Page 29 of Forced Arrangement

I storm into the building, the adrenaline coursing through my veins like a shot of pure fire. My mind is a battlefield of rage and cold calculation, every thought focused on one thing: making Costa pay.

Franco is on the phone, coordinating with the team to track down every possible lead on Costa’s location. I can see the tension in his posture, the same tightness that is coiled in my gut. We don’t have time to waste. Every second is another moment Costa has to do more damage.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, expecting the worst. But it’s a message from one of our informants, a rat we’d planted in Costa’s operations months ago.

Heard something. The young kid, your guy. He’s in one of Costa’s safe houses near the docks. Not good, boss. Not good at all.

I stare at the message, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turn white. “It’s one of our own,” I mutter to Franco, the anger in my voice barely contained. “The kid I’ve been training, Luca. He’s only nineteen. They’ve got him near the docks.”

Franco’s eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous crossing his face. “Shit. Costa’s going for blood.”

I nod, my mind already spinning through options. “We need to move fast. Get the team ready—we’re going to bring him home.”

Franco is already making the call, but I grab his arm before he can head out. “Go to the penthouse first,” I order, my voice steely. “Stay with Sophia. I don’t want Costa making a move on her while we’re out. She’s priority number one.”

Franco looks like he wants to argue, his brow furrowing, but he knows better. He nods sharply, his expression hard. “Understood. I’ll have men on standby to back you up at the docks.”

I clap him on the shoulder, silent agreement passing between us. “Keep her safe, Franco.”

“I will,” he promises, his voice resolute. With that, he turns and heads out, his footsteps echoing in the hallway as he leaves to fulfill his duty. I don’t have to worry about Sophia—not with Franco watching over her.

Now, I can focus on what needs to be done.

The docks are deserted, the cold air biting at my skin as we move in silence, the team flanking me on all sides. The informant’s tip had been good—we’d traced Costa’s men to a run-down warehouse, the kind of place you could burn to the ground without anyone asking questions.

As we approach, I can see the faint glow of light seeping through the cracks in the walls, and I can hear the sound of muffled voices filtering through the night. My blood boils with each step closer, every fiber of my being screaming for revenge.

The kid—Luca—has been with us for barely a year. He’s young, green, but he has potential. I see something in him, something that reminds me of myself at his age. And now,because of Costa, that potential might be snuffed out before it has a chance to flourish.

I signal to the men, and we move in, silently breaching the perimeter of the warehouse. The doors creak as we push them open, revealing a scene that makes my stomach turn.

Luca is tied to a chair in the center of the room, his face a mess of blood and bruises. He’s slumped over, unconscious—or worse. But it’s his hands that catch my attention. Blood-soaked rags are wrapped around them, but even from where I stand, I can see the damage. Two of his fingers have been cut off, the stumps crudely bandaged in a way that makes it clear Costa’s men wanted to keep him alive, but in pain.

“Bastards,” I hiss under my breath, my vision going red with rage.

One of Costa’s goons turns at the sound, eyes widening in shock as he sees us. He reaches for his gun, but I’m faster. I fire a single shot, and he crumples to the ground, dead before he even hits the floor.

The rest of the team moves in quickly, taking down the remaining guards with brutal efficiency. Within minutes, the warehouse is silent, except for the labored breathing of my men and the faint whimpering from Luca.

I rush to his side, kneeling beside him. His eyes flutter open, glazed with pain and fear, but there is a spark of recognition when he sees me.

“Boss…” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t talk,” I order, my tone softer than before. I reach for the ropes binding his hands, cutting them loose with a swift motion. “We’re getting you out of here.”

Luca’s head lolls to the side, his body limp from exhaustion and blood loss. He’s in bad shape, but he’s alive. That’s all that mattered. “I’m sorry…” he mumbles, his voice cracking. “I tried to…”

“You did good,” I interrupt, my voice firm. “You held on. That’s all I ask of any of your guys.”

I turn to one of the men. “Get him to the car. Take him to Doc—tell him to do whatever it takes.”

The man nods, gently lifting Luca in his arms as he carries him out of the warehouse. I watch them go, my heart heavy with the knowledge of what has been done to Luca. But there’s no time for guilt—only for action.

I stand, the fire in my veins rekindling as I turn my attention back to the warehouse. Costa thought he could get away with this. He thought he could hurt one of mine and walk away unscathed.

He’s wrong.

“Search the place,” I order, my voice cold as steel. “I want to know if Costa left anything behind.”

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