Chapter 3 3

'Seven' POV

I looked down at the broken man trembling in my chair. The raw agony shattering 'Twelve's' expression was a masterpiece of destroyed faith. I didn't need to break his fingers or peel his skin to get what I wanted; his silence, heavy with suffocating guilt, was already mine.

The subterranean air of the wine cellar was freezing, smelling of damp earth and aged oak. I stepped closer, the crystal glass of vintage Barolo cool against my palm. I didn't ask him who sent him or how he bypassed my security. Instead, I tilted the glass, letting the rim tap lightly against his cheekbone.

"She hung over the black water of the Cistern for two days and two nights," I murmured, my voice a velvet blade slicing through the quiet dampness. "She traded half her life for a nameless ghost. And you? You rush back here, blinded by a lie, to throw that life away on a suicidal whim."

I tipped the glass. The dark red liquid cascaded over his head, matting his silver hair and dripping down his face like thick, arterial blood. It soaked into his dark clothes, a baptism of absolute humiliation.

"Your *Vendetta* is a disgrace," I whispered, leaning in so he could feel the chill of my breath. "Your loyalty is a mockery of her sacrifice. You are a traitor. *Un traditore*."

A choked, ragged sound tore from his throat. He strained against the ropes, not to attack me, but as if trying to escape his own skin. His will was entirely pulverized, leaving nothing but a hollow vessel of remorse.

Perfect.

I stepped back into the periphery of the harsh light and glanced at the shadows where my men stood. "Untie him."

The ropes fell away. 'Twelve' slumped forward, his hands hitting the cold stone floor, barely catching himself. He looked up, confusion warring with the absolute despair in his eyes.

"Silas played us all," I said, my tone shifting from mockery to cold revelation. "She isn't dead. He faked the explosion and smuggled her off the island."

The transformation was instantaneous. The dead, hollow look in 'Twelve's' eyes ignited with a frantic, desperate fire. His breath hitched.

"She is in New York," I continued, watching the leash snap securely around his neck without him even realizing it. "Your fate isn't mine to decide. It's hers. Go to New York. Find her. Protect her with the life she bought for you. That is your only path to redemption. Now, get out of my sight."

He didn't hesitate. He scrambled to his feet, a man resurrected by a single thread of hope, and bolted up the stone steps. The heavy cellar door slammed shut behind him, echoing like a gunshot.

From the darkened corner of the cellar, Marco, my *Caporegime*, stepped forward. His jaw was tight, his posture rigid with disapproval.

"With all due respect, 'Seven'," Marco said, his voice a low rumble, "letting a ghost loyal to 'Nine' walk free is a fatal mistake. She is the biggest threat to your seat as *Don*. We should have gutted him and hunted her down ourselves."

I chuckled, a dark, hollow sound that bounced off the arched stone walls. I picked up the Barolo bottle and poured myself a fresh glass, watching the crimson liquid swirl.

"You think 'Nine' is just another heir, Marco?" I asked, taking a slow sip. The rich, earthy finish burned pleasantly down my throat. "She is Silas's sharpest blade. The Syndicate's top *Enforcer*. If she wants to stay hidden in America, you won't find her. I won't find her."

I turned to face my *Capo*, my expression hardening into absolute certainty.

"But 'Twelve' will. I didn't just let a man go; I unleashed a starving bloodhound. He will tear the city apart following his mistress's scent, desperate to prove his worth." I set the glass down on the wooden table with a sharp clink. "Have our *Soldiers* shadow him. He will lead us straight to her viper's nest."