, part foreboding. To be indispensable to Dante Moretti is to be chained to a devil. But what choice do I have? On my own I’m a target; with him I might live — and I might kill the men who murdered my family.

He looks back at the city. “You and Marco are on your mission tomorrow. Tonight, rest. Get prepared mentally and physically.”

I set my mug down. “Rest. Right.” My voice is tight. “I’ll be ready.”

Marco collects the tray. Dante walks away, stopping at the dooR.

“Isabella,” he murmurs without turning around. “I know you want answers. They’re coming. But first we win the battle for the city streets.”

The door shuts behind him, leaving me with the dawn. I return to the window, stare at the skyline where my dreams used to live. Now it’s a battlefield.

My jaw tightens. Revenge lurks in the dark corners of those streets — and salvation does, too. I square my shoulders and I whisper into the empty room:

“Let them come.”

The moon rides low in the Lagos sky as I enter the ad hoc safehouse—down a dim corridor of a featureless apartment block two streets back from the old waterway hatch. The atmosphere is filled with the smell of dust and stale incense, a cumulative stink that hangs on the walls. Dante’s teams are assembling: 6 men in nondescript black fatigues, assault rifles slung, faces mean. Marco is positioned near a folding table that has been set up with night‑vision goggles, walkie‑talkies and hot cups of coffee steaming in the twilight.

I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say, with a steadiness that belies how shaky I really feel. “Listen up. We are here to intercept Salazar’s distribution channel before day breaks. I’ll lead you through the tunnels, but at no time must you get separated. No heroics.”

They nod curtly. Most one soldier’s eye — a tall, lanky kid, maybe fresh out of boot camp. I want to alert him, but I have no breath to spare. Instead, I adjust the strap on my own rifle and sling my backpack over one shoulder. Inside it? More ammo, a silenced gun, some smoke grenades, and Dante’s tablet with the map.

I approach Marco. "Your secondary units are in place?" I whisper.

He taps his earbud. “Three men, each hatch point. Tonight they’re eyes and ears — no contact unless they go bad.” His tone is clinical. “We’ll have backup in 20 minutes.”

I nod and tuck the tablet under my arm, heading off. The group streams into the corridor, heels clattering in the uncarpeted hallway. By the door to the stairwell I count four guards — the same as last night. My heart thumps but I remain impassive. I give a well-rehearsed flick of my wrist and nudge one of the slender panels concealed beside the woodgrain finish. The door clicks open.

We descend into near‑silence, following flickering emergency lights down three flights of stairs. The air is still and smells of rust and damp concrete. My heart races; every footstep echoes too loudly. The noose tightens with each hour beyond daylight.

At last, we come to a steel hatch on the floor. I drop to my knees, feel round the locks with my fingers and pull the release. The panel swings away, revealing the yawning mouth of the water tunnel: an ancient passage choked with decades’ worth of detritus. Wet pools of water gather at the sides, catching our torch beams like mercury.

I slide down first, clutching the cold metal with my arms, and splash myself in the ankle‑deep water beneath my boots. The men walk after, in single file, their rifles at their shoulders. I guide them into the tunnel, crouching in the low places where the ceiling's canted in, a skirt of darkness squeezing us in all around.

I radio, “Team A, breach point one. Keep watch. Team B, breach point two. Stand by for visual.” The sizzle of static confirms the message was received.

We travel fast, the tunnel winding under the local streets. Far above, the lights of private homes amalgamate into darkness. I have to stop thinking about whoever lives in those houses—sleeping, unaware of our transgression.

Ten minutes later I stop at a fork. Just three pipes, leaking slow drops from above. I raise up a gloved hand at the map, and then toward my lips—signalling to stop.

“Which direction?” murmurs one of Marco’s men, a burly bloke named Silva.

I point right. “Shortcut into the market warehouse. I realize its steel‑reinforced, but there’s a delivery chute we can break into from beneath. It “avoids the primary loading docks.”

Silva gives me a wary glance. “You sure it’s accessible?”

“Trust me.” I turn and feel the weight of their eyes. “Move.”

We enter the thinner arm of tunnel, and I point my flashlight downward. I sometimes slide on slippy concrete in my boots. My mind flies through all the childhood treks I ever made through these passageways: My father leading me by the hand, promising to reveal a secret cavern. Those days ended in blood and treachery. Here I was back, leading men with guns into the belly of the cartel’s structure.

And then we hear it: muted voices, Spanish accents. Then the sound of a metal door being unlocked. I stop, thumbs feeling out magazine releases on my rifle.

“Cartel scouts,” I hiss. “Two o’clock, thirty meters.”

The team fans out, weapons drawn. I make out seven figures — lean, armed, carrying crates. They haven’t seen us yet. Good. I press in closer, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure they can hear it.

