Amore mio 2

76.

Him.

Everything was a fucking disaster.

An explosion ripped through the heart of last night's ball, tearing bodies apart, shattering glass, and setting the entire underworld into a state of complete fucking chaos.

Hundreds were dead. Some of the most powerful figures in the world—men who had spent their entire lives building empires, controlling territories, deciding the rules everyone else had to follow—were gone in an instant. Among them were leaders of major crime families, their blood soaking into the marble floors, their once-untouchable status reduced to nothing but charred remains. Dozens more were in critical condition, barely clinging to life in hospitals, while their men scrambled to keep their organisations from crumbling.

The only ones who had gotten out in time, besides us, were the heads of the Chinese, Mexican, Austrian, and Polish Mafias. 

The world was leaderless in too many places, rules shattered, power dangling by a thread. 

Everything needed order and control.

That's exactly what Cloud, Giuseppe, and I had been working on since the early hours of the morning.

Meeting after meeting. Call after call. One problem solved, another ten waiting. The list of things to do was endless, the weight of responsibility pressing down on me.

And it was only 3 PM.

My head was pounding, exhaustion sinking into my bones, but none of that shit mattered compared to what was really clawing at me.

Cami.

I hadn't checked on her.

Not properly. Not in the way I needed to.

I had left her in bed at six this morning, curled up under the sheets, her breathing slow and even. Leaving her had been fucking torture. I'd wanted to stay—needed to stay. To bury my face in her neck, to press my hand against her stomach and feel our twins growing inside her, to reassure myself that she was okay, safe and sound. 

But duty had called, and I had to force myself out of that bed, out of the comfort of her warmth, into this fucking nightmare.

And the longer I was away, the worse my mood got.

By the time I stepped into the boardroom, the tension in the air was thick. Everyone inside was already standing, backs straight, eyes sharp, hyperaware of the storm brewing in me.

I didn't acknowledge them. Didn't need to.

I dropped into my seat at the head of the table, exhaling slowly, forcing down the frustration clawing at my chest.

The meeting, one of the most important ones, was about to begin.

The Mexican Mafia was in pieces. Davide González—its former leader—had been among the dead last night. No direct heirs, no son or daughter to inherit the empire. But there was one possibility.

Valeri González. His niece, who he had been caring for like his own daughter.

She wasn't blood. But if she knew the rules, if she could prove she understood the weight of the power she was about to inherit, she could take his place.

The door swung open, and I didn't need to look up to know who was entering. Martin's presence was unmistakable. He had a way of making an entrance, broad shoulders filling the doorway, his casual stride carrying the weight of someone who knew his job and excelled in it. Behind him, the woman followed, tall and poised, her every step calculated. I could feel her eyes on me even before she sat down.