Then—
A voice. Smooth. Unhurried.
“I know who the rat is.”
I don’t turn immediately.
I let the words settle. Let them seep into the cracks of the night, heavy with unspoken promises and unseen knives.
Then—I shift slightly, my gaze landing on Hugo Bianchi.
He eyes me with a smug expression, like he’s daring me to take the bait.
He’s waiting.
Waiting for me to bite.
I don’t react. Don’t show a fucking thing.
“Do you?” My voice is even.
Hugo smirks, slow and deliberate. “I do.”
A beat of silence. A slow game of chess played in real-time.
I know how Hugo operates. He deals in secrets, debts, leverage—the currency of men too smart to be caught with blood on their hands.
And when you owe Hugo Bianchi, you don’t just owe him a favor.
You belong to him.
I fold my hands behind my back, studying him with the same detached scrutiny I give to enemies before I decide if they’re worth the bullet. “You expect me to trust you?” My tone is smooth, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Your own gang doesn’t.”
His expression shifts, just barely. There’s a glint of darkness there.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Castellano.”
I tilt my head slightly, my smirk sharpening. “Don’t I?”
A pause. The air thickens, charged with unspoken threats.
I take a slow step forward, lowering my voice. “I heard about the fire in the warehouse.”
Hugo’s eyes shoot up.
His shoulders square just slightly, like he’s bracing himself, but his smirk doesn’t waver. “That was years ago.” His voice is lower now. “I was a kid. I didn’t know better.”
I let the words hang between us before delivering the final cut.
“But your gang’s original leader burned in that fire, didn’t he?”
I see it—the flash of old ghosts and unfinished business behind his eyes.
The kind of history that doesn’t die, just festers beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in again.
Then—Hugo exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back like shaking off a weight.
“You don’t know the full story.”