Page 85 of Twisted Vows

Sal wanted to play king. Tonight, we remind him who rules this city.

The airstrip stretches out like a graveyard beneath the night sky, the jet sitting on the tarmac like a lone soldier. The pilot makes a low pass, and I see a black SUV barreling down a side road. “Sal’s last mistake.”

The chopper lands between the plane and the oncoming SUV. I step out quickly, the roar of the blades fading behind me as Franco and I move in tandem toward the aircraft.

Anton and Vincenzo move ahead, taking out Sal’s men one by one as they step out of the plane. “Four down, one to go,” I mutter quietly.

The SUV skids to a stop a few feet away. “Mine,” Franco bites out as he takes out the driver.

“You think he’s gonna cower inside the car?”

Franco shakes his head. “His ego won’t allow it.”

The back door opens slowly, and Sal steps out. Buttoning his coat slowly, he smiles. “Franco. You didn’t have to go through all this trouble just for me.” His smirk widens, but there’s a tightness around his eyes he can’t entirely hide. “I could’ve sent an invitation.”

Sal has always been a man who thrives on control—on pulling the strings from the shadows, making others dance to his tune. But now, standing beneath the floodlights of the airstrip, with nowhere left to run, I watch as the illusion fractures.

The smirk is still there, but it’s strained now, the corners twitching like he’s barely holding it together. His hands are steady at his sides, but there’s a tell—subtle but undeniable. His fingers twitch against his coat as if debating whether to go for a weapon or raise them in surrender. He doesn’t know which move will keep him alive.

“You’re making a mistake, Franco,” he says, but the confidence is thinning, unraveling with each second that passes. “Kill me, and theFamigliafalls apart. You’ll have war on your hands before the blood even dries.”

Franco doesn’t respond and lets the silence press down on him like a loaded gun.

Sal swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs. A bead of sweat rolls from his temple, cutting through the smooth arrogance he’s so carefully maintained.

His foot shifts slightly, a near-invisible step back.

He knows.

For the first time, Salvatore Santoro understands what it feels like to be powerless.

Franco steps forward, his gun unwavering. “War’s already here.”

Sal exhales sharply like he’s been punched. His gaze flickers between us, searching for a way out, for an angle he can work. But there’s nothing left. No deals to be made. No threats to issue.

His breath turns shallow, too fast. His fingers curl into fists. “You don’t have to do this,” he says, but now there’s something else behind it—something raw, something I haven’t heard from him before.

Fear.

He starts to turn, like he might make a run for the jet. It’s a pathetic move, the reflex of a man who’s always assumed he’d be the last one standing.

Franco doesn’t let him take a second step.

The gunshot rings out, clean and final. Sal jerks violently, his body snapping forward before collapsing onto the tarmac. He gasps, blood blooming across his chest, fingers clawing at the wound as if he can hold himself together. His mouth moves, but no words come out—only a wet, choking sound.

His body twitches once, then stills.

Franco looks down at him, his expression void of emotion. “Guess you weren’t as untouchable as you thought.”

I exhale slowly, the weight of inevitability settling in. The last play has been made. The final piece removed from the board.

But as I stare down at Sal’s lifeless form, I realize something.

This isn’t the end.

It’s just the beginning.

“Burn it,” Franco says, his voice flat. “The jet. The body. All of it.”

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