Through the radio I murmur, “Wait for me to let you know. Keep them quiet - get them before they can signal for assistance.

I slide a smoke grenade off my belt. Filmy as a breath, I thumb the pin and roll it into the scout group. It clinks once, then hisses. At the very same moment, I yell, “NOW!”

The grenade lands among them, clanking off the ground as a dense cloud of white smoke billows through the corridor. And we shoot — muffled, the rounds blue-gray and measured. I witness bodies crumple, there is the sickly bounce of bullets off crates.

Chaos reigns. I run, feet sliding in inches of water. Another scout attempts to run further into the tunnel; Silva stops him with a burst from his rifle. Another takes aim with his weapon, but is shot in the head by Marco.

Within seconds, it’s over. The smoke rises in empty air; the bodies stay where they are. I sniff for gas—none. Good. We advance, guns sweeping.

I go over to the closest downed scout and kick his arm so that he lands on his back. He whimpers, his eyes wide in the smoke. I shake my head. “No time.” We need to move.

I gesture toward the ceiling in the opposite wall, in which a rusted, square panel hangs ajar. “There—chisels and pry bars.”

Silva and two other men pull the panel away, exposing a narrow chute that was lined with aged wooden boards. On the other side is the heart of the cartel’s contraband hub, where I can practically smell the opium and diesel.

We squeeze in single file. I just feel so… watched in this tight space. Vulnerable. But I swallow it down. I have a job to do.

One by one we emerge into a cavernous room: crates printed with Salazar’s mark, stacks of plastic jugs, burlap sacks bulging with god‑knows‑what. In the half‑light everything looks like a surreal painting. I pan my torch light around the warehouse – poison gas barrels, crates of plastic explosives for shipping up north, and in the middle of it all, a posse of Salazar's lieutenants tallying cash and crates.

My skin prickles. This is the nucleus. If Dante’s other teams can cripple the flow here, the cartel falls.

I kneel behind some crates and whisper into the radio, “Target confirmed. Lieutenant Vargas and four lieutenants. Two heavy crates. Start breach in five … four … three …”

The room shakes violently as smoke grenades are rolled in from the other side of the hatch (where Marco entered from). The lieutenants scream, rushing to grab their guns. My team starts shooting, and everything is momentarily reduced to a blaze of muzzle flash and the sound of screaming.

I lean out of cover, adrenaline pumping hard, harder than it has all match. I shoulder‑check a lieutenant as he dives toward his rifle, put him on his ass and send two rounds into his shoulder. He falls back, eyes terrified. The taste of gunpowder burns down my throat as I run to the next man, heart in my mouth. The operation I’m in charge of plays out and I’m right there: two of our guys smash through the primary doors, blocking off any means of egress from the room; the rest of the cartel guys stumble into room, blind-sided.

Three more breathless minutes, and it’s done. The lieutenants lie groaning; the weapons of Salazar’s men are stacked at the door like waste prizes. I check the scene—smoke drifting by crates, our men slapping on prisoners, the dead body of Vargas melting over barrels.

I remove the tablet from my bag and tap the screen: “Job done. Retrieving intel and casualties count. Extraction in ten.”

The men are silent now, tired but victorious. I realize that Silva is wiping his brow of sweat. His gaze finds mine, respect and relief in them. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe we might actually do it.

I stack up some ledger books and chipboard folders — delivery schedules, code names, financial sheets. Exactly what Dante needs. I slip them into my pack as the first pale fingers of dawn glimmer through high windows.

Then suddenly, alarms go off—a screeching, mechanical scream that rips through the air. My blood turns ice‑cold. A silent alarm of some kind was tripped — a crate sensor, a pressure plate, something of the sort.

I shout, “Move! Exit, now!”

We run back through the warehouse, past the crates and the bodies, retracing our steps toward the chute. But when I ease into its tight embrace, I hear a set of heavy steps and yelled curses coming up behind us. The rest of this cartel support — more than likely a couple of full squads — are beginning to rally to our position.

My chest tightens. We’re trapped.

I worm up to the hatch, force up the panel, and can close the hatches, levers scratching at metal. But something stops—wood planks are broken off from our previous escape. The hatch jams halfway.

I yank at it, panic rising. “Hurry!” I bark. “Get out!”

One of the men pushes by me, limping out of the tunnel. At last, the hatch relents, and I shut it behind me. I jump to my feet, landing on my knees, choking as bullets ping off the metal ceiling.

Heart hammering, I slither back into the tunnel. My teammates chase after me — wet water flying with every step. Marco comes running back down the fork of the path.

I grab his arm. “They’re behind us—fast.”

Marco aims his rifle at the mouth of the tunnel. His finger tenses on the trigger. “Cover fire. Move!”

