Savage Honor: Blood Oath

007: The Knife Between Us

They say revenge is best served cold.

But in my world, it’s served bloody.

Matteo was alive. Nico had turned. And the DiCarlo empire was cracking beneath my feet.

But I wasn’t the kind of man who watched empires fall.

I was the kind who lit the match and built a new one from the ashes.

And this time, I had a queen beside me.

Whether she stayed loyal… that was still up for debate.

The mansion felt different now. Like something was watching me from the walls.

My men were on edge. They had seen the shootout at the chapel, seen the smoke, heard the screams. They didn’t need explanations—they needed orders. And blood.

Nico’s betrayal hit harder than I wanted to admit. I’d raised that man, trained him, bled beside him. Trusted him with things I hadn’t told anyone, even Isabella.

And now, every secret he held… was in Matteo’s hands.

I called my inner circle to the war room.

Enzo. Gio. Paolo.

Loyalists. Old blood.

I laid out the map on the table—our territory, Ricci’s, and the suspected movements of Matteo’s loyalists.

“We have rats,” I said coldly. “They’re feeding information out of the docks. Two shipments were intercepted last week. Nico gave them the schedules.”

“We take them out?” Enzo asked, already reaching for his gun.

“No,” I said. “We use them.”

Gio frowned. “You want to bait them?”

I nodded. “We give them false intel. Feed them a shipment run—one that doesn’t exist. And when they show up to steal it…”

“We burn them,” Paolo finished.

“Exactly.”

It was risky. Bold.

But I’d built my reputation on risk.

And blood.

I found Isabella on the balcony outside the master bedroom, arms crossed, eyes on the skyline.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said without turning.

“Neither did you.”

She looked at me then, wind catching the loose strands of her hair.

“What’s your plan?”

“Trap,” I said simply. “At the docks. Tomorrow night. I want to see who’s working for him—and how deep it goes.”

“You think he’ll show?”

“No. But someone close to him will.”

“And when you find them?”

“I send a message.”

Her voice dropped. “You know what that means.”

“I know exactly what it means.”

She stepped closer. “And you still trust me to be by your side when it happens?”

I studied her for a long beat.

Did I trust her?

No.

But I didn’t trust anyone.

“I don’t need trust,” I said finally. “I need you sharp. Ready.”

A pause.

Then she smiled, slow and dangerous. “Then I’ll sharpen my knives.”

We staged the false shipment for 2 a.m.

An old container yard, forgotten by most. Perfect for a quiet ambush.

My men moved like shadows, taking positions in the dark. No headlights. No comms.

I stood at the center of it all, flanked by Isabella, Enzo, and Paolo.

Isabella wore black leather and silence. She hadn’t said much since we arrived, but her hand never left the grip of her Glock.

I kept glancing at her, wondering if she’d pull the trigger for me—or on me.

That was the knife between us. Always there.

Always sharp.

At 2:11 a.m., the rats came.

Three SUVs. Unmarked. Lights off.

They moved like they knew they didn’t belong here—fast and quiet, hugging shadows.

They didn’t know we were already in the walls.

I watched through binoculars as the doors opened and men poured out—armed, but careless. Expecting an easy grab.

That was their first mistake.

Their second was wearing Matteo’s crest on their sleeves.

I raised my hand.

And the trap snapped shut.

My men surged from the shadows, guns drawn. The attackers froze, surprised. Some reached for weapons.

Those didn’t last long.

I walked into the chaos like a king through fire.

One of the intruders lunged for me—I shot him in the knee.

He screamed, dropped. I knelt beside him, pressing my gun to his temple.

“Name,” I said coldly.

He spat blood.

“Who sent you?”

He hesitated.

Then—“Nico.”

I smiled.

And pulled the trigger.

Later, as we burned the bodies, Isabella came to stand beside me. Smoke curled around her like a crown.

“You didn’t need to kill him,” she said.

“Yes, I did.”

“You could’ve kept him. Pressed him for more.”

“No,” I said. “Because that wasn’t a warning to them.”

She turned to me. “Then what was it?”

“A warning to you.”

Silence.

Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t speak. She just stared at the fire as if it told her something I couldn’t.

Maybe it did.

Maybe she was learning.

Or maybe she was planning.

Back at the mansion, Enzo brought me something unexpected.

“Found this in the pocket of one of the dead,” he said, dropping a small envelope on my desk.

It was sealed in red wax. No crest. No signature.

I opened it.

Inside was a note, handwritten in clean, elegant script:

"I see your trap. Cute. You forgot—I taught you how to set them. – M"

I stared at the letter for a long time.

Matteo knew. He was ahead of me again.

But the fact that he responded meant something else too:

He was watching.

Every move. Every whisper. Every betrayal.

And that meant I needed to turn the game upside down.

That night, I went to Isabella’s room.

She opened the door in a silk robe, eyes wary.

“What now?” she asked.

I didn’t answer.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

She backed up slowly, then stopped. “This isn’t about trust, is it?”

“No.”

“Then what is it about?”

I reached into my jacket and pulled out the letter. Handed it to her.

She read it. Then looked up. “He’s mocking you.”

“He’s pushing me.”

“What do you want from me, Luca?”

I stared at her.

And said the one thing I hadn’t yet.

“The truth.”

She blinked. “About what?”

“About who you were before you became Isabella DiCarlo.”

Her mask slipped for a moment.

Just a second.

But I saw it.

“I was nobody,” she said softly.

“No,” I said. “You were something. Someone. You don’t move like a debutante. You handle a gun like you’ve used one in war. And you don’t flinch when people die.”

She swallowed.

“I married you for power,” I said. “But now I need something else.”

“What?”

“Loyalty.”

Another pause.

Then she whispered, “I’m already yours.”

I stepped closer.

And kissed her like I meant it.

Because maybe I did.

But in the morning, her side of the bed was empty again.

And taped to my mirror was another letter.

Same wax. Same hand.

“Check the wine cellar. – M”

I dressed fast, grabbed my gun, and stormed down the spiral stairs into the belly of the house.

The cellar was dark, still. Smelled like old secrets and older blood.

I flipped the switch.

And stopped.

In the center of the floor, beneath a single swinging lightbulb, was Enzo.

Tied to a chair.

Dead.

And carved into his chest, the words:

“You kill one of mine. I kill one of yours.”

I staggered back, breath gone.

Enzo had been loyal since the beginning. He’d saved my life more than once. Died for this family.

And Matteo took him like he was nothing.

That was the message.

That was the war.

I walked out of the cellar and into the hallway.

Isabella was standing there, eyes wide.

She opened her mouth to speak.

But I didn’t let her.

I pulled her into me, kissed her like salvation—or damnation.

And whispered:

“This ends now.”