LEONARDO
___________
Blood has a distinct smell. Metallic. Primal. Unmistakable.
I watched the crimson pool expand beneath Rafael's chair, soaking into the concrete floor of the warehouse. His breathing came in wet, labored gasps, the sound of a man whose lungs were slowly filling with fluid. He wouldn't last much longer. A pity. I wasn't finished with him yet.
"Let me ask you again," I said, keeping my voice conversational as I cleaned my knife with a handkerchief. "Who did you sell the shipping routes to?"
Rafael's head lolled forward, his once-immaculate suit now shredded and soaked with bodily fluids I had no interest in identifying. When he'd walked into this warehouse six hours ago, he'd been Milan's most respected shipping logistics manager. Now he was just another traitor learning the cost of betrayal.
"Please," he wheezed, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. "My family— "
"Will join you if you don't answer my question." I crouched before him, meeting his glazed eyes. "The Bratva? The Yakuza? Who bought you Rafael?"
A wet, choking sound escaped him, possibly a laugh, though it was hard to tell through the damage. "You think...you're untouchable... Russo. But they're coming for you."
I sighed, standing to my full height. "They've been coming for me since I was eight years old. Yet here I stand." I nodded to Dante, who had been watching silently from the shadows. "He's useless now. Finish it."
Dante stepped forward, gun already drawn. He didn't hesitate,a single shot to the temple, and Rafael's body went slack against the restraints.
"Clean this up," I instructed, already turning away. "And find his wife. See if she knows anything."
"Sir," Dante acknowledged, holstering his weapon.
I checked my watch as I walked toward the warehouse exit. Three hours since I'd left April at the estate. Three hours for her to explore her new cage and understand the futility of escape. Not long enough for her to break, but perhaps enough to crack the façade she'd been hiding behind for three years.
Three fucking years.
The cool night air hit my face as I emerged from the warehouse. Milan spread before me, a glittering expanse of lights against the darkness.
My city now.
Marco De Luca's empire, absorbed into mine like a snake swallowing its prey whole.
Everything except his daughter.
Until today.
The memory of April's defiance in that pathetic flower shop burned through me, her eyes wild with hatred, her body tense with fear yet still fighting. Nothing like the docile shopkeeper I'd been surveilling for weeks. That transformation alone had been worth the wait.
I slid into the back of my waiting car, nodding to my driver. "Home."
As the city blurred outside my window, my mind drifted to another night, another lifetime ago. Before I was Leonardo Russo, before I owned half of Italy and the souls of men like Rafael. When I was just Leo, a starving kid on the streets of Naples with nothing but rage to keep me warm.
Naples, 1996
Hunger was a living thing inside me, clawing at my insides like some parasitic creature. I hadn't eaten in two days, not since the restaurant owner had caught me digging through his garbage and chased me away with a broom and threats of calling the police.
I curled tighter into the doorway I'd claimed for the night, tucking my skinny legs against my chest to conserve body heat. December in Naples wasn't as brutal as further north, but the damp cold seeped into your bones when you had nothing but a stolen jacket three sizes too big.
"Hey. This is my spot."
I looked up to see a boy about my age, nine, maybe ten, glaring down at me.
His face was dirty, but his clothes were cleaner than mine, and the knife in his hand glinted in the streetlight.
"Didn't see your name on it." I replied, not moving. Showing weakness would be suicide. I'd learned that lesson the day my mother's boyfriend had kicked us onto the street, telling her to come back when she'd 'gotten rid of the brat.'
She never came back for me.
The boy's eyes narrowed. "You're new. Where'd you come from?"
I shrugged. "Around."
"You steal?"
An obvious trap. If I said yes, he'd want a cut or turn me in. If I said no, I was useless to him. I stayed silent.
Smart choice. The boy crouched down, keeping the knife visible but no longer pointing it at me. "I'm Antonio. I got a place. Warmer than this shithole."
"Why tell me?"
Antonio grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "Because you didn't cry when you saw my knife. Means you're either brave or stupid..and I can use either."
That night, Antonio took me to an abandoned building where six other street kids had created a makeshift home. There was a leader, Vincenzo, a teenager with a cigarette permanently attached to his lip and a scar that puckered the right side of his face into a perpetual sneer.
"This him?" Vincenzo asked, looking me over like I was a mangy dog he might have to put down.
Antonio nodded. "Found him in my doorway. Didn't even flinch at the knife."
Vincenzo blew smoke through his nostrils. "You got a name, kid?"
"Leo."
"Well, Leo, you want to eat, you work. You steal, you bring it back. You talk to cops, you die. Simple."
I nodded once. Simple indeed.
For three years, I was part of Vincenzo's crew. I learned to pick pockets, break into cars, move product for the local dealers without attracting police attention. I was good, better than good. Small enough to slip through windows, fast enough to outrun security, smart enough to case a mark without being obvious.
But Vincenzo took most of what we earned, and the beatings grew worse as I got older. The day I turned thirteen, I decided I was done working for scraps.
I waited until everyone was asleep, then took Vincenzo's hiding place apart brick by brick. Inside the wall, I found nearly ten thousand euros, three handguns, and enough cocaine to put someone away for years.
I took it all.
By morning, I was three cities away, courtesy of a truck driver who didn't ask questions about a skinny kid with a backpack full of cash.
Four days later, I heard Vincenzo had been found floating in the harbor, his throat cut. The local dealers didn't appreciate having their product stolen.
I didn't feel guilt. Only a quiet satisfaction that I'd never have to endure his cigarette burns again.
And a valuable lesson: in this life, you're either the one giving pain or receiving it.
There is no middle ground.