Page 11 of Untamed

Until I see him. My older brother, Enzo.

I spot him near the bar already sipping something dark and expensive, like he doesn’t bleed the same as the rest of us.

“Oh, face like thunder? I take it you saw him,” Enzo says without looking up, eyes still glued to whatever deal or threat he was smoothing out on his laptop.

I don’t answer. Just move behind the bar and grab a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge. The silence between us is comfortable only in the way tension always settles into the walls of this place, tight, familiar and always unspoken.

“Let me guess,” he says, finally turning toward me. “Messina?”

I glance up. “You were always good at guessing,” I answer flatly. “Just not at doing.”

He smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Aren’t you bored of playing the role of bitter younger brother?”

“Aren’t you bored of playing the golden one?” I fire back.

Enzo sets his drink down with too much care, folding his hands like this is just another negotiation. Like we aren’t the two sons of a man who raised us to be weapons dressed as heirs. One polished for the world to see. The other sharpened in silence.

“You think I didn’t pay for my place in this family?” he asks. “You think Papà didn’t make me earn it?”

I laugh, a short, bitter sound. “Fottimi.” The word cuts through the quiet, low and cold. “You call that earning? While he dressed you in silk and taught you how to smile, I was handed a gun at twelve and got beaten every time I flinched.” My jaw aches where I press my molars together. “You and I… we may havelived in the same house, but we survived two very different lives, Enzo.”

For a second, he doesn’t speak. That’s the thing, he never has to. He’s always been clean. I’ve always been necessary. He’s the golden boy and I’m the dark prince. The blade behind the throne.

“No,” he says finally. “What he gave you wasn’t just blood...it was power. There’s not a soul in this city that doesn’t flinch when they hear your name.Il Mietitore.The Reaper. Deaths shadow. Do you have any idea how many people would kill to wear that title, to possess the power you do?”

I don’t blink. Just stare him down, voice low and emotionless. “He gave me a nickname that makes grown men cower. That’s not power, that’s branding.”

Enzo looks away first. Something he always does when the truth cuts too close.

“He’s getting older, Ares,” he sighs, tone shifting. “Unpredictable, even. If we don’t keep things in order, someone else will.”

“Here’s an idea,youhandle Messina.”

Enzo shakes his head, leaning in just enough to test me. “I don’t have your shadow, Ares. They don’t fear me; shit they barely respect me.” I arch a brow, my tone flat and stalwart.

“Then perhaps it’s time you step up and make them.” I pause, just long enough to cut. “Maybe Papá’s golden boy needs to step out of the spotlight and earns his stripes for a change.”

Enzo’s smile doesn’t return. “Papá trusts you. He raised you like a warrior and handedyouan empire, Ares. And you’re walking around sulking like a spoiled brat.”

I laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because it’s so fucking tragic I don’t know what else to do.

“He trusts me like a man trusts a rabid dog with good aim. Useful, terrifying, and best kept leashed.” I say, pushing off the bar. “Being raised like a weapon isn’t a gift I ever asked for.” I pace slowly, dragging my hand across the cool marble edge of the counter. The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us are brave enough to say out loud. “He didn’t hand me an empire, Enzo,” I continue. “What he handed me is a curse. One soaked in blood and bound by obedience. You think I wanted any of this?”

I look at him now, the tailored designer suit, the clean hands, the practiced calm. “You got to be the son,” I murmur. “I was the contingency plan. The thing he unleashed when diplomacy failed.”

Enzo straightens, arms folding, but he doesn’t interrupt. Maybe because he knows I’m right. Maybe because there’s nothing left to for him to defend.

Instead, he shakes his head. “He built a kingdom around your name, and you’re acting like it’s a burden.”

“It is!” I snap hotly. “Because no one cares how you sleep at night when your name keeps the island in line. They just expect you to show up. Bleed if you have to. Kill if you’re told.”

Another beat of silence. “You think I’m sulking?” I step closer, staring into his brown eyes as I speak to him quietly. “No, fratello. Sto cercando di non diventare lui.”

I’m trying not to become him.

The morning after Enzo and Bianca’s wedding is chaotic in the best way: loud, bright, and brimming with laughter. The Russo manor hums with energy while we gather around the grand dining table, plates overflowing with lavish Italian breakfast spreads. Sunlight pours in through the tall windows like nature’s Instagram filter. Honestly, it’s almost suspicious how perfect everything looks.

At the head of the table is Luciano Russo. Enzo’s father. Silent, but somehow louder than everyone else combined. My parents sit beside Bianca and Enzo, all still glowing from last night’s fairytale. And then there’s Matteo and me, sitting side by sideand pretending our knees haven’t been bumping like nervous passengers in a turbulence zone.

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