Page 29 of Bound By Honor

The amber liquid in my crystal tumbler catches the lamplight, transforming my office into a prison of shadows and regret. Seven days. Seven days since Alessandro took Aurora from Luciano's hospital room while he lay unconscious. Seven days since I put a bullet in my best friend's shoulder, leaving him vulnerable when she needed him most.

The leather of my chair creaks as I shift, ice cubes clinking against crystal like tiny bells. Outside, thunder rumbles—a storm rolling in from the lake, matching my dark mood. The air feels thick with cigar smoke and failure.

This isn’t power. This is helplessness dressed in gold, and it’s mine to own.

Maps and surveillance photos blanket my mahogany desk, proof of our desperate search. The sounds of Chicago’s cityscape hum distantly through the office’s windows, and it makes Aurora feel all the further away. This is supposed to be my kingdom, and I can’t even protect my own blood.

My phone buzzes—Marco’s name flashing on the screen. I don’t need to read it to know we’re no closer. The bitter taste of failure fills my mouth as I knock back another drink.

“Dom.” Enzo’s voice cuts through my dark thoughts. He stands in the doorway, his usually immaculate suit stained with fresh blood. Dark circles shadow his eyes—none of us have really slept since Aurora vanished. “The Rossi lieutenant talked.”

I set down my glass with deliberate control. “And?”

“Nothing useful.” His jaw tightens as he moves to pour himself a drink. “Just kept babbling about Alessandro having”bigger plans.”Before he died.”

“Christ.” I run a hand over my face, feeling the stubble of sleepless nights. “That’s the third one this week.”

“Fourth.” The crystal decanter clinks against his glass. “Marco’s getting... creative with his methods. The basement’s starting to smell.”

The unspoken question hangs between us: How many more bodies before we find her? How much blood needs to stain our hands?

“Any word from the hospital?” Enzo asks carefully, studying my reaction.

My shoulder tenses, phantom pain from the recoil of shooting Luciano burning through me. The memory flashes vivid and sharp—Aurora’s scream, the spray of blood, the look of betrayal in my best friend’s eyes.

“No change.” The words taste like ash. “He’s still?—“

A sharp knock interrupts us. One of our younger soldiers appears, breathless and pale. “Don Salvatore. It’s your nephew. He’s asking for you again.”

Luca. The name strikes me sharply. Another innocent caught in this web of violence and betrayal. Another responsibility I’m failing.

“How long has he been waiting?” I ask, though I already know the answer. Too long. Always too long.

“An hour, sir. Rosetta tried to get him to eat, but...” The soldier shifts uncomfortably. “He says he’ll only talk to you.”

I catch Enzo’s knowing look as I stand. We both remember being that age, waiting for our own father to emerge from his office of secrets and shadows. History repeating itself in the worst possible way.

“Keep digging,” I tell Enzo. “And tell Marco to clean up the basement. We can’t afford any surprises right now.”

The walk to the dining room feels endless, each step weighted with the crown I never wanted but can’t put down. In my pocket, my phone buzzes again—another dead end, another bust, another crack in the foundation of everything I’ve fought to maintain.

The dining room’s oppressive silence hits me first. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows across the massive table where Luca sits alone, his small frame dwarfed by the high-backed chair. His plate of pasta remains untouched, red sauce congealing like blood against white china. Rosetta hovers nearby, her worried eyes meeting mine as I enter.

“When’sPapácoming home?” Luca’s voice carries that fragile hope that makes my chest ache. His dark eyes—so like Luciano’s—search my face for answers I don’t have.

“Not today,piccolo.” I settle into the chair beside him, noting how his shoulders slump. The motion reminds me painfully of his father.

“But tomorrow?” He pushes his pasta around, creating abstract patterns that remind me of Aurora’s artwork. “He promised to help with my science project. We’re building a volcano.”

The innocent excitement in his voice twists the knife deeper. I remember Aurora helping him gather supplies last week, their laughter echoing through these same halls that now feel like a mausoleum.

“ZioDom?” His small hand touches my arm, and I realize I haven’t answered. “Is it because of what happened toZiaAurora?”

My throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

“I heard Marco talking.” His voice drops to a whisper. “He said bad men took her. Is that whyPapá’sstill in the hospital? Was he trying to save her?”

Cristo. I meet Rosetta’s panicked gaze over his head. She starts to approach, but I wave her back. He deserves some truth, even if I can’t give him all of it.

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