Chapter 5

Renzo Castellani

 

The rusty scent hung in the air like the promise of rain—of bloodshed. I intended to unleash a flood, drowning this city down to its last building. Those filthy Mexican dogs deserved it—being skinned alive, their heads blown off, their throats torn open, their limbs ripped apart. And afterward, half-dead, I planned to burn them alive until the ashes of their bodies would serve as a sandbox for Brazilian children.

 

Bianca’s bodyguard was still being interrogated. Only that stupid Russian knew where my fiancée would be at that time. My man, Fábio, grabbed a fistful of dark hair and yanked Nikita’s head back. Blood gushed from his nose like a broken faucet. He coughed, blinking half-conscious.

 

“Time is not on your side,” I said in a rough voice. “I’m giving you two minutes to give me names.”

 

“I already told you… I don’t know anything,” he choked out. “I know nothing.”

 

Ashes. Gray dust. That was all that remained of the woman I was supposed to marry. I couldn’t even put up a fucking gravestone for her. There was nothing left to prove Bianca had ever died. The image of her blood-soaked body haunted me every time I closed my eyes.

 

“You were supposed to protect her,” I reminded him calmly. “Where were you?”

 

He tried to shake his head, but the Brazilian’s iron grip didn’t allow it. Instead, he let out another strained breath.

 

“When the shooting started, I was downstairs. Talking to Luca,” he muttered, his face twisting in pain. “He called to ask if I had seen you.”

 

“Why did he ask that?” I raised a brow.

 

“He didn’t say.”

 

He looked straight at me—bloody, exhausted after hours of interrogation. For some reason, I believed him.

 

“And now give me names,” I continued relentlessly.

 

He flinched at the command, shoulders curling inward. He squeezed his eyes shut, lowering his head like a beaten dog. When he shook it again, I rolled my eyes.

 

“Nikita,” I said, closing the distance between us and crouching in front of the chair he was tied to. “My friends and I are trying to be very nice to you. It’s a shame you don’t appreciate it.” My gaze drifted over his swollen face.

 

“Mr. Castellani, I swear I don’t know anything,” he whimpered, his voice breaking.

 

I tilted my head, offering him a faint smile.

 

“Why are you insulting me like this?” I asked, frowning. “I don’t like liars. Did you hear what I did to Cisco?” I muttered, then stood up. “I believe you’re not that stupid.” My eyes swept across the basement before settling back on him. “Or we can do this your way. The Soviets had very effective methods.”

 

“I swear—” he flinched.

 

“I don’t want to hear you swear. You swear to your wife you won’t leave her, or to your mistress that you’ll fuck her. To me, you tell the truth.” My voice softened as I grabbed his arm. “Otherwise, my boys will take care of both of them.” I smiled warmly, brushing my thumb over a cut on his cheek. “So, my friend?”

 

He trembled, gray eyes searching for something to hold onto. When he found nothing, he locked them on me.

 

“Please…” he sobbed. “I have two children, a sick mother… my wife—”

 

I straightened, my head tilting back slightly.

 

“Take it out.”

 

“W-what?” he swallowed hard.

 

“Your dick. On the table. Now.”

 

“Please… I’m begging—”

 

I shot Fábio a look. He grabbed Nikita by the neck, yanked him out of the chair, and slammed him onto the table against the wall. My man held him down, hands tied behind his back, while the bastard struggled like a flea in a mangy dog’s fur.

 

“Names.” I exhaled, unbuckling his belt, his zipper, then pulling down his boxers.

 

“I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!” he cried, thrashing.

 

I raised my brows at his pathetic stupidity. I grabbed a hammer, and the moment it flashed in his line of sight, the Russian broke into a terrified sob.

 

“Please! No! No!” he screamed.

 

While his limp cock twitched on the table like a larva, I was ready to crush it into nothing. I raised the tool—

 

“They planned to assassinate your father!” he blurted out.

 

My eyes widened, my teeth clenching instantly. I caught Fábio’s look—he was just as confused.

 

“Names,” I hissed.

 

For a moment, Nikita thought he was safe. I erased that illusion by grabbing his balls hard. His scream echoed off the walls.

 

“They’re Gallardo’s men!” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

 

I let him go.

 

Gallardo.

 

Who the fuck are you?

 

A second was enough. I grabbed the Russian by the throat and slammed him against the opposite wall. The chair crashed to the floor behind him. I was breathing hard, adrenaline surging through my veins.

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” I whispered coldly. “You recognized them. You knew them. You led them to my fiancée.”

 

I saw it in his eyes.

 

He thought it was over. That he’d find peace.

 

With a flick of my fingers, I signaled my man.

 

“Hang him.”

 

Fábio moved to the control panel. A metallic clank echoed as thick chains wrapped around the traitor’s legs and hoisted him upside down toward the ceiling.

 

I wrapped my hand around a metal crowbar, running my fingers along its cold surface.

 

“Please…” he whimpered. “Have mercy…”

 

“You had my mercy,” I replied coldly, watching the blood rush to his face. “And you wasted it. Traitors pay the highest price.”

 

I swung.

 

The impact cracked like a baseball bat hitting bone. His skull crunched, his scream dragging out—but it wasn’t enough.

 

I hit him again.

 

And again.

 

Blood splattered across my clothes, my face.

 

I felt… relief.

 

I licked the taste from my lip, then spat it onto the floor.

 

“You’re all the same,” I hissed. “Filthy blood, every last one of you.”

