The Man is a Cacciatore

Episode 5

Cassandra

What the hell was wrong with me?

I pressed cold fingertips to my swollen face, wincing as pain flared beneath my skin. My reflection was hideous. I looked like a slightly less deformed version of Harry Potter after Hermione cast a spell on his face to prevent the Snatchers from recognizing him.

Christ. I hadn’t realized how hard he hit me yesterday. Or maybe I had—maybe I just didn’t want to admit it. The whole thing blurred together, disjointed and surreal. One minute, he had been loving and completely sexy, and the next, he was a goddamn monster.

I ran a hand through my long black hair, my fingers trembling slightly as I gave myself one last, lingering stare in the mirror. A bitter laugh bubbled up, but I swallowed it down. Get over it, Cass.

I shook my head, but the motion sent sharp pain ricocheting through my skull. A pounding headache throbbed behind my eyes, and my stomach turned. I needed to call out of work. I’d just tell Vinnie I came down with something and that I’d work doubles next week.

Giving myself my best you’ll be fine nod, I stepped out of the cramped bathroom.

My footsteps felt heavy, but my body thrummed with restless energy, like I needed to move or run—but from what? The living room was quiet, but my chest still tightened as my gaze darted toward the door.

He’s not coming back.

“Calm down, Cassandra. He won’t come back.” I whispered it like a prayer, like if I said it enough times, it would become true. But my body didn’t believe me.

I searched for my phone, flipping couch cushions onto the floor. My fingers dug into the fabric, frustration heating my skin.

Why couldn’t things just be easy?

With a defeated sigh, I dropped onto the couch, exhaling through my nose in slow, measured breaths. My heart was still beating too fast. My temples ached.

Fuck me. Fuck this bitch Karma for cursing me at every turn. And fuck everyone around me.

I threw an arm over my eyes and let myself breathe, just for a second. If I didn’t, I was pretty sure I’d cry—and I was so goddamn tired of crying.

But then, the silence shifted. The tension in my muscles had nothing to do with last night’s fight anymore. It was older.

It had been 21 years, but some things never left you. Some things weren’t memories. They were stitched into the fabric of your body, buried under your skin, waiting for the right moment to claw their way back to the surface.

I had been six years old the night I first learned what it meant to survive.

Hiding in the deepest part of my parents’ closet, I pressed my small body into the shadows where Mama kept our go bag. It was just big enough for the essentials—some cash, a burner phone, a change of clothes. We had packed it together, rehearsed where to find it, what to do if things got bad.

They had gotten bad.

“You fucking bitch!”

Papa’s voice rattled the walls, and I flinched so hard I bit my tongue. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth, but I barely noticed.

Curled tight in the dark, I listened.

“How dare you overcook the pot roast! How many times have I told you—if it’s not perfect, don’t fucking serve it!”

Mama didn’t argue. She never did.

The sickening crack of a fist against flesh sent a jolt of terror through me. Then came the wet slap of her body hitting the floor.

She never screamed. Never cried. She just took it. Like she believed enduring one more blow would somehow save her from something worse.

Through the closet slits, Mama’s eyes found mine.

“Auito.”

Her lips barely moved, but I knew what she was saying.

At the time, I didn’t realize it meant help in Italian. But I knew what it meant.

I fumbled through the bag, my small hands frantic as I searched for the phone. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might shake my ribs apart. Another crunch. Another grunt. Mama’s body jerked against the floorboards.

I moved faster.

When I finally found the phone, my fingers trembled so badly I could barely press the buttons.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

I stuttered so hard I didn’t think they could even understand me. But I kept my eyes on the slits of light between the doors, watching as Mama’s face blurred into something unrecognizable.

If the police didn’t hurry, she was going to die.

The wait felt like an eternity.

My silent sobs, my hands clamped over my ears, my eyes squeezed shut—these were my only shields from the horror happening outside that door.

Then—sirens.

I had never felt such violent relief in my life.

But what if Papa sent them away? What if they knocked, and he smoothed his voice over, convinced them nothing was wrong?

Mama would want me to stay hidden. But I couldn’t.

I had to save her.

Slowly, I stood, waiting for the perfect moment. Then, I ran.

Papa only caught sight of me as I dashed through their bedroom door.

“Get back here, you little bitch!” His voice was thunder, his pounding footsteps rolling in like an oncoming storm.

My little feet flew across the house. I reached for the front door handle, wrenched it open—just in time for the police to see Papa’s face contorted with rage. My fear-stricken expression must have said it all because they immediately grabbed me, shielding me from the monster I knew would have ended both our lives if I hadn’t taken action that day.

A heavy, shaky sigh left my lips.

I hadn’t thought about that night in years. Not in full detail. It had always been a shadow lurking at the edges of my mind, surfacing in nightmares, in tense shoulders, in the way I sometimes flinched when voices rose too loud.

But now? It felt fresh. It felt here.

I ran a hand down my face, letting my fingers linger on the swelling along my cheekbone.

It was funny, in a sick, twisted way.

