Page 10 of Untamed

I don’t flinch. I don’t fold. I don’t feel.

At least, I didn’t. Untilher. But that’s a whole other leg of problems I don’t have the mental capability of getting into right now.

My father, Luciano Russo is seventy-six, and they still call himDon Russo.

Even now, old, cruel, and barely clinging to the throne, he rules like blood means obedience. Like legacy is a prison you should thank him for.

And maybe it is.

Because no matter how far I’ve tried to distance myself, new life, new rules, my blood still runs black with the kind of loyalty you don’t get to choose. You don’t get to walk away from that world...I did for awhile. But the past, however hard you try to outrun it catches up with you. The things you’ve done, the people you’ve hurt that shit stays with you.

My father? He doesn’t believe in leaving. And men like him don’t die quietly. Trust me, I’ve killed enough of them to know.

Handle it.

Messina. A reminder that even when I step out of the shadows, the ghosts follow me. That my father never asks twice, he just gives you enough time to choose the right answer.

My hands are resting on the edge of the table...still and calm.

Until they aren’t.

He gave Enzo the charm, the praise and the spotlight. He gave me the orders. The cleanup. The blade.

My brother is the golden son, polished, public facing, perfectly groomed for appearances and I was the weapon. Sharpened in silence. Pulled out only when things got messy.

With a low growl, I knock the espresso cup clean across the marble. The cup hits the floor. Sharp crack. A hundred perfect little shards, like my patience, but with better symmetry. I stand slowly. This room, his office, his kingdom is spotless. Unkind. Everything in its place. Just like he likes it.

Including me.

I walk toward the window and press both palms to the glass, staring out over the vineyard and exhale steadily through my nose. The kind of breath that keeps your rage in your chest instead of your hands.

I’m not going to Messina. Not until I figure out what the old man is hiding beneath that order. Because there’s always something. A debt. A warning. A body waiting to be buried in silence.

And I’ve buried enough already.

I walk out of the house without a word. The front door clicking shut behind me, muffling the echo of my father’s commanding voice still bouncing off the marble walls. I don’t bother with a driver. I’m desperate for silence. The fresh air. The space to breathe without hearing my name like a curse in his mouth.

The vineyard stretches out beneath a hazy sun, but the dazzling beauty of it doesn’t touch me. It never has. This land was never mine. It was a stage. A training ground. A cage with a view. If it were up to me, I would have moved to the other side of the world to get away. To be free of this life my father and family name have condemned me to, but that’s not an option. Not for a Russo. And certainly not for me.

My hands tremble with the anger coursing through me as I slide into the driver’s seat of my black Maserati and pull out onto the winding road that snakes down toward Catania.

The silence in the car is thick, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the beat of my thoughts, sharp, restless and loud.

‘You think surviving makes you free?’

I grip the steering wheel tighter. My jaw pulsing harder.

‘No, figlio mio. It makes you mine.’

The words loop inside my head like a curse, and by the time the club comes into view, rising dark and sleek against the skyline. I’m ready for anything that will drown them out.

I park in the back, ignoring the look from the security guard as I swipe into the side entrance. He nods, steps aside. Doesn’t speak.

They hardly ever do. They know better.

The club is quieter during the day. No pulsing bass. No bodies grinding under low lights. Just the hum of silence and the ghost of last night’s sins.

I exhale as I cross the floor toward the bar, peeling off the weight of the Russo house with every step.

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