The name Genovese was never meant to be questioned.
It was meant to be understood.
Quietly.
Without explanation.
Without challenge.
It carried weight—the kind that made men think twice before speaking, before stepping forward, before even considering crossing a line that belonged to us.
But tonight—
standing at the port with the cold wind cutting through my coat and the echo of failure sitting heavy in my chest—
that certainty feels… disturbed.
Not broken.
Never broken.
But shifted.
And I don't like that.
The sea stretches endlessly in front of me, dark and indifferent, waves crashing like nothing in this world matters enough to slow them down. The salt in the air is sharp, grounding, but it doesn't quiet the noise in my head.
Because my thoughts aren't here.
They're somewhere else entirely.
White walls.
Sterile air.
A hospital room that shouldn't exist in my reality.
And her—
lying there.
Too still.
Too pale.
Luna Gambino.
My fiancée.
The word feels different now.
Not strategic.
Not calculated.
Not just another move on a board built by men older and colder than us.
It feels… personal.
Too personal.
My jaw tightens as I shift my stance slightly, hands sliding into my pockets in a controlled motion that hides the tension running through my body.
Behind me, I hear movement.
Adrian.
Xander.
Alex.
Each of them positioned without needing direction, instincts aligning in ways that have been built over years of loyalty, blood, and silence.
But even they feel it tonight.
Something has changed.
Adrian's voice cuts through the quiet first.
"We're pulling the chain apart," he says, tone even but edged. "This wasn't street work. Too clean. Too layered."
I don't respond immediately.
Because I already know that.
This wasn't some reckless attempt.
It was planned.
Structured.
Someone with access.
Someone with reach.
And someone with the confidence to believe they could get away with it.
My fingers curl slightly in my pocket.
Confidence like that doesn't come from nowhere.
It's built.
Fed.
Protected.
Which means—
someone let this happen.
Xander steps closer, slipping his phone into his coat. "We traced part of the route. Eastern European link. German logistics beneath that."
Of course.
The Germans.
A slow, calculated network that thrives on precision and silence.
I don't look at him.
"Names," I say quietly.
"Working on it," Alex replies, his voice calm as always. "But this wasn't direct. Too many layers between the contract and the origin."
I nod once.
That's expected.
People like this don't expose themselves.
They hide behind systems, behind intermediaries, behind men who are disposable.
Like the ones kneeling here minutes ago.
Like the ones who thought saying we didn't know she'd be there would somehow matter.
It doesn't.
Not to me.
Not anymore.
Because the truth is simple.
They aimed at me.
And they hit her.
And that—
that changes everything.
Adrian steps closer, stopping just at my side.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Beside.
Equal in this moment.
His voice lowers slightly. "If she hadn't moved…"
He doesn't finish.
He doesn't need to.
I hear the rest clearly.
If she hadn't moved, I'd be the one bleeding.
The thought doesn't sit right.
Not because of fear.
But because of the outcome.
Because the image that follows isn't me on that ground—
it's still her.
Because she didn't step away.
Because she stayed.
Because she chose to be close.
My jaw tightens again.
That detail keeps repeating.
Not the shot.
Not the chaos.
Her.
Standing there.
Not pulling back.
Not creating distance.
As if none of it mattered in that moment.
As if I didn't come with consequences.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
Danger is our second name.
Her words.
Simple.
Confident.
Stupid.
And yet—
completely true.
Adrian speaks again, quieter this time.
"She asked for you after surgery."
That pulls my attention.
Not sharply.
Not visibly.
But internally—
something shifts.
I keep my gaze forward.
"And?" I ask.
"She's acting like it's nothing," he replies. "Told Kiara she's fine. Like she always does."
A faint pause.
Then, more quietly—
"She's not."
Of course she's not.
No one walks away from something like that untouched.
Not physically.
Not mentally.
Not emotionally.
But Luna Gambino—
she doesn't show weakness.
She reshapes it.
Hides it.
Turns it into something that looks like control.
It's infuriating.
And—
unexpectedly—
it's something I understand.
Xander glances between us. "So what's the move?"
Finally—
a question that matters.
I turn slightly, shifting my attention back to the present.
To the port.
To the men.
To the problem.
"Security stays doubled," I say.
No hesitation.
No room for debate.
Alex nods immediately. "Already done."
"Internal access gets reviewed," I continue. "Every layer. Every system. I want to know who opened that door."
Adrian adds, "I'll handle Gambino side."
Of course he will.
And I don't question it.
Because right now—
we're not working against each other.
We're aligned.
Temporarily.
Dangerously.
But aligned.
Xander crosses his arms slightly. "And the source?"
That's the real question.
The one that decides how far this goes.
How deep it cuts.
How long it lasts.
I pause for a second.
Not because I don't have an answer.
But because I'm choosing how much of it to say out loud.
"Find the origin," I say finally.
My voice is calm.
Too calm.
"And bring me the name."
A beat.
Then—
"Before anyone else decides to make a move."
Because this isn't just about retaliation.
It's about control.
If we don't take control back now—
someone else will.
And that's not something I allow.
The wind picks up slightly, pushing against my coat.
Cold.
Sharp.
Real.
But even that doesn't cut through the final thought forming in my mind.
I step forward slightly, eyes returning to the dark water.
And for the first time since this started—
I let the truth settle completely.
This wasn't just a failed hit.
This wasn't just a breach.
This wasn't just business.
It became something else the second she was involved.
The second she was hurt.
The second I saw her in that hospital bed instead of where she should've been.
This is personal now.
Not in a reckless way.
Not in a blind way.
In a controlled—
calculated—
inevitable way.
I adjust my coat slowly.
My voice drops, quieter now.
But heavier.
"No one touches her again."
The words aren't loud.
They don't need to be.
Because everyone here understands what they mean.
Not a warning.
Not a promise.
A fact.
And as I stand there, watching the waves crash against the docks like the world doesn't care who falls and who survives—
I realize something I didn't expect.
They didn't just try to kill me.
They didn't just start a war.
They gave me a reason.
And that—
is far more dangerous than anything they planned for.