After everything I had survived, after swearing I’d never let anyone make me feel like that little girl again… I had ended up here.

A bruised face. A racing heart. A mind that knew better—but a body that had never stopped bracing for impact.

My eyes drifted toward the shelf, to Mama’s photo surrounded by the last few trinkets I had of hers.

“Sempre e per sempre,” I murmured.

She had told me it meant forever and always.

A warm tear traced a slow path down my swollen cheek. I swiped it away.

Mama, I wish you could be here with me now. To tell me how stupid I am.

Or maybe… to tell me I wasn’t stupid at all.

That it wasn’t my fault.

That I wasn’t turning into her.

Shaking my head, I pushed up from the couch and continued searching for my phone.

Leo

Ciro and I sat in the back of the black sedan, waiting. The engine idled, a steady, low rumble beneath us as we waited for Nico, my caporegime, to give us the green light. Inside that dump of an apartment, three idiotas thought they could hide from my wrath. They were about to learn how wrong they were.

I stretched my neck from side to side, feeling the pull all the way to my shoulders, tension sinking deep into the muscle.

Besides this fucking mess, Cassandra has been taking up way too much room in my head.

I’d been giving her space on purpose. When I showed up at her apartment, she had been overwhelmed—I could see it in the way she kept her body tense, her eyes darting like a frightened little topo. That wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t want her skittish around me.

But the scent of her had lingered on me long after I left.

Floral, but not the overpowering, artificial kind. Sweet, tart, with undertones of earth and vanilla beans. It was fucking intoxicating. Even now, if I closed my eyes, I could almost smell her.

A sharp nudge to my ribs yanked me out of my thoughts.

“Get your head on straight,” Ciro muttered, irritation clear in his voice.

He had every right to be pissed. I hated it too—hated that my mind kept drifting back to her.

I growled, rolling my shoulders before adjusting my cuffs. “Yeah, yeah.”

Straightening in my seat, I shrugged off my slate-gray suit jacket and unfastened my cufflinks, rolling up my sleeves. I needed to focus.

A knock on my window pulled my attention. I rolled it down, locking eyes with one of my capos—a tall, lean man with jet-black hair and eyes to match. He wore a simple white Hanes V-neck and dark-wash jeans, standing out in contrast to the rest of us.

“What is it?” I barked.

Unfazed, he met my gaze. “Nico says it’s a go.”

I nodded, a silent dismissal. He got the message and stepped back.

As I rolled the tinted window up, I turned to Gio, who sat in the front. “Get that guy’s name.”

Then, I turned to Ciro. “You ready?”

Ciro let out a low, dark chuckle—the kind of laugh you’d hear from a villain in a movie. “The real question is, are you ready, brother?”

The humor in his voice faded fast, his dark gray eyes locking onto mine, filled with the same unrelenting darkness that simmered inside me.

“Fuck you,” I muttered, pushing open the door and stepping into the thick, humid air.

City sounds echoed around us—horns blaring, distant sirens—but they faded into the background as I set my mind for battle.

We were about to find out who the fuck these guys worked for—since the last ratti motherfuckers didn’t talk.

Ciro moved beside me, close but not crowding. The distinct click of his gun cocking made my pulse quicken with adrenaline, but I wasn’t so antsy as to pull mine out yet. No—I liked to let them think they had a chance.

Ciro? He was the bad cop.

Me? I was the bad cop who liked to pretend he was a good cop.

It made breaking them all the more interesting.

As we climbed the last steps to the apartment, the thick, metallic scent of blood filled my nose—a telltale sign that Nico and his boys had already put in some work.

A scrawny, bald man stood outside the door, leaning against the frame. The moment he spotted us, he snapped to attention.

“Boss. Ciro.” He dipped his chin.

I didn’t acknowledge him. I twisted the cool metal of the doorknob and stepped inside.

The room was plastic-wrapped—a crime scene before the crime. Blood spattered across the plastic like some fucked-up abstract painting.

Nico stood in the center, his fist tangled in a man’s dark brown ponytail, forcing his head back before releasing it. The man sagged forward, his body limp, head hanging like a broken marionette.

Nico glanced up, his voice light—like we had just arrived for dinner. “Boss. Ciro. Just in time.”

Ciro was already scanning the scene, gun in hand, the barrel pointed lazily at the floor. But I knew that tell—the way his free hand raked through his hair.

He was getting too excited.

“What have you gotten so far?” he asked.

Nico sighed, glancing at the three men tied to metal chairs. “Just that they were paid to do a job. Nothing else.” His jaw clenched. “Fuckers have tight lips.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose, irritation settling deep in my gut.

“Leave it to us.” My voice was flat, controlled—but my hands had already curled into fists. My jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it.

Nico nodded, motioning for his men to clear out.

Just as he was about to shut the door, I spoke.

“Wait outside,” I said, “I don’t trust that Mr. Clean knockoff motherfucker to do his job.”

Nico scowled, glancing left—no doubt at the man I was talking about. But he didn’t argue. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving just me, Ciro, and the three dead men walking.

