Page 108 of Of Oaths and Secrets

“Just drive, Rafa. Besides, imagine you die all brave and noble, and I stay here. Do you have any idea the hell I’d catch from Nora when she wakes up? No, thank you.”

I can’t help the faint smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth despite the storm raging inside me. Without another word, I start the car, the engine roaring to life as I floor the gas pedal, heading straight for vengeance.

As the city blurs around me, I pull out my phone and dial Alexei. He answers on the second ring with a clipped tone.

“Lucchese.”

“I’m heading to the rogue Russians,” I say bluntly, my voice colder than the night air. “Sofia is at Red Haven on Kent Avenue.”

There’s a pause, and then his tone sharpens like a blade. “Back off. The traitor Russians are mine. The truce still holds.”

“Not anymore,” I snap, gripping the wheel tighter as I swerve through traffic. “This is personal. They touched my wife. The truce is off.”

“You’ll start a war,” Alexei warns coldly. “With me.”

“Then so be it,” I growl, fury lacing every word. “They should have kept their hands off what’s mine. You, of all people, should understand.”

There’s a heavy silence, and tension crackles through the line like a live wire. Finally, Alexei sighs, the sound low and dangerous. “If you do this, you become my enemy.”

“I never asked you to intervene,” I reply. “This isn’t about diplomacy. This is about blood.”

“You’re being reckless, Rafaele. Foolish. If your actions ripple into my world, I won’t hesitate to crush you.”

“And if you stand in my way,” I say, my voice deadly quiet, “I’ll do the same.”

The call ends abruptly, my words hanging in the air like a promise carved in stone. I toss the phone aside and press harder on the accelerator, the car surging forward. I have no time for threats, no patience for posturing. There’s only one thing driving me now: getting revenge, no matter the cost.

We reach the bar and park in a narrow alley, the dim glow of a single streetlight barely piercing the thick darkness. The air feels heavy and oppressive, as if it knows the blood that will be spilled tonight. A plain wooden door stands at the end of thealley, unremarkable, blending seamlessly with the brick walls. But this is the place.

I knock once. The sound echoes in the stillness, followed by the scrape of a latch sliding open. Suspicious eyes peer through the peephole.

“Who—”

Before the man can finish, Paolo slams his boot into the door. The wood splinters inward, and the guard stumbles back with a curse. We step inside, guns raised, the darkness welcoming us like an old friend.

The air reeks of smoke, alcohol, and sweat. The room is sparsely lit, casting long shadows on armed men whose heads snap toward us in unison. Their hands reach for their weapons, but I don’t give them the chance.

“Don’t hesitate!” I shout, already pulling the trigger.

The first man crumples before he can aim. The second fires a wild shot that chips the wall beside me before Paolo’s bullet finds his chest. The sharp crack of gunfire fills the room, drowning out the groans of the dying.

Footsteps thunder from deeper inside, and two more men appear at the far end of the room, rifles raised.

“Paolo!” I shout.

He turns too late. The shot rings out, and he stumbles back, clutching his shoulder, his gun clattering to the ground.

Paolo dives for cover behind a stack of crates as I return fire. My shot takes one in the throat; he collapses, gurgling. The other ducks back around the corner, retreating like the coward he is.

“I’m fine!” he growls, pressing a hand against the wound. “Go. Get Sofia!”

I hesitate, scanning his face for any sign of weakness. Despite the blood seeping through his fingers, his eyes are fierce, and his tone leaves no room for argument.

I nod, my focus narrowing. Each step up the creaking wooden staircase feels heavier than the last as vengeance settles in my chest. At the top, a single door waits, slightly ajar. Faint voices filter through.

I push the door open, gun raised, and step inside.

The room is sparse—just a desk cluttered with papers and an overflowing ashtray. Yuri stands behind Sofia, one arm choking her throat, a gun pressed against her temple. She looks up at me, her eyes wide, fear etched into every line of her face. A part of me hates her for what she’s done, but another part knows she’s still useful. For now.

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