We run, the tunnel’s twists and curves concealing our escape. I risk a look over my shoulder: six furious outlines block the entrance, guns drawn. They shoot a volley; I press my hot body to the cold wall of the blackout - a string of their bullets overhead.

I grind my teeth and step my legs up further. There is Marco, behind me, calling out azimuth to the secondaries. The hatch points will release a suppressive rain of fire in minutes and cease all cartel re-enforcements.

My boots slide, my rifle arm quivers. I remember Dante’s promise: answers. Revenge. Legacy. It’s what keeps me moving, through the dark tunnel, feet pounding the ground.

At the fork we tear past the left branch—toward the evacuation hatch near the apartment building. My lungs burn. My ears ring. I dare to hope we’ll make it.

One last burst of bullets clatters off the ceiling of the tunnel. Marco curses. “Almost there!”

And then we burst into the stairwell panting and charge up two flights to street level. The sun is too bright for me, hot and reaping. Fatigue crashes in every muscle. But I lurch forward, willing my legs to work.

At last, we arrive in a back street behind the safehouse. A convoy of unmarked vans comes peeling around the corner — our ride. The men file,” rather, pile in, doors banging. I sink into the back of the first van, toss off my pack, and slide down its wall.

The hatch closes. The warmth of the engine's hum beneath us. Tires squeal as the van peels off.

I close my eyes. My chest heaves. My heart is fit to burst.

Marco is crouched next to me, loading ammo into his gun. “You did good,” he says softly.

I look at the floor, my head spinning. “We lost two men.”

He nods. “Collateral.”

I swallow. “They were young.”

Marco looks me in the eyes — no pity, just the truth. “We win the war by paying the price.”

I close my eyes once more and think about that. I wanted revenge. I wanted power. I craved answers. But this — this brutal calculus — I’m still getting the hang of.

The convoy trundles through deserted streets on its way to Dante’s compound. Dawn steals like bloodshot glass across the city, staining the towers behind it pink. From this island, the skyline of Lagos seems tranquil and unaware of the violence that continues to churn below.

She throws my phone, and it passes through the open portal again before I stand up and dust myself off. I straighten out my jacket and continue to run my hand over my face, wiping off any sweat. No point in second-guesses; tomorrow we debrief, organize our next strike and move that much closer to Salazar's core.

And somewhere in Dante’s penthouse, he’ll be waiting — with offers and threats and replies I really don’t deserve.

And I brace myself for what’s next. For in the shadows and the gunfire of this world, only the strong are left standing.

And I plan to be heartless enough to follow through.

The warehouse safehouse reeks of rust and gunpowder, a world away from the polished luxury of a penthouse. The ledger page is eating a hole inside my head; I see Matteo’s jagged signature like a traitor’s confession. The man who comforted me when I wept over my parents’ graves was tied to the Morettis? The cartel? My stomach rolls but I push the betrayal down, stuff it behind the steel wall that I’ve kept around my heart. My name? I’m Isabella Rossi, and I refuse to be broken by a man or anyone else—vampires, sorcerers, it doesn’t matter, powerful men have always broken me and I’m not going to let that happen again—not to me, no, not to the last member of the Rossi family. HEAT LEVEL: This one is steamy, safe, with dual POV, and a happy ending.

Dante's thick shoulders are hunched over the map table, his gray eyes skim the paths I've plotted. His face is in shadow then, from the one overhead bulb, and the scar on his brow is visible, along with the hard line of his jaw. He is a predator where he belongs; but there is exhaustion in his stance now, a chink in his armor I am beginning to perceive. Marco’s outside, “handling” the cartel scouts we hogtied, and there’s a tension between Dante and me, thick with the fight we’ve just been in, and the secrets we’re both holding.

“You’re quiet,” Dante says, without looking up. His tone is low and nearly a growl and it’s almost like he’s pushing me. “That ledger hit a nerve.”

I curl my hands into fists, my nails biting into the flesh of my palms. “Don’t act like you give a damn about my nerves, Moretti. You planted that bomb to screw with me.”

He sits up and his eyes bore into mine, hard and fierce. “I sidelined it because you have to know. "Your uncle's name on that page, that means he's not the saint you think. And if he’s been in bed with the cartel, then we’re both fucked.”

I take a step closer, the wet air clinging my sweater to my skin. “If you knew about Matteo, why didn’t you tell me earlier? Or is this just another playing with me to have me on a leash?”

His eyes smoulder and he steps into my personal space, dominating me. “You think I would be playing games when my head’s on the block with the cartel? I discovered that page tonight, just as you did. “But I are on with the stubborn bastard so I don’t think talking to Lorenzo would … But I know what it means—someone in your family sold you out long before Luca did.”