Ciro and I stepped forward, taking in the damage.

Two were redheads—twins, judging by their matching noses. They were missing fingernails, their shirts soaked in blood. The third—ponytail guy—had deep stab wounds in both thighs. Thick, dark red blood still oozed from the wounds, pooling beneath the chair.

“Get up.” My voice came out low and sharp.

Ciro pressed the barrel of his gun against ponytail guy’s temple, tapping it once. His head lolled before centering again.

I grabbed his throat, tilting his chin up before slapping him hard across the face.

“Wake the fuck up,” I growled.

His shit-brown eyes snapped open. The twins stiffened, their swollen faces now fully alert.

I let the silence stretch, watching them.

“Do you know who I am?” My tone was quiet. Dangerous.

Their gazes flickered between each other, then back to me. No one spoke.

Wrong move.

I tightened my grip around his throat. His bugged-out eyes stared back at me, panic creeping in.

“Talk,” I said, voice deadly calm, “or all that money you did this for? It’ll be for nothing.”

Ciro tapped the gun against his head again, reinforcing the threat.

And if these idiots thought we were bluffing, they were about to get a very painful reality check

A lot of Ciro’s and my torture techniques came from my father. We had shadowed him since we were twelve, watching, learning, absorbing every brutal lesson like it was gospel. By fourteen, we had already tortured and killed our first man—a Russian bastard we’d finally tracked down, one of the scum responsible for Ciro’s parents’ deaths.

That one felt good.

And we had no regrets.

After that, we hunted down every last one of them, one by one, fulfilling a vow we had made the moment Ciro came to live with us at five years old.

Though Ciro and I were the same age, trained the same way, and could both easily lead, I had been chosen as Don for one reason alone—I was the Don’s son.

That didn’t mean Ciro accepted it without a fight. Every now and then, we had to settle our differences the old way—with our fists. And every time, after we were bloody and bruised, he would concede, shaking it off like it didn’t matter. But I knew the truth.

Ciro had never wanted the burden of leading.

His patience was shorter than mine. He was better suited as my second, where he could unleash his rage and sadism without dealing with the daily bullshit that came with running an empire.

And right now?

That rage was on full display.

Ciro twisted on the silencer, making sure the three bloodied men in front of us knew he wasn’t fucking around.

We had already put in some work, but so far, they had given us nothing.

I sighed, running my free hand over my face. My other hand gripped the torn shirt I had ripped from one of the twins earlier, now repurposed as a personal hand towel. Sweat, blood, and fear filled the air, thick enough to choke on.

Ciro let out a low, amused chuckle, his gaze flicking between them like a predator choosing its next meal.

“Either you tell us who paid you to fuck with our shipment, or you die,” he said simply, raising his gun and aiming it at ponytail asshole’s head. “This is your last warning.”

The man spat onto the plastic-covered floor, blood streaking the saliva. A silent act of defiance.

Ciro didn’t hesitate.

The sharp, suppressed snap of the Glock 19 firing echoed through the room, followed by the sickening splatter of flesh and brain matter against the plastic-covered wall. The man’s head snapped back, blood pouring from the neat, coin-sized hole in his skull.

His lifeless body sagged, and for a moment, there was nothing but silence—just the sound of blood dripping onto the floor.

Ciro smirked, already pointing the gun at the next man.

The twin tensed, his fingers twitching against the zip ties that bound his wrists. He stared at the guys body slumped beside him, the head still tilted at an unnatural angle.

My fingers flexed, the torn shirt crumpling slightly in my grip.

Ciro’s grin widened, and I already knew what he was about to do. He began flicking the gun between the two brothers.

“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.”

The twin’s chest heaved, blood and sweat mixing on their skin.

“Do you want to have him continue?” I asked roughly, my voice low, sharp.

They didn’t answer.

Ciro continued, his voice mocking as he recited the next line. “Catch a tiger by his toe.”

The gun flicked between the two of them again quicker this time, the cold barrel softly tapping their foreheads.

“If he hollers, let him go.”

They looked at each other, a silent desperation passing between them.

I could see it—the moment it clicked.

One of them was going to break.

“Last chance,” I said through clenched teeth, my headache pulsing behind my eyes. Not that I gave a fuck whether they lived or died. I just needed one of them to tell me what I needed to know.

“You can spill your guts…” I tilted my head slightly. “Or watch your brother die.”

Ciro pressed the barrel harder against one of their foreheads, adding weight to my words.

“Eeny. Meeny. Miny—”

“Okay, okay!” The twin on the left gasped, his voice raw and desperate.

Ciro and I both stilled, exchanging a quick glance.

I smirked. Knew it.

“Go on,” I encouraged.

Ciro didn’t move the gun. His stare remained locked on the twin, adding to the pressure, the weight.

The man hesitated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his pupils blown wide with fear and adrenaline. Slowly, he turned to his brother, something unreadable passing between them.

A silent accusation.

A betrayal.

He inhaled deeply, his breath wavering. “Finnigan McCalister,” he finally rasped. “The Irish mob boss.”

