Page 8 of One Savage Union

Liar.

“And yet,” I reply, calm as steel, “you’re still not trusted to lead it.”

Enzo steps in, hand raised.

“Alright, children. Take off the gloves later. Right now, we’ve got a mission. Don Thomasso will give the order when the time is right.”

Enzo gives me a look. We both know the truth.

The order’s already been given. And Leo’s not part of it.

Leo looks between us, the tension thick as smoke.

He knows something’s off. He smells it. And when his eyes drift back to the surveillance screen—to Lucia—his mouth tightens into a knowing smirk.

He doesn’t say a word, but it’s all there.

He still plans to take her.

Whether it’s through blood, marriage, or force, he’s not done.

And that’s the problem.

I step between him and the screen, blocking his view. My voice drops to a low threat.

“She’s not yours to look at. Not yours to touch. Not yours—period.”

Leo sneers but backs off, though his expression leaves no doubt that this isn’t over.

There’s something in his eyes—a spark of something darker, obsessive. He doesn’t just see Lucia as a key to power; he wants her.

The thought makes my blood boil.

“Just remember,” he says, his voice dripping with venom, “if you screw this up, the family will know exactly who to blame, and then she’ll be where she belongs.”

I wait until the door slams shut behind him before speaking. “He’s going to be a problem.”

“He’s always been a problem,” Enzo replies, his voice low. “But this is different, Roc. You saw it too, didn’t you? The way he talks about her—it’s not just about Ricci or power. He’s fixated, Rocco. We’ve seen this with women he has taken an interest in before. They end up broken dolls,”

I clench my fists, the weight of Enzo’s words sinking in.

If he touches her, he’ll die.

I glance at the blank screen, and Lucia’s vivid image remains. Her life as she knows it is soon to change.

“Fine. We’ll take her tonight.”

2

LUCIA

My apartment is too quiet.

It always was when Mom worked late shifts at Lakeshore Cab, but tonight… the silence feels different. Heavier. Like the walls are listening. Like someone—or something-is holding its breath, just out of sight.

I sit at the piano in the living room, my fingers brushing the keys without purpose. A hollow melody stumbles out, broken and incomplete, like my thoughts. In three days, I’m set to debut at the Lincoln Center—a stage I’ve dreamed of since I was ten. But the weight of it presses down like a stone on my chest.

Maybe it’s no surprise. You don’t bury your mother and then come back whole.

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