Page 11 of The Don's Eternal Vows

I hurl the pillow across the room with a roar. It hits the wall, sliding down to the floor in a crumpled heap.

I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The great Gianni Montagna is reduced to a grieving wreck. If my enemies could see me now...

But I don't care. Let them come. Let them try to kick me while I'm down. I'll show them what true pain is. I'll make them wish they had never been born.

My tears dry, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. I lift my head, my jaw set. They took her from me. They stole my light, my love, my reason for living. And they will pay—every last one of them.

I rise from the bed, my steps firm and purposeful as I stride to the closet. I pull out a black suit, the fabric crisp and unblemished. It is mourning attire, but also a uniform—a declaration of war.

I dress meticulously, each button and cufflink a ritual—a preparation for battle. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, my reflection a stranger. My eyes are hollow, my cheeks gaunt. But there's a fire there, too.

I lean in close, my breath fogging the glass. "I will avenge you, my love," I whisper, my fingertips grazing the cool surface. "I swear it on my life. On my soul. They will regret the day they crossed Gianni Montagna and took his wife."

I turn from the mirror and head for the door. The sheets lie forgotten on the bed, their feeble comfort no match for the fury that now drives me.

I have revenge to dole out.

I sit in my office and light a cigar. I inhale deeply, the rich smoke filling my lungs, curling inside me like a living thing. It swirls and eddies, a manifestation of my thoughts, dark and turbulent. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the night.

I inhale again. The smoke coils in my gut and tightens my chest, setting my blood on fire. It whispers to me, seductive and insistent. Revenge. Retribution. Make them pay.

I close my eyes, savoring the whisper, letting it become a roar. Yes. They will pay. They will all pay.

I crush out the cigar and call for my soldiers, my men, my brothers in arms. They stand before me, awaiting my command, their eyes gleaming with the same hunger for vengeance for their queen.

I say nothing at first, merely bringing up the CCTV footage on the screen. The images flicker to life, grainy and raw. There, in stark clarity, is the face of my enemy. The stocky redhead, his features twisted in a sneer as he aims his gun right at Genoveva.

I let it play, let my men see, let the reality of it sink in.

"This man," I say at last, my voice low and dangerous, "is our target. He is the one who took Genoveva from us." I meet each of their gazes in turn, seeing the rage, the solidarity, the unwavering loyalty. "We find him, and we end him."

They nod a silent oath, a promise sealed in blood.

"But he is only the beginning," I continue, my lips curling into a snarl. "Paolo Greco. He is the root, the source, the poison that must be purged." I lean forward, my hands gripping the edge of the table, my knuckles white. "We will not rest until he and all his men lie dead at our feet. This, I vow."

The room is silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. And then, as one, my men stand straighter, their chests expanding with the breath of battle.

"For Genoveva," they murmur, their voices a rumbling chorus.

"For Genoveva," I echo the words of a prayer, a battle cry.

We arm ourselves, checking guns and sharpening knives. I feel the weight of my gun in my hand, the cold metal a comfort, a promise.

And then, we move out into the night, silent and deadly, the shadows of our allies. The city passes in a blur, neon lights and concrete melding into one as we speed toward our destination.

Towards the man who took my heart.

Towards the man who will now face my wrath.

The iron gates of Paolo Greco's estate loom before us, a monument to his arrogance. I nod to Vito, our explosives expert. He grins, a wicked glint in his eye as he places the charges.

"Fire in the hole," he whispers.

The explosion rips through the night, shredding metal and stone. We surge forward through the smoke, weapons at the ready. Shouts of alarm rise from the mansion.

"Remember," I growl to my men, "no survivors."

Gunfire erupts, shattering windows and splintering wood. I move with cold precision, each shot finding its mark. A guard rounds the corner, eyes wide with fear. I don't hesitate. Thebullet catches him between the eyes, a spray of crimson painting the wall behind him.

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