 

I dropped the crowbar.

 

“Release the dogs.”

 

Fábio smirked and left the room. Moments later, I was alone with the Russian, what was left of his face hanging in torn pieces. I could see muscle. Bone. His right eye bulging out.

 

He was still alive. I could see his pulse.

 

Then came the growling.

 

Like hell itself opening.

 

Fábio returned, holding two massive black beasts on chains. Presa Canario—our loyal guardians. They hadn’t eaten in two days.

 

The moment the chains loosened, they lunged.

 

One tore into his throat.

 

The other crushed his arm between its jaws.

 

I listened to the wet tearing, the ripping flesh, the bones snapping.

 

He deserved every second of it.

 

“When they’re done, send what’s left to the embassy—with my regards,” I ordered, leaving the basement.

 

My fists clenched so hard my fingers nearly broke. I ripped off my shirt, as if it burned my skin. It was soaked in the traitor’s blood.

 

But all I saw… was hers.

 

Bianca.

 

Her chest bleeding. Her breath fading. Her body growing cold in my arms.

 

“Fuck…” I roared.

 

Before I could destroy the room again, someone grabbed me. Nate. He held my shoulders, trying to pull me back.

 

“Renzo—get a grip!” he snapped, pressing his forehead against mine.

 

“I held her,” I growled through my teeth. “She believed I’d protect her. She died in my arms… and I fucking burned her!”

 

“Breathe,” he said firmly, gripping me harder. “Breathe, damn it. I know it hurts.”

 

“You don’t know shit!” I shoved him back. “You don’t know a fucking thing!” I shouted, my voice shaking the walls. “She’s dead because I failed!”

 

He stared at me with wide eyes. He stayed silent and, fuck me, that was better for him.

 

“Renzo.”

 

I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose. The beginnings of a migraine were tearing my head apart.

 

“Son, I’m talking to you.”

 

Losing control drove me into a fury. I couldn’t afford to be unstable now. Not when the Mexicans expected me to bow my head and retreat from my own territory.

 

Over my dead fucking body.

 

“War,” I said roughly, pointing a finger at my father. “I won’t stop until I slit their throats.”

 

The old man glanced over his shoulder at Nate and gave him a nod. Then he rolled his wheelchair forward until he was right in front of me. He waited for the others to leave the room.

 

“No. First, you show them that nothing happened and that you have everything under control,” he said through clenched teeth. “You need to be seen. Make them believe no one died.”

 

“I’m supposed to go out and entertain myself while they fucking killed my wife?” I choked back the rage rising in my throat.

 

“Exactly that.” He reached out, grabbing my arm and pulling me closer to his face. “That’s not how I raised you.” Anger burned in his dark eyes. “A week is more than enough time for you to get back on your feet. We can’t make ourselves easy targets.”

 

“So what? I’m supposed to pretend Bianca is alive and drink in clubs like my woman wasn’t murdered in cold blood?” I growled, wrenching myself free.

 

He blinked. Something in him shifted in a second. A streak of light crossed his face, and his gaze locked onto mine.

 

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do.”

 

“You’re talking bullshit…” I scoffed, running a hand through my hair.

 

“Pretend she’s alive,” he repeated. “Find someone to replace her.”

 

“Up until now I’ve followed every one of your orders, but this…” I circled a finger in the air. “What are you on? The old you would’ve been the first to order those whores hung in the streets.”

 

I turned toward the exit, done with the pointless argument.

 

“You took an oath,” he snapped, instantly cooling my temper. “Not one step further.”

 

I shut my eyes, my body freezing as something dark spread through my veins like tar, suffocating me from the inside. Grief. Pain. Unprocessed loss.

 

“Bruno Tevez has a daughter ready to marry,” my father continued. “The strongest family in Argentina.”

 

I walked to the counter, grabbed a bottle of cachaça, and poured myself a drink. In the mirror, I caught sight of my face—covered in blood. I twisted my lips as I glanced at my suit pants. That shit was hard to get out of Italian silk.

 

The ice clinked against the glass as I dropped it in.

 

“Are you even listening to me?”

 

“I don’t give a fuck,” I muttered, the glass pressed to my lips.

 

“What did you say?” I heard the disappointment in his voice.

 

“I said I don’t give a fuck.” I took several swallows, the burn spreading down my throat. “I’ll choose my own woman.”

 

The old man’s eyes locked onto mine. I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten.

 

“Fine. Do it as soon as possible.”

 

I let out a humorless laugh.

 

“Sure, because it’s that easy. I’m not some fucking Italian grabbing the first girl off the street.” I drained the glass in one go and wiped my mouth with my forearm. “Next thing you know, I’ll end up with some Spaniard… or worse, a Pole.”

 

“One day, living on the edge will stop being enough for you,” he said coldly. “And I hope it will be replaced by the need to take over the business.” His eyes flashed with anger. “You have one day. This isn’t a selection process—it’s a cover. You will be seen with a woman, even if you have to drag her here by the hair.”

 

“Fuck…” I started to protest.

 

“That’s my final word.” He slammed his fist against the armrest of the wheelchair. “As long as I’m alive, my decisions are final.”

 

One drink wasn’t nearly enough. Moments later, the glass was full again. I downed it like soda, then slammed it onto the counter and sucked in a sharp breath.

 

“If the girl doesn’t work out,” he added coldly, “you’ll marry Ariana Tevez.”