Ciro let out a low whistle, tapping the gun against the twin’s blood-matted hair like a pat on the head. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The brother on the right turned his head slightly, his swollen eye narrowing at his twin. Then, without hesitation, he spit blood onto the floor.

I could see the fire behind his eyes, the rage bubbling beneath the surface.

We all knew what was about to happen.

Ciro pulled the trigger.

The shot was clean, straight through the right twin’s eye. His body jerked, blood splattering in a thick spray against the plastic.

The remaining twin flinched violently, his chest heaving, his face pale.

He didn’t even scream.

Just stared at his dead brother, shock creeping in, slow and suffocating.

Ciro and I watched in silence, letting him absorb the reality of his situation.

“You’re free to go,” I finally said, voice flat and indifferent. I shoved my hands into my pockets. “I’ll let the Irish mob finish you off.”

The last remaining ratti twitched, his fingers flexing against the blood-slicked zip ties.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His brain was still catching up, still trying to process what I had just said.

Ciro laughed, loud and amused, like I had just cracked the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

I didn’t stay to watch.

I turned, already stepping over the blood-smeared floor, my mind moving past the mess, past the bodies, leaving the useless fucker sitting in that chair.

Finnigan McCalister.

The Irish were getting bold.

Which meant this was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Cassandra

Tugging the old, worn-out baseball cap further down my face to conceal the remaining bruises, I yanked the back door to the club open. A blast of A/C hit me first, followed by a wave of perfume—most of it cheap—that burned the inside of my nose.

It wasn’t the first time I had walked into a job with bruises, but it was the first time here, and the last thing I needed was for the girls to fuss over me. My sneakers squeaked against the floor as I made my way to my station, the clutter of my workspace reminding me of how fast I had left a few days ago.

I started putting things away, avoiding my own reflection in the vanity mirror. The bulbs burned too bright, their glow a silent threat to expose me. A delicate hand on my shoulder made me jump.

“Jeez, you’re skittish today, Angel.” Candy’s high-pitched voice cut through the distant club noise, sharp as ever.

I kept my eyes down, fumbling with my makeup containers. “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Candy snorted. “What, Mr. Romano fucking your brains out all night?” Her tone dripped with a mix of envy and sarcasm—something I had never appreciated. “Must be awful.” She rolled her eyes, and I caught it without revealing too much of my face.

“Candy, fuck off,” I warned. “Nobody likes a jealous bitch.”

She shoved me, sending my hip into the vanity. A few of my things rattled together from the impact.

“I’m not jealous of you,” she scoffed, flipping her long, bleach-blonde hair over her shoulder.

Without thinking, I whirled and shoved her back. The moment she caught sight of the faint bruises on my cheeks and neck, her eyes went wide. Before I could react, she pulled me into a hug.

“Shit, Angel,” she whispered into my hair. I felt one of her hands waving behind my back, and a second later, I heard the murmurs of the other girls gathering.

“What happened?” someone asked.

Candy’s voice hardened. “Girls, Romano beat the shit out of her.”

A chorus of gasps and hisses spread through the room.

I pulled back, shaking my head, my eyes stinging. “No, it wasn’t Romano.” My fingers fiddled with the brim of my hat, my hair, anything to keep busy.

Candy’s soft fingers tilted my chin up, her other hand pulling off my cap.

“Jesus Christ,” she murmured, inspecting the damage. “Then who did this to you?”

I couldn’t look at them. My gaze stayed glued to the ceiling, my hands still fidgeting. Their stares burned into me. When Candy finally released me, she wiped at the tears I hadn’t even realized had fallen.

“Never mind, sweetheart,” she said softly. “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” She nodded at me, then gave the rest of the girls a knowing look. “I’m sure I can speak for most of us when I say we know what it feels like to be in your shoes right now.”

An echo of agreement rippled through the room, and before I knew it, I was engulfed in a group hug—fifteen girls pressed into me, their blonde hair in every shade poking at my face, tangling in my mouth. But I didn’t pull away.

I just sank into it.

I hadn’t realized how badly I needed this.

By the time we hit the floor, my bruises were concealed, and my heart was wrapped in something warm and fragile. We moved as a unit, stepping into the club like a pack of lionesses. The feeling was intoxicating. Empowering.

A tall man with mocha skin prowled toward me, but Sapphire intercepted him with ease. Before I could react, Candy grabbed my hand and dragged me toward Vinnie’s office.

“You’re not dancing tonight,” she said, her grip firm. “You should bartend.”

It caught me off guard—Candy and I had always had a competitive streak, bantering like sisters about everything. But this? This was something different. This was protective.

She kicked open Vinnie’s door with her eight-inch platform heels. He flinched, startled, but when he saw us, he relaxed. Well, as much as Vinnie ever could. Sweat pooled at his thin hairline, dripping down the side of his face.

“What can I do for you ladies?” His brown eyes darted between us, trying to gauge if this was a casual request or something more dangerous.

“Vinnie, Cassandra is going to bartend tonight,” Candy declared.

