Page 24 of Broken Honor

He stares at me as I stand holding the gun, evidently the one who had caused the chaos.

“You crazy bastard!” he snarls. “Do you know what you just did?! Do you have any damn idea who owns this place?!”

His voice booms across the empty club. His men start to circle, hands twitching toward weapons.

He takes two steps closer, nostrils flaring, sweat already forming at his brow. “You just wrecked my bar, scared off my guests—che cazzo ti prende?! What kind of lunatic walks into a full house and starts firing?!”

I raise the gun again and point it straight at his face.

And this time, I let him see it clearly.

The shape of it. The steady grip. The man holding it.

His mouth opens, just slightly. His breath catches. His gaze trails upward—eyes narrowing, studying my face.

Recognition slides slowly. The change is immediate.

His anger falters, then it drains.

His mouth closes—just for a second—then opens again, but nothing comes out. He takes a step back. Then another.

“No,” he breathes.

He looks again, like he’s still hoping he’s wrong—but he isn’t.

His spine curves, legs losing strength. Then, without a word, he drops to his knees on the marble floor. Both hands rise slowly into the air—palms open, fingers spread.

“I—I didn’t know you were out,” he says, voice hoarse, almost a whisper now. “No one told me, I swear—”

I step closer.

“Save the kisses for later, Bugatti.” I pause. “Where are my diamonds?”

****

His meeting room reeks of expensive cologne and stale cigar smoke.

Bugatti’s men are still lingering at the edges, eyes darting between their boss and me, unsure whether to step in or stay put.

“Out,” Bugatti mutters, flicking two fingers toward the door. “All of you. Now.”

The men hesitate—until I shift slightly in my chair, gun still resting casually on the polished table. They scatter without another word, boots echoing across marble as the door clicks shut behind them.

We’re alone now.

Bugatti wipes his forehead with the edge of his sleeve. His collar is damp. His lip twitches like it wants to form a smile, but fear keeps pulling it back into a grimace.

I lean forward, elbows on the table.

“My gold and diamonds,” I say quietly. “Where are they?”

Bugatti swallows hard. “Vieri, listen—”

“My gold and diamonds,” I ask again, calmly resting my elbows on the table. “Where are they?”

He swallows hard. “I don’t know.”

Wrong answer.

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