Gunshots shattered the uneasy calm, slicing through the thick air as screams erupted around the crowded restaurant. Chaos unfurled like a storm, but I leaned back against the booth’s worn leather, steadying my breath and flicking the ash from the cigarette rolled between my fingers.

Anger simmered beneath my skin, sharp and bitter, but I forced it down. My gaze drifted up to Luciano, my sole trustworthy cousin, who was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a feeble attempt to mask the disgust twisting his features.

Darkness pooled in my eyes, a silent warning that I might be forced to pull my trigger twice today. There are some family members you wish you could erase, and then there are those you’d gladly shoot if the chance came—being pushed into it, though, stoked a fire of resentment in me.

When they first appeared, I hadn’t fully trusted Stefano and Salvatore, but I let it slide. They’d been working for us for almost a decade; my papà insisted on keeping them around because they showed up when we needed muscle most. Back then, when one of papà’s enemies had struck, slaughtering half of our men and snatching women and children, these two had stood with us. We crushed that enemy’s empire in return.

The truth was that not every man could survive being a Donatiello. My nonna always claimed our blood ran hotter than most. Maybe that was just an excuse for why the men in our family were so entitled, grasping for whatever wasn’t theirs by right. A Donatiello took what he wanted—usually by illegal means—and once it was his, it stayed his. But maybe she was right; that fire inside burned hotter than it should.

Suddenly, Salvatore rose from the table, his voice low but commanding Stefano to end his call. Oblivious to the trap closing around them, both men seemed unaware of the storm they’d walked into.

I’d uncovered their betrayal a week ago when I caught Stefano sneaking footage of me taking down two men. Yet, the mystery of who'd hired them still gnawed at me.

I tapped the cigarette ash against the table, knowing exactly what needed to happen next.

Outside, Brio and Savio stood guard, flanking Fabrizio on the left and Zeus on the right. I stayed tucked away in the private booth, unwilling to spoil the gathering with my presence just yet.

We’d arranged for Nicolo, my underboss, to lead his crew to oversee the weapons shipment scheduled near our border with the Cubans today. Once I’d dealt with the traitors, I’d join him.

Silently, I gave the word to my men, then rose from the booth and headed straight for the table where Stefano and Salvatore sat. Stefano’s head snapped up, his eyes locking onto mine. He whispered something to Salvatore, who quickly stashed his phone, his usual calm slipping back into place.

Stefano forced a nervous laugh. "Don, what a coincidence meeting you here for the first time," he said, but the forced smile couldn’t mask his unease. Salvatore glanced around, trying to seem nonchalant, but it was a thin veneer.

I ignored Stefano’s words, done with his lies and games.

Behind them, Fabrizio and Zeus drew their guns, pressing cold barrels into their backs and temple respectively.

"What’s happening? Fabrizio, put the gun down. Why now?" Salvatore’s voice cracked, exchanging a fearful look with Stefano.

Panic flickered across their faces, the reality dawning that their end had come.

My men roughly hauled the two traitors outside, throwing them into the waiting SUVs for the twenty-minute ride.

The convoy rolled to a stop before a decrepit building at the border—an abandoned relic of rust and neglect, perfect for the dirty work ahead. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the sound of boots on cracked concrete.

Fabrizio shoved Stefano to the ground as Salvatore immediately struggled against Zeus’ imposing frame. I wasted no time, shooting Salvatore’s leg cleanly to avoid the primal urge to end him outright. His cry of pain was sharp, clutching the wound tightly.

"Enough, Salvatore," I snapped, eyes flicking lazily to Stefano. Neither had any idea what fate awaited them.

We entered a room on the third floor, to the left—a space still immaculate, untouched by my previous wrath. In the center sat a table with two pistols, each loaded with a single bullet.

"Listen up," I growled, seizing their attention. "I give the order, you carry it out." My gaze drilled into Salvatore’s, cold and unyielding.

I leaned forward, arms crossed, signaling Luciano. He promptly grabbed the pistols and placed one in Stefano’s trembling hand and the other in Salvatore’s.

They exchanged confused glances, but I didn’t bother explaining further.

"You’re going to shoot each other," I said flatly. Despite their friendship, betrayal meant they no longer deserved any mercy.

Stefano’s voice was barely a whisper. "W-what?" But they both knew better than to make me repeat myself.

"Don’t make me wait," I warned, impatience sharpening my tone.

"Don, please," Stefano begged, "we were forced into this—"

"Bullshit," I cut him off sharply. "Who do you work for?"

Salvatore remained silent, but Stefano’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth, but no words came.

"Use your words," I pressed, shooting Stefano’s shoulder with a precise shot. The pain forced a groan.

"Sandros Ortez," Stefano finally confessed, collapsing his gun onto the table.

Ortez was a longtime enemy of the Donatiellos, though not the most threatening. Still, the betrayal cut deep.

"Did I say you were free?" I asked sharply, shaking my head at their pitiful defiance.

"Finish it," I ordered.

Salvatore nodded faintly, raising his gun toward Stefano, who did the same. Their eyes squeezed shut as fingers tensed on triggers.

Two sharp shots echoed, then silence returned, punctuated only by the dull thuds of their collapsing bodies.

I exhaled slowly, the weight of command heavy on my shoulders. Loyalty was everything—and betrayal, the deadliest gamble of all.