Vinnie’s gaze landed on me, his expression shifting. I felt see-through, like if he looked any closer, he’d be able to read every secret, every wound, every demon lurking just beneath the surface.

“Sure, Candy.” He grabbed a hanky from his desk and blotted his forehead. “But you’ll have to coordinate with the girls to cover Angel’s dance rotations.” His worry was obvious as he glanced back at me. “You okay?”

I bit my bottom lip, hesitating. “Yeah,” I murmured, not wanting to go through this again. I changed the subject. “Is Romano coming in?”

The second his name left my lips, my pulse spiked.

Vinnie leaned back in his old leather chair, the tight buttons of his shirt barely containing his hairy chest and stomach. “No, he won’t be in for a while.”

Relief softened his voice.

I wished I felt the same.

The butterflies that had been stirring in my stomach turned to lead. My heartbeat stuttered.

Fuck. This is definitely not good.

“Angel, you work the bar, and Candy, you handle rotations,” Vinnie confirmed. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

He gave us an uncertain smile, but that was just Vinnie—not a bone of confidence in his body. But probably the nicest man I knew.

Candy’s grip tightened around my hand as she pulled me toward the door. My legs felt unsteady, like a baby fawn tripping over itself, but she kept me moving.

I ran the bar instinctively, falling into the rhythm of it with Grace and Fiona. But my mind was elsewhere. Every man who looked even remotely like Leo caught my attention. Every so often, I swore I heard his deep, breathy voice drifting through the bar, sending my stomach plummeting.

Cassandra, you literally just had the shit beaten out of you, and here you are, craving another possessive, controlling asshole.

A quieter voice whispered back.

Yeah, but he’s different.

Is he different?

Maybe.

Leo

My eyes zeroed in on Finnigan the second Ciro and I stepped into the private office space we had rented out on neutral turf. A long redwood desk split the room in half, much like the invisible line that divided the territories we both claimed. The cheap gray carpet had silver threads woven through it, shimmering in the daylight from the large windows.

Renting this space had been one of the conditions of the meeting. I had set it up, though Ciro had nearly convinced me to skip the niceties altogether. But I knew that declaring war took more than just anger—it took coordination. I’d have to inform my crooked cops, rally my men, and spend the money to arm them properly. A fucking headache.

Still, if I had to do it, I would.

Finnigan sat across from me, posture relaxed, his expression almost gentle. To anyone else, he looked like someone’s sweet old grandpa. A man who handed out candy to kids and told bad jokes at family barbecues. But I knew better. He was more diabolical than I was, ruthless in ways that still made my skin crawl. Whether it was hunting down men or breaking in henchmen, Finnigan had no fucking limits.

He had to know we were onto him, but I wanted to hear why. What the fuck was this bastard up to?

My gaze flicked to his favorite attack dog, Amish—also known as Scál, which translated to phantom. A big Irish brute, infamous for making people disappear without a trace. Amish held my stare, giving me a look of both respect and warning. I returned the sentiment.

Ciro pulled out a rolling chair and plopped into it effortlessly. On the surface, he looked playful—casual, even. But I knew better. The man was a lit fuse, ready to explode at the slightest provocation. The squeak of the pleather seat echoed through the room, amplifying the silence.

I lowered myself into my chair with slow, deliberate movements, resting my head back as I propped an ankle on my knee. My ring-clad fingers laced together and settled against my stomach.

Finnigan smirked.

It took everything in me not to grind my teeth. I couldn’t show irritation. Couldn’t show weakness.

His Irish accent came out thick. “You handled most of our rat problem.” His tone was casual, as if we were discussing the fucking weather. “The last pest is in our basement, living out the rest of his moments.”

Christ. I didn’t even want to know what kind of medieval torture Finnigan had lined up, but I bet that poor bastard was wishing Ciro had just put a bullet in his skull.

I exhaled slowly. “Let’s get to the point, Finnigan.” My eyes stayed locked on his, my posture still easy, casual.

Ciro chuckled beside me, then reached into his waistband, pulling out his Glock 19 and placing it on the table with a solid thunk. He leaned forward slightly, his scarred olive forearms resting on the polished wood. His usual casual outfit—maroon V-neck and light-wash jeans—only added to the illusion of indifference.

“Yeah,” he drawled. “I wanna know when you grew such big—”

The door flung open.

I didn’t even need to look. The arrogant energy that came with the entrance told me exactly who it was.

Declan McCalister.

“You mean compared to your shriveled walnuts?” Declan grinned, wide and sharp, like the fucking Cheshire Cat.

A low growl rumbled in my chest. I didn’t let it slip past my lips, but Ciro felt the shift—he could see the tightness in my muscles, the death stare I leveled at the bastard.

Declan’s slow, deliberate steps were a taunt. A test. He knew I hadn’t been expecting him. My jaw ticked, but I refused to react.

“Declan,” I grumbled.

“My son’s learning the ropes,” Finnigan said, smirking. “I’m sure you can understand that.”

The smirk widened. “How’s your father doing, anyway?”

