His greatest love.

Chapter 14.

The lights around shone the brutal scene as Giovanni stood tall, blood snaking down his bruised, sculpted arm and trailing across his bare chest—each droplet tracing the ridges of his defined abs like crimson ink.

At his feet lay what had once been a man but now barely resembled one.

His face was a grotesque mask—lips split to the gum line, nose crushed flat like wet clay, one eye swollen shut and the other glassy with shock. Purple bruises bloomed over his jaw and temple, skin torn in jagged strips where rings or knuckles had split it open. Blood matted his hair and ran in slick ribbons down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor in soft, wet splatters. His ribs jutted sharply where bones had broken inward, each ragged breath wheezing like air escaping a punctured tire.

"Volevi essere un eroe, vero? " Gio's voice was low, guttural. (You wanted to be a hero, right?)

He crouched slightly, eyes burning like twin embers beneath dark lashes. Then, almost mercifully, he raised his gun, tilted his head, and spat coldly, "Go save the dead."

One shot. Clean. No hesitation.

The body stilled—what was left of it.

"Jesus Christ, Gio!"

Matteo's voice cut through the silence as he stepped into the frame, all sleek black suit and panic. His eyes dropped to the corpse, then flicked up to his boss, who was now casually wiping his hand with a white cloth like he'd just spilled wine.

"Everyone's waiting for you upstairs," Matteo added, voice tight.

Giovanni slipped on his shirt, ignoring the blood staining the cuffs. He didn't bother buttoning it showing his chest covered in blooded that was being slowly transferred to his shirt. He walked out without a backward glance. They went back upstairs and they walked into the conference room where four gentlemen and two ladies were. Everyone looked at him in fear as he took a seat placing his gun on the table.

"My apologies for the delay," Gio said smoothly, brushing a streak of dried blood from his cuff as though it were lint. His black hair fell in loose, disheveled waves, the kind you get from exertion, not a breeze. "Had to take care of something... pressing."

Matteo slipped into the chair beside him, the smell of cigarette smoke still clinging to his jacket, jaw tight as a vice.

Giovanni's gaze swept the table—slow, deliberate, predatory. "Now... let's discuss why my shipment never reached their destination."

Luis shifted in his seat, tapping a nervous rhythm against the tabletop. "Are you sure you don't have a spy in your camp?"

That earned him a twitch of Giovanni's lip. Not amusement—something sharper, like a blade catching light. "Interesting question, Luis. You ask it like you already have someone in mind. Whose spy would that be? Yours? Or theirs?"

A woman to the right cleared her throat. "Could be the Feds?" she offered, voice light, brittle.

"If it were the Feds," Gio said, leaning back, "they'd have the product. They don't. And unlike some of you, they don't move quietly. They'd leave paperwork, warrants, people in handcuffs. None of that happened."

Silence thickened, except for the faint hum of the overhead light.

"Well... we don't know what to tell you," another man muttered, his hands clasped tightly enough to whiten his knuckles.

"See, here's the problem with pretending ignorance—I already know too much," his voice low and edged like broken glass. "The trucks left the port right on schedule. Every GPS tracker was active until halfway through the route—then, within the same five-minute window, every signal went dead. Not jammed. Not malfunctioning. Manually killed."