Page 37 of His

Every fiber of my being was on high alert. I needed to tread carefully. This entire meeting would be like a chess match, each move calculated, every word a potential weapon.

It was life or death.

I stepped out of the office, and Leo was waiting for me. He straightened, his eyes cold and deadly serious. I cocked my head and waited for him to speak.

“Everything’s ready?” I asked, my voice calm, but laced with the underlying tension I couldn’t fully shake.

“Security is tight. We’ve got eyes on all the entrances, and Stefano’s running point outside,” Leo replied, his tone clipped and professional.

I nodded, satisfied. “Good. Let’s go.”

We moved as a unit, heading down the marble staircase and out to the waiting cars. The drive to the meeting location was silent, the only sound the low hum of the engine. My mind was already on the meeting ahead, running through scenarios and countermoves before the first play was even made.

The Russos had chosen a neutral ground—a private estate on the outskirts of Florence, secluded and secure. I knew that it was a power play on their part, trying to set the stage on their terms. But I wasn’t walking in blind. Every detail had been considered. My men had every angle analyzed. I would not be the one caught off guard.

When we arrived, a pair of Russo guards stood at the gate, their expressions unreadable as they waved us through. The drive up to the main house was lined with more men, all of them armed.

As we pulled up to the entrance, I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

This was it.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The room was dimly lit, with heavy curtains drawn to keep out the morningsun. The furniture was ornate, old-world Italian with dark wood and rich fabrics. It reeked of old money and old power. The Russos were a family steeped in tradition. They’d been around nearly as long as mine and everything in this house showcased that.

Antonio Russo, the kingpin of the Russo Sicilian mob, was already seated at the head of a long table, his presence commanding and dangerous. He was a man in his late fifties, with silver hair slicked back and a sharp, hawk-like face. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on me as soon as I entered the room.

Flanking him were his top men: Mario Russo, his son and heir, and Salvatore ‘Sal’ Romano, his consigliere and enforcer. Mario was a younger version of his father—handsome, with dark hair and a cold, ruthless demeanor. Sal, on the other hand, was older, stocky, with a perpetual scowl etched into his face. He was a man of few words, but his reputation preceded him. He was ruthless in our world. Rumor had it he killed the previous consigliere with his two bare hands.

“Massimo,” Antonio greeted, his voice smooth but laced with the venom of a snake ready to strike. “I trust the drive was pleasant?”

I offered a curt nod, my expression betraying nothing. “It was efficient.”

Antonio’s lips curled into a half-smile. “Good. Let’s get down to business then, shall we?”

We took our seats, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. Mario leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine, while Sal sat forward, his hands clasped on thetable as if he were already anticipating violence straight from the get-go.

“I assume you know why we’re here,” I began, keeping my voice steady. “There’s been some… misunderstandings recently. Misunderstandings that have put us on a path neither of us wants to be on.”

Antonio raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Misunderstandings? I’m not sure I follow.”

“Don’t play games with me, Antonio,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin. “Marco De Luca is rotting in a jail cell because of fabricated evidence. Evidence that leads straight back to your family.”

Mario’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Antonio remained calm, a smile playing on his lips. “You know as well as I do, Massimo, that in our world, people sometimes end up in unfortunate situations. It’s not personal. It’s business.”

“Business or not, you’re playing a dangerous game,” I countered, leaning forward. “If you’re looking to provoke me, you’re doing a fine job of it. But know this—if you push me too far, there will be consequences. For all of us.”

The room fell into an uneasy stillness, the air heavy with unspoken words. Antonio’s smile faded, his eyes hardening. “We don’t want war, Massimo.”

“And if I decide to make your son here a casualty?” I asked coldly, my gaze shifting to the younger Russo. “Or Sal?”

Mario bristled at the threat, but Antonio raised a hand, silencing him. “Careful, Massimo. Threats like that can quickly escalate into something neither of us can control.”

“This isn’t a threat,” I said, my voice deadly calm. “It’s a promise. If you don’t back off, if you don’t clear Marco’s name and stay out of my affairs, you’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it myself.”

Antonio studied me for a long moment, the room silent. Finally, he leaned back, a smirk curling his lips. “Consider your message received. But don’t think for a moment that this is over.”

“It’s only over when I say it is,” I replied. “Remember that.”

I got up and turned to leave, my eyes sweeping over the room one last time, taking in the tense faces of Mario and Sal. But as I took a step, I noticed something—a flicker of something almost imperceptible in Antonio’s expression; a hesitation, perhaps, that made me pause, like he was holding back and had more to say but was weighing the consequences of whether or not he should say it.

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