Ciro exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. “Enough of the pleasantries.”

Declan spun a chair around and flopped into it, leaning back, spreading his legs wide. A blatant power play.

What a fucking joke. I wasn’t some rookie he could rattle.

I ignored him, my gaze locked on Finnigan. “Talk.”

The old man’s smirk faded, replaced by something colder. His hands clasped together on the desk. “The shipment. Is that what you’re referring to?”

“You know damn well why we’re here,” I said, my tone sharp, unwavering. “Don’t play stupid.”

Finnigan’s knuckles turned white, but it was Declan who spoke.

“Don’t speak to my father like that, you fucking wop bastard.”

My stare didn’t shift. Didn’t flinch.

I was getting to him.

“Tell me now, Finnigan.”

Declan’s glare was searing, his entire body rigid with tension. If looks could kill, I’d be nothing but ash.

Finnigan sighed. “You had something I needed.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as if age entitled him to my shit.

Ciro’s fists slammed into the table, the sound reverberating through the room. I didn’t so much as blink, my stare still locked onto Finnigan.

“So you thought you could hire some fucking idiots to steal from me instead of negotiating?” My voice was calm, even. A stark contrast to the fury coiling in my chest. I leaned forward, mirroring Finnigan’s posture. “Those guns were mine. I paid good money for them. And now, you’re going to return them.”

Silence.

Then Declan shot up from his chair, snapping.

No control. No restraint.

Pathetic.

I barely resisted the urge to shake my head. He’d make a terrible mob boss. Emotions made people easy to manipulate. And right now, he was making it real easy.

“We won’t return shit,” he spat, his face going red.

I didn’t even acknowledge him.

“Look at me!” he barked.

I saw Finnigan’s teeth clench—the only sign of his displeasure.

Then Declan’s voice turned mocking. “Look at the fucking face that owns that sweet little pussy. You know the one. The one you’re so interested in.”

Ciro sucked in a sharp breath.

I forced myself to move slowly, turning my head at a controlled pace.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Declan’s posture shifted, the rigidness bleeding into something looser. Cocky. His father, though—his father had gone stiff beside him.

I rose to my full height, towering over Declan by a solid five inches.

Declan squared his shoulders, his ice-blue eyes drilling into mine. “You heard me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Cassandra’s mine.”

My fingers curled against the desk.

Control yourself.

I fought the urge to lunge across the table and choke the life out of him.

“Last I heard, she left you.” My voice was steady. Unbothered.

“So, she thinks,” Declan muttered, defensively.

Amish coughed, like he was calling Declan’s bluff.

I smirked.

“Well, you know she only dances for me at Oblivion.”

Declan took the bait instantly. Whipping out his gun, he cocked it and aimed it at my face.

Ciro moved before I even had to, his own weapon drawn. Amish flicked his gun between my cousin and I.

I chuckled, shaking my head as I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Finnigan, call off your rabid dog.”

Finnigan’s glare could have cut through steel. “Sit the fuck down,” he snapped at Declan.

And that was all the evidence I needed.

Declan was the one who broke mia la bellezza.

Declan slowly lowered his gun and tucked it into his waistband, his chest rising and falling with controlled, angry breaths. With a sharp exhale, he collapsed back into his chair, running a hand through his light brown hair. The agitation still burned in his glare, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

Amish didn’t lower his weapon until Ciro did.

Only once the room settled did I move, lowering myself into my chair with deliberate ease. I made sure they saw it. That I wasn’t rattled. That I owned this moment. The cards were in my hands now.

The silence stretched.

Then Finnigan finally spoke.

“I won’t be returning shit to you, Romano.” His voice was even, but the edge was there. A warning. His fingers pressed against the table as he pushed himself to his feet, slow and steady. “And if you so much as have anyone step foot in my territory to retrieve it…” His gaze locked onto mine, piercing and unyielding. “We both know where this will go.”

A low growl rumbled from Ciro’s chest.

Declan smirked—one last attempt to get under my skin. Then, like the fucking coward he was, he turned and followed his father out the door, flipping me off on his way out.

Amish lingered. He shook his head once—whether in amusement or disapproval, I wasn’t sure—then gave me a respectful nod before exiting.

Ciro and I waited. Listened. Only when we were certain they were out of earshot did I speak.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

“Let our men know,” I said, voice low and steady.

“The Irish have declared war.”

Cassandra

My onyx hair whipped around me like a ribbon dancer, following the slow, deliberate arch of my body. The faces in my vision blurred, upside down as I spun. Yellow, orange, and red lights flashed in time with the music, the colors swirling like fire above me.

The bass vibrated through the floor, my favorite song blasting through the club’s surround sound. Cash rained down like a monsoon, soft paper kisses against my skin. My wide smile mirrored the satisfaction curling in my chest. They always paid well when I danced like this.

I slid my hands up my ribs, hooking my fingers beneath my bra straps. The energy in the room was thick with anticipation. But just as I was about to peel the lace from my skin, my eyes caught a pair of steel-gray ones in the crowd.

