The roads back to the compound blurred beneath Lorenzo's tires, dust curling in the headlights like ghosts in retreat. The night still smelled of gunpowder—faint but clinging. In the back seat of the third car, Victoria Hayes sat between two of Lorenzo's men, her hands finally free, but her mind still bound by fear.
She hadn't said a word since they'd pulled her from that place. Just stared out the window, shoulders tight, lips pressed in a near-permanent line.
Lorenzo had been watching from the rearview mirror. Not with suspicion—but calculation.
Someone had placed her there. Someone wanted her found.
But who... and why?
By morning, the compound was sealed tighter than a vault.
Doctors were tending to the injured in the west wing, while soldiers debriefed in rotating shifts. The mood was quieter now, but sharp—like the breath between lightning and thunder.
Inside Lorenzo's private chamber, Enzo was pacing.
"She's not just some lost tourist, boss. Nobody gets dragged from London to Palermo in the middle of a mafia war for no reason."
Lorenzo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his shirt still stained from the night before. He didn't speak, not yet.
"I checked her bag," Enzo continued. "Basic ID, student pass from King's College London. She's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she really has no idea who she is to us."
Lorenzo's jaw flexed. "Keep her in the guest wing. No one sees her without my say."
"You think she's bait?"
"I think she's a question," Lorenzo muttered. "And the wrong answer could cost us more than bullets."
Across the city—
Vittorio Salvatore stood on the balcony of his penthouse, overlooking the aftermath.
From up here, Palermo looked peaceful. But down below... he knew the fire still smoldered.
Behind him, Salvatore Ricci waited silently, hands clasped behind his back. The scent of gunpowder still lingered faintly on his coat.
"She's in," Vittorio said without turning. "Lorenzo found her. Good."
Salvatore gave a curt nod. "As planned. She doesn't know anything. Not yet."
"She doesn't need to," Vittorio murmured. "Her fear will do the work for us."
There was a pause, and then Salvatore asked, "And if she starts asking questions?"
Vittorio turned then, his eyes sharp as broken glass. "If she questions, you make sure the answers are sweet enough to swallow. If she resists..." He stepped closer. "You know what to do."
Salvatore didn't blink. "I understand."
"This is no longer strategy, Ricci. This is survival. We don't wait for checkmate. We tear the board apart before they make a move."
"Yes, Don."
"You watch her," Vittorio said quietly. "And you watch them all."
Salvatore bowed his head slightly, then disappeared into the shadows of the room, already dialing a secure number.
The war had been won—for now.
But victory in the underworld came with no fanfare. No medals. Only silence, punctuated by the weary footsteps of men who'd bled for survival.
Lorenzo stepped out of the bulletproof SUV as the mansion's iron gates closed behind him. His coat, damp with the scent of smoke and war, fluttered in the night breeze. The villa stood before him, bathed in warm golden light, untouched by the chaos that had burned the city just hours ago.
Inside, everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
He passed familiar corridors—walls lined with ancestral portraits, the marble floor echoing beneath his boots—until he reached the grand sitting room.
His mother was there, waiting.
She stood as soon as she saw him, her eyes scanning him with that motherly precision that even bloodstains couldn't hide from.
"You're hurt," she said simply.
Lorenzo shook his head. "It's nothing."
She moved toward him anyway, her hand rising to touch the faint graze at his jaw, fingers lingering longer than necessary. Her eyes softened. "You won, then."
"We did." His voice was low. "Vittorio backed down. He's wounded—but breathing."
Her brows lifted slightly, not surprised. "You let him live?"
Lorenzo looked away for a moment. "For now."
She studied him for another heartbeat, then nodded. "Then come sit. You look like death with your tie still half soaked in someone else's blood."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn't last.
"How's Isabella?"
His mother sighed, brushing her own hair back from her face. "Handled, barely. She cried. A lot. Said you 'left without saying goodbye again.' I told her you had to go for something important."
Lorenzo clenched his jaw. "I'm sorry she saw that side of it."
"She sees everything, Lorenzo," she said softly. "Even the things you think you hide."
He lowered his gaze.
"She had a fever earlier—nothing dangerous—but her stubbornness stayed. Wouldn't eat much. Didn't want to speak to anyone. I think she's mad at you."
"I'll go to her," he said instantly, already walking.
His mother called after him, "Don't say something stupid this time!"
He paused just briefly. "I never do."
She scoffed. "Liar."
He entered Isabella's room without knocking.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft, flickering light of a scented candle by the window. The air smelled like lavender and medicine. She was curled up in bed, hugging a stuffed penguin he had gifted her on her tenth birthday.
She didn't even look up when he stepped in.
Lorenzo moved to her bedside, crouching low so they were eye level.
"Piccola," (little or little one) he said quietly.
No answer.
He sighed, placing one hand gently on the edge of the mattress. "I'm here."
She turned slightly—just enough to shoot him a glare that could've burned a hole through concrete. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose a little pink, and her lower lip quivered just faintly.
"You left," she mumbled.
"I had to."
"You always have to." Her voice cracked on the last word.
"I'm sorry."
She hugged the penguin tighter.
"I was scared," she whispered. "And you didn't say goodbye. Again."
"I didn't want to wake you."
"You should have."
He was quiet for a moment, then reached forward slowly, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead.
"I came back. I always will."
She stared at him—small, silent, wounded in the way only a child could be when someone they loved didn't stay.
"Promise?"
"I promise." He leaned in and kissed her forehead. "You're stuck with me, sorellina. (little sister)"
She sniffed. "Even if I stay mad at you?"
"Especially then."
That earned him a small, reluctant smile. Her fingers reached out and tugged at his sleeve. "You smell like fire."
"That's what winning smells like," he said lightly, then added, "Don't tell Mamma I said that."
She giggled softly, then yawned.
He stayed there, holding her hand, watching her fall asleep again. When her breathing evened out, he rose quietly and turned off the candle.
But as he stepped out of the room, his smile faded.
Because outside these walls, the smoke of war still clung to the night.
And somewhere... a whisper was preparing to become a scream.