“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, don’t you think so?” David said into the phone, his voice low and steady.On the other end of the line, Lorezon’s brow creased.He knew the voice. He had the contact. They had never needed to speak this way before, not by phone, yet the familiarity was there, like a hand on an old map.At the same time, he understood the implication.Micah, his son, was involved with Isla, the Quinns’ daughter. That didn’t mean the families were close. In social standing, Lorezon stood above the Quinns. When he needed access, he climbed upward, not the other way around.His brow tightened. He did not have time for interruptions.“Why are you calling? You shouldn’t be calling my number. Book an appointment,” he scolded, impatience in every syllable.He was about to hang up when David cut in, purposeful and precise. “It’s about Lucas Virellis. I know exactly how to get him.”The name landed with the force Lorezon expected. Of course it would catch his attention.Mica

Wicked sat by his wheels, one hand resting heavily on the steering while the other clutched his cellphone. His eyes scanned the road ahead, steady and patient. He had parked just a short distance away from the prison yard, far enough not to draw suspicion but close enough to act the moment the time came. The sun dipped lower and lower, stretching its rays across the sky until evening shadows began to take full control.He knew exactly how this would play out. After the routine was completed, the officer would walk Micah back to his cell. They would lock him up again, keep a close watch on him for a while, and only then, when their suspicions eased, would they finally leave him alone. That moment, when the silence grew heavy and the loneliness inside the cell pressed harder than the bars themselves, was when Micah would act.That was when the burner phone Wicked had slipped to him would come alive. The phone was hidden, silent, waiting. Micah would bring it out, place the call, and ever

Wicked heaved out a deep sigh, his chest rising and falling as though the weight of years pressed down on him.He remembered it well.Years ago, when he and Lorenzo brought them in, shaping them into men who would do his dirty business for him in Italy. It was a time of rules, a time when discipline mattered more than desire.He had given them a policy back then, a sacred oath that none dared to question. It was one they all swore to keep until this very day, vowing never to falter or so he thought.They had pledged never to be with a woman. Women, he reminded them, were distractions, dangerous distractions. To him, they were like green snakes under green grass, silent and cunning, able to bleed secrets out of a man with a smile or a soft touch. They knew how to talk a man into giving out information, money, anything he would ordinarily guard with his life.But now, sitting there with the heat of temptation crawling under his skin, he already felt it breaking.Their magic was in their

“Its done, Dad!” Jerome voiced, his tone tinged with irritation. His words came out sharp, carrying the weight of someone who had been pushed too far.“Weldone.” David’s voice rumbled from the other end of the phone. Without hesitation, he hung up.The room fell into silence. David rose slowly from his sleek leather office chair, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. He walked to the blank television screen mounted on the wall. The glow of his cigar tip burned faintly as he puffed out smoke, the curling haze filling the space around him. He stared into the dead black screen as if it were alive, as though her face might appear again, the face he couldn’t erase. Her smile lingered in his memory, bright and arrogant, the same smile she had worn when she announced the opening of her new boutique.A burning wave of anger surged through him. His chest tightened, and his veins pulsed with hatred. How could she? How could his own daughter, the blood of his blood, betray their family

Wicked watched as she stepped down from the taxi.A slow smirk crept across his lips, curling like a cat who had just spotted a helpless mouse. He looked almost playful, yet the darkness in his eyes betrayed his true intent. If he were in Italy, he knew exactly what to do. There, he would not hesitate.Italy was a place where the Mafia stretched their wings freely, committing crimes however they wanted, with little fear of consequence. In that familiar territory, it would not take him a second thought. He would step down from his car, the long-mouthed pistol dangling at his side, aimed toward the ground but held with confidence.He pictured the scene vividly—his every move flowing in his mind like a rehearsed dance. He would approach her slowly, close the distance between them, blow her a mocking kiss, then point the gun directly at her forehead and pull the trigger without hesitation.But this wasn’t Italy. This was Velmoria, and things were different here. He could not simply act on