Page 69 of Dario DeLuca

An incendiary blast unleashes a searing shockwave that blows out every window. Shrapnel flies through the air as I'm flung backward, the concussive force driving the air from mylungs. I hit the pavement hard, my head bouncing off the unforgiving concrete with a sickening crack.

Ears ringing, I blink against the spots crowding my vision, struggling to orient myself amid the commotion. Flames lick at the collapsing structure, hungrily consuming the wreckage as plumes of smoke choke the sky.

"Rafael," I call out, my voice raw and desperate.

"Dario," he shouts back in the same breath, his silhouette emerging from the smoke like a phantom.

"I'm here," I wheeze, tasting copper on my tongue.

He appears above me, face smeared with soot and terror etched into his features. Relief washes over his expression as he drops to one knee. I grip his forearm, steadying myself to take stock of the others.

Andre is already back on his feet, swiveling in a defensive circle with his weapon raised. Paulo comes from behind a charred husk of a Buick, battered but upright. A few of the other men stir, groaning and clutching various wounds, but no one seems to be seriously injured. Ty and his men emerge, one limping, the other clutching his shoulder.

“God damn it,” Ty bites out. “You good?” He looks to his boys for confirmation.

“We need to get out of here,” Marquel adds. He taps Rafael on the shoulder, but goes ignored. When we don’t budge, the men wave us off and race back to their vehicle with guns still drawn as a precaution.

Their tires screeching against the broken pavement force me to focus.

"Fuck, you scared the shit out of me," Rafael mutters, squeezing my shoulder firmly before rising to his feet.

I leverage myself up on trembling arms, my head still swimming.

"Go," he hisses, urgency laced with an authority that brooks no argument. "Before this comes back to you."

He levels me with a stern look, the fear replaced by grim determination. He's made up his mind—I must make myself scarce before the cavalry arrives. I might be the boss of our division, but if there is anyone who could keep my head on straight it’s my cousin.

We’ve spent our entire lives at each other’s side, from the moment he lost his parents and moved in with us, we’ve been thick as thieves. When Father brought us to the States to take control over the city, he brought Rafael with us. He’s more than my cousin and partner in crime…he’s my brother.

Sirens begin to wail in the near distance as the sky glows orange from the inferno. With a curt nod, I return to the SUV on unsteady legs. The others will handle the cleanup while I lie low until the heat dies down.

I spare one final glance back at the smoldering ruins, and my jaw clenched so tightly it throbs.

Whoever was responsible just ignited a war—I'll make damn sure they live just long enough to regret pouring gasoline onto the bonfire.

TWENTY-EIGHT

MIA

The cold airof the hospital assaults my senses as I step through the automatic doors, a drastic difference from the world outside. The click of my Louboutins on the polished floor echoes in the cavernous foyer as I make my way to the reception desk.

Even here, Dario’s influence is palpable in this supposed sanctuary of healing. My gaze drifts to the men stationed throughout the room, their presence subtle yet unmistakable. They're not clad in white coats or scrubs but in tailored suits that do little to conceal the coiled strength beneath. They are Dario's men—silent sentinels who guard this place as if it were a fortress.

With each step, I feel their eyes on me—appraising, calculating, ensuring the daughter of Marcus Gordon is allowed to pass without any problems.

There’s a nod from one and a shift in stance from another, all just silent recognition so that I know this is a safe space.

Medical staff bustle about, but there's an underlying tension. My heart beats rapidly, showing my nervousness. I've been in hospitals before, but this time it's different. This time, it's my father, the once-strong Marcus Gordon, now a frail figure in a hospital bed.

I approach the desk, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. "I'm here to see Marcus Gordon."

The receptionist, a woman with a kind but guarded face, nods. No ID is needed. In this place, my face is my passport.

"Of course, Ms. Gordon. He's in the secure wing. Frankie will escort you." She gestures to a man who detaches himself from the wall, all coiled strength and watchful eyes.

Frankie. The name is familiar, a thread in the tapestry of my father's world. A world I'd been sheltered from, but one that now seems to envelop me with every step.

He leads me down a corridor, our footsteps a muted counterpoint to the beeping of machines and the hushed murmur of voices.

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