Page 59 of Untamed

Her expression shifts, just slightly. “Oh, that’s Nicolai Moretti. He’s a regular here.”

The name doesn’t mean anything to me. Not really.

I frown. “You say his name like it’s supposed to hold some sort of significance.”

Sofia leans in, her voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s just say he’s not someone you want to draw attention from. Especially not the kind you just got.”

She straightens again, tossing back the rest of her drink before grabbing another tray. “Smile, rookie. First shift’s not over yet.”

And just like that, she disappears into the golden blur of the room.

But the name lingers.

Nicolai Moretti.

Looking back over my shoulder, I glance over at the table and find Nicolai watching me intently over the rim of his glass as he languidly sips his whiskey.

I have no idea who he is. But an unsettling instinct tells me I’m going to find out before the night is over.

I stare at Romano while he hangs from the ceiling like meat.

Chains bite into his wrists, arms stretched above his head, his feet just barely touching the concrete floor. Blood drips from his jaw, slow, steady, an almost meditative rhythm.

Dante stands off to the side, leaning against the wall with a cigarette burning between his bloodied fingers. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t really have to. His work is already written across Romano’s face.

I step into the room, letting the heavy steel door slam shut behind me.

Romano lifts his head. Barely. Both eyes are almost swollen shut, yet they track me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of death he’s earned.

He won’t have to wait long.

“Ares…” Romano croaks, voice shredded to a whisper.

I click my tongue, slowly. “If I were you, I’d savour what little breath you’ve got left, Romano.” I walk forward, calm, gloves in hand, my expression carved from stone.

“I'm not here to negotiate. I’m here to finish what you started. You didn't just cross a line. You carved your name into it. And this? This is your reply.” I slowly roll my sleeves up to the elbows, revealing forearms taut with determination.

The room seems to hold its breath along with me, the air thick with tension and anticipation, as if the walls themselves are leaning in to witness what comes next. “What was it?” I murmur. “You thought my absence was an opportunity to strike? That you could take over while I wasn’t looking?” I smirk darkly and tut. “You’ll snap your ankles trying to walk the road I’ve paved.”

He groans, something broken.

I lean in slightly, voice a notch lower.

“I may have been absent…” I say, “…but I’malwayswatching.”

I let the words sink in, then straighten.

“And you...along with every other bastard who’s forgotten what it means to cross a Russo—” I unclip the blade from the holster at my hip, no flourish, no threat. Just the quiet, clean sound of steel sliding free. His breath stutters. “—are about to be reminded.”

“This is for hurting what is mine.” I see the panic in his one good eye when I grip the blade. “For every breath she lost screaming for her parents, this isyourprice.”

Then I drive the blade into his gut, just below his navel, and slice upwards with deliberate care. The motion is slow; every inch of the cut is made with intention. The steel sinks deep into the flesh, precise in its trajectory, cleaving through muscle and sinew. His scream shatters the silence of the room, a raw, piercing sound that echoes off the walls as his stomach splits open, releasing a tide of warmth and terror that cascades down his front, pooling onto the cold, unyielding floor. His body convulses violently, legs flailing feebly as his innards slide out, as if desperately trying to flee the confines of his body.

I stand there, watching the life drain from his eyes, my face a mask of calm indifference. There is no fury behind my actions, no wild abandon. This is not an act of anger. This is a ritual, an exacting ceremony performed with the precision of an unflinching hand.

That was more satisfying than I anticipated.

Romano’s body sags in the chains, what’s left of his insides spilling onto the concrete like overfed rot. His head lolls forward, lips still parted like the scream hadn’t finished leaving his throat.

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