Page 2 of Crimson Reign

Fifteen years ago, I watched Massimo Caruso walk away from the Commission with his life—a mercy he never deserved. He brokeOmertàwhen the‘Ndranghetamade a move on American territory, and he handed them secrets that weren’t his to give.

Supply routes. Safe houses. The inner workings of the Five Families. His betrayal bled the Syndicate dry, costing millions and leaving a trail of bodies.

And what did the Commission do? Strip him of power, exile him to the scraps of the underworld—but let him live.

A mistake.

One I intend to fix.

The silencer on my gun makes apfftsound as I put a bullet through the skull of the east entrance guard. He drops instantly, the light in his eyes snuffed out before he even registers his death. Icatch his body before it hits the ground, dragging it behind the thick hedges that line the compound.

Three down. Ten more to go.

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of expensive cigars and cheaper cologne. Massimo always had shit taste in men.

I move like a shadow across the manicured lawn, my tailored suit allowing for perfect mobility.

This estate shouldn’t exist. Not after what he did.

But Massimo has spent the last few years clawing his way back. Not through respect. Not through alliances. Through force. Through greed.

He’s been creeping into protected territories, sinking his claws into legitimate businesses underourprotection, using intimidation tactics on civilians—shop owners, old men who’ve paid tribute for decades, families who should be off-limits.

He’s rerouting drugs through corridors he has no right to, stepping on the toes of men who’ve killed for less. And worst of all? He’s stopped paying tribute to the families whose territories he’s poisoning with his filth.

No respect. No loyalty. No fucking consequences.

Until now.

My phone vibrates once in my pocket. Valentino's signal that the power to the security cameras will cut in thirty seconds. I count down in my head, positioning myself against the wall of the main house.

Twenty. Fifteen. Ten.

Then the floodlights die, plunging the property into darkness. I slip on my night vision glasses and move.

Two guards panic near the pool house, drawing their weapons as they fumble with their radios.

Amateurs.

I drop the first one with a clean shot to the temple. The second turns toward me before my knife finds his throat, severing his ability to call for help along with his carotid artery.

Twodown. Eight more to go

I wipe my blade on the dead man's jacket before re-sheathing it.

Just last week, his men beat three shopkeepers in our neighborhood who refused to switch their protection payments. One of them was old man Vitelli, who's been making cannoli for my family since I was a child.

No onetouches what belongs to the Bellanti. Which is why I volunteered when the commission said it was time for Massimo to go.

A digital lock secures the side entrance to the house. Against it, I place the small device that Lorenzo acquired from our tech team. Three seconds later, the door clicks open.

Inside, the house is quiet except for muffled voices coming from upstairs. I move through the kitchen, noting the half-empty bottle of Macallan on the counter. His taste in whiskey is superior to his taste in cologne, at least.

A guard appears at the end of the hallway, already drawing his weapon. I fire twice—center mass and he crumples to the ground.

One down. Seven to go.

The voices grow louder as I ascend the stairs, stepping over the expensive Persian carpet.

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