The world kept spinning. I wasn’t sure if I had seen correctly.

I slowed my movements, dragging my body down the pole in a slow, sinuous descent. Encouraging whistles and catcalls rang out around me, but they barely registered—I was too busy searching.

Where were those wolf’s eyes?

My feet hit the stage. Rolling my hips, I kept up my performance, gaze flicking from face to face.

And then I saw him.

Leo sat at the end of the stage, front row. He had forcefully moved one of my regulars for the spot—I could tell by the way the poor bastard was sulking a few seats away.

Leo’s gaze roamed over me, slow and possessive. And even though I was practically undressed, it felt like he was peeling the rest of my clothes off with just his stare.

My breath caught, but I didn’t falter.

Instead, I eased into my usual routine, settling onto my heels, keeping my body moving just enough to keep the money flowing. Technically, I was his personal dancer and waitress whenever he came to the club.

But the way he was looking at me now? It felt different.

Our eyes locked. A heated staring contest.

My body moved on instinct, hips undulating as I crawled toward the edge of the stage. Bills slid beneath the thin fabric of my G-string, fingers grazing my skin as I passed, but I barely felt them. All I felt was him.

Easing toward him, I settled onto his lap, my hands bracing against his firm, broad shoulders.

A wave of groans filled the club—disappointed customers who had lost my attention—but I barely heard them.

Leo and I were locked in a silent battle.

Who would break first?

His hands hovered over my skin as they trailed up my arms and down my back, never quite touching. The heat from them sent shivers cascading down my spine, goosebumps rising in their wake.

The scent of him wrapped around me—dark spice, something rich and clean. My lips parted slightly, my breath coming a little faster, and fuck, I was already soaked.

Who wouldn’t be?

Leo was dangerous. A stunning, untouchable, Italian Don who radiated power and control.

His voice was a low, dark rumble, vibrating through my chest.

“Principessa, if you don’t get off my fucking cock right now, I’ll have to fuck you in front of all these men.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

“And I don’t want these men hearing the noises I’d make you scream, otherwise I’d have to kill each and every one of them.”

A sharp pulse of heat shot through me. My thighs clenched. A soft moan escaped before I could stop it.

Fuck.

I couldn’t even blame ovulation this time. I had gone nearly a week without seeing him, and yet the second he was near me again, my body reacted like this.

I forced myself to still, exhaling slowly as I slid off him. My long hair spilled over my shoulder as I moved.

Leo’s gaze followed, his expression dark with barely restrained need.

Thank fuck I was wearing black panties. But judging by the look in his eyes, I knew he had felt the wet spot I’d left behind on his slacks.

I took a moment to scan the room. That’s when I saw them.

A second pair of steel-gray eyes.

My brows furrowed, and my head snapped between the two men, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

They looked so similar.

My shocked stare finally settled on Leo, who was now smirking.

Standing, he towered over me, his presence suffocating. He leaned down, our faces inches apart.

“I’ll meet you upstairs, la mia bellezza.”

Then he turned and strode off, adjusting himself as he went. The look-alike clapped him on the back, laughing, only to earn a hard hit to the gut. He howled again, his laughter eerily similar to Leo’s.

I tilted my head, confused.

The other man caught my stare and winked.

What the fuck?

****

Leo and his almost-twin were huddled by the small bar in the VIP lounge when I arrived.

Gio and Dimitri acknowledged me with a curt nod.

I had taken the time to get dressed—slipping into my usual black fishnet dress over matching lingerie—but the moment I stepped into the room, I felt the weight of both their stares.

It rooted me in place.

Holy shit.

They were almost identical. The only difference was the new guy had a softer gaze, but there was something lurking beneath it—something dark and sinister. His features weren’t as sharp as Leo’s, but the resemblance was undeniable.

I blinked rapidly. Was I seeing things?

The man chuckled.

“Seems like we broke her.” His voice was deep, raspier. Leo’s tone had a smooth, velvety quality—like warm cognac sliding over your tongue.

Leo took a slow sip of whiskey, watching me carefully.

I crossed my arms, schooling my expression as I turned to the stranger. “And who exactly are you? We didn’t agree that I’d be entertaining the riff-raff you dragged in off the street.”

My gaze flicked over his casual outfit—printed tee, dark jeans, combat boots.

Leo coughed into his drink. The new guy slapped him on the back, laughing harder.

“Ah. I see now why you’re obsessed,” he said, grinning. His smile was bright, almost infectious. “She’s as beautiful as you said she was, brother.”

“Brother?” I repeated, my eyes snapping back to Leo.

It made sense. The similarities, the shared mannerisms.

Leo finally set his glass down, running a hand through his disheveled dark hair. “Cousin, actually.” Then, his gaze locked onto mine. Serious. Intense.

“Come, Principessa. I’ll introduce you.”

Something in his tone made my stomach knot.

Still, I played along. Cautiously approaching the two large, intimidating men, I kept a safe distance.

Leo gestured toward him. “This is Ciro. My cousin and consigliere. Second-in-command.”

Ciro gave me a slow once-over, then smirked.