The words land like a punch, and I hate how they mirror my own fears. Matteo and his father’s lectures about being careful, his promises to make something of the Rossi name — it was all too much, too perfect, too desperate to control me. But a traitor? I sigh and shake my head, pushing that thought away. “You’re wrong. Matteo raised me. He wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t what?” Then Dante is butting in, cutting up her voice. “Betray you? Like Luca did? The same way half the families in this city would if it meant power?” He snatches the ledger page off the table and raises it. “This isn’t sentiment, Isabella. It’s evidence.”

I seize the page, our fingers barely skimming and a jolt I don't want to feel shoot through me. “Evidence of what? A deal? A mistake? You don’t know Matteo. You don’t know my family.”

“And you don’t even know mine,” he snaps, his voice low and threatening. “You think I wanted this war? You thought I wanted to inherit a bloody legacy?” His scarless eye twitches, and just for a moment I can see it — what he hides in that pale eye, what his crown has cost him that he never chose.

I start to open my mouth to tell him — but a loud crack breaks the air — a gunshot, and it’s nearby. Dante reaches for his gun, his body moving to cover mine on some sort of basic, instinctual level. “Get down,” he hisses, yanking me down behind the table. My heart is racing, adrenaline washing through my system. Another shot, then shouts — Marco’s voice, ordering people around.

“Cartel?” I whisper, my hand meeting a knife on the table, the weight of it known, solid.

Dante nods, his eyes roving the room. They’re quicker than I expected. Marco’s got the perimeter but we’ve got to go.”

I clench the knife, training comes forward. “I’m not hiding. Let me fight.”

He shoots me a look — part mad and something else, admiration, maybe. “You’re unreasonable,” he mutters, but there is no heat behind it. “Fine. Stay close.”

We slip through through a side door, the warehouse’s labyrinth of crates and darkness our shield. Outside the night is alive with chaos — gunfire, the screech of tires, men shouting in Spanish and Italian. Marco’s pinned up by the entrance, going back and forth with three cartel thugs. Their black S.U.V.s fill the alley, red cartel insignia shining in the streetlights. My blood runs cold. The Salazars don’t strike as much as they obliterate.

Dante glides, ghostlike, silently, deadly, dropping one thug with a single shot to the knee. I accompany, with a knife at the ready, and my ears pricked. A second thug sees us, raises his gun, but I’m quicker. I stomp the knife in his shoulder.133 I try again.)I roll over, sitting on top of him.134 I fling the knife, nailing him in the shoulder. He shrieks and drops his weapon; Dante dispatches him with a bullet to the head. Our eyes meet, and it’s a silent acknowledgment — we’re a team, whether I like it or not.

Marco is waving us toward him, blood smearing his face from a graze. “They shot our shipment,” he growls. “Knew our route. Someone’s talking.”

The words land like a blade. Someone’s talking. Matteo’s signature flits into my mind, but I push it away. Not now. “How many?” “Who is this?” I say, in a steady voice despite the madness.

“Six, seven at most,” Marco mutters as he reloads. “We can take ’em, but we need to get to the car.”

Dante nods, his fingers skimming my back as he urges me on. The touch is fleeting but searing, underscoring the perilous attraction between us. We run for the SUV, and bullets ricochet off metal crates. I take cover behind a pile, panting, scan, see a cartel thug moving in on Marco. Unthinking, I leap, and tackle him to the ground. I swing my fists, reeling with anger—for Luca, for Matteo, and for all the betrayals that have taken me to this place. He’s gone limp and I zip-tie his wrists, my hands shaking but steady.

Dante hoists me to my feet, his grip unrelenting. “Reckless,” he says, but his eyes are alight, as if he’s seeing me again. “Let’s go.”

We make it to the SUV, Marco providing cover as Dante climbs into the driver’s seat. The engine revs, and we tear away, the warehouse burning in our wake. My heart’s pounding, knife-weightless but memory-heavy in my hand. I was fighting for Dante, for his man, and it feels like a betrayal of my own blood. But the ledger — Matteo’s name — just won’t go away.

“You okay?” Dante says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. His voice is warm, almost human.

I nod my head, swiping sweat from my forehead. “Just let me know where we’re going.”

“Another safehouse,” he says. “We need to regroup, organize the hit on their shipment. You’re still in?”

I look into his eyes sobering up. “I’m in. But if Matteo’s involved — I want the truth. All of it.”

He meets my gaze, something unspoken passing between us. “You’ll get it. But it’s going to hurt.”

The S.U.V. races through the city, a brilliant blur of light and shadow. My thoughts spin — Matteo, Luca, the cartel, Dante. They all are pieces of a puzzle and I make half of it, a Rossi in a Moretti’s world. However, I’m no longer just a pawn. I’m a player, and before some prick—family, cartel, or Dante—exercises my will, I’ll burn this city to the ground.