“We grew up together,” Leo added. “We’re practically brothers.”

My lips parted slightly.

Leo must have noticed my shock, because he stepped closer, his voice dropping.

“We need to speak with you. It’s important.”

The shift in his energy sent a warning bell ringing in my head.

I nodded slowly and led them toward the seating area, letting them settle before I hopped onto the small stage, which sat slightly higher than them.

I smirked. That would bother Leo.

Sure enough, his expression darkened slightly, and he ran a hand over his face.

“I’ll be blunt, Cassandra.” His voice cut through the moment.

My stomach tightened.

“No.” I stood abruptly.

Leo and Ciro both gave me matching glares.

“Sit.”

I sat back on the stage, crossing both my legs and arms, exhaling sharply in frustration.

Ciro tsked, shaking his head playfully. “Such a brat.”

Leo shot him a scowl. “Shut up, Ciro.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you want?” My voice came out sharp, defensive. I hated not having a choice, and I could already tell this wasn’t going to be some I’m giving you a raise or you’re fired conversation.

Leo ignored my tone. His jaw ticked, his gaze sharpening like a blade.

“We need information on Finnigan and Declan.”

My stomach twisted.

“You’re going to tell us everything you know about the Irish mob.”

The blood drained from my face. My fingers instinctively went to my chest, rubbing the spot where my pulse pounded too hard beneath my skin, then my hand drifted up to my throat.

Did Leo know?

The memory of Declan’s hands on me resurfaced, an unwanted phantom touch.

Fuck.

I couldn’t let Leo kill him. No matter what Declan had done—no matter how much of a monster he was—there was still a part of me that would always care.

I swallowed hard. “Why?” My voice barely made it past my lips.

Ciro cut in smoothly. “The less you know, the better, sweetheart.”

My head snapped toward him, my glare ice-cold.

“Don’t call me that.”

Ciro only chuckled. “Apologies, piccola strega.”

My eyes narrowed further, but I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I squared my shoulders, my focus shifting back to Leo. “Tell me why, and maybe I’ll give you what you want.”

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. “I’ve got a fucking headache, Cassandra. I don’t have time for your games tonight.” His voice was low, laced with exhaustion, but his frustration was razor-sharp.

My fists clenched at my sides.

“I don’t give a fuck how you feel.” My voice cut through the room, unwavering. “I won’t betray the people who cared for me when I couldn’t care for myself.”

My mind spun with worst-case scenarios. What would happen to Finnigan? To Declan? His entire family?

I didn’t want their blood on my hands.

The sound of metal scraping against leather pulled me from my thoughts.

Ciro pulled out his gun, settling it in his lap. A silent warning.

“Eyes up here, piccola strega.” He tapped two fingers against his temple, his steel-gray eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous.

A shiver crawled down my spine and I couldn’t stay still any longer.

I started to pace. “Leo, I can’t.” My hands flew as I spoke, the words rushing out. “They’re like my family. Please—I don’t want to be a part of this.”

Leo rose from his seat in one fluid motion, cutting off my pacing as his hands gripped my shoulders, stilling me. His touch was firm, grounding.

“You will be a part of this.” His voice was calm, but the storm beneath it was barely contained. “And I’ll tell you just enough to help you make the right decision. But if I hear that you ran your mouth, don’t think that pretty face will stop me from putting a bullet in it.”

I swallowed. Hard. Then nodded.

Leo’s grip loosened, but his eyes stayed locked on mine.

“They stole from me,” he continued. “Finnigan refuses to be reasonable. He’s declared war.”

Ciro snorted from behind him, leaning back in his chair like this was all some casual hangout. “You’re brave, Leo.”

Leo ignored him.

Before I could react, he cupped my face in his hands, forcing my attention back to him.

“Principessa,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I know this might be hard. But whatever claim Declan thinks he has on you?” His thumbs brushed against my cheekbones. “That means jack shit to me.”

I jerked back from his touch.

“Claim?” I scowled, my anger flaring. “Declan might say I’m his, but that’s not true.” I crossed my arms, lifting my chin defiantly. “I’m nobody’s.”

Ciro’s laughter filled the small VIP lounge, loud and booming.

“Sure,” he mused, amusement laced through his voice. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Leo shot him a warning look. “Shut it, Ciro.”

His gaze returned to mine.

“Cassandra,” he said, voice low and firm. “Either you give me what I want, or I take it from you.” His expression was both a warning and a plea, and that combination made my stomach knot.

I knew Leo well enough to understand what he meant.

If I didn’t cooperate, he’d find a way to make me.

I gnawed at my lower lip, the sharp taste of iron touching my tongue before I even realized I had bitten down too hard.

Leo’s eyes flicked to my mouth.

A smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

Then, before I could react, his thumb swiped across my lip, collecting the blood—And he brought it to his mouth.

Licked it clean.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my pulse stuttering.

“Christ,” I whispered.

His smirk deepened.

Leo leaned in, voice smooth, dark, and intoxicating.

“What will it be, my little Topo?”