Chapter 64 POV LILIANNA

Chapter 64 POV LILIANNA

Fear is a strange thing.
It doesn’t scream when it arrives.
It sharpens.
Narrows the world until only what matters remains.
The café smelled like burned espresso and rain-soaked stone. Rome breathed around us—ancient, alive, indifferent. Tourists laughed down the street. A Vespa roared past. Life continued, oblivious to the fact that my son’s safety had just become a bargaining chip in a war that spanned continents.
I didn’t move.
Because the second you move wrong, men like Rafaele pull triggers.
Callum was beside me, his small fingers wrapped tightly around mine. I felt the tremor in him before I saw it—the instinctive fear of a child who knew something was wrong even if he didn’t understand what.
“Momma?” he whispered.
I squeezed his hand once.
Steady.
Calm.
“It’s okay,” I said softly. “Stay right here.”
Rafaele Costello stood three feet away, immaculate in a tailored coat that screamed old money and older sins. His smile was relaxed, almost fond, like we were old friends who’d run into each other by accident.
Behind him, four armed men formed a loose semicircle. Professionals. Not Syndicate grunts. These were men trained to disappear.
The mistake they made was assuming I was just a mother.
“Rome suits you,” Rafaele said conversationally. “Genovese blood always did like familiar ground.”
I met his gaze without flinching. “Step away from my son.”
He chuckled. “Still direct. I admire that.”
“Rafaele,” I said evenly, “you have three seconds to call your men off.”
“And then what?” he asked lightly. “You stab me with one of those knives you’re hiding?”
His eyes flicked—too precise—to my boots.
So he’d done his homework.
Good.
“Yes,” I said. “Or I kill you with my bare hands.”
His smile widened. “Matteo chose well.”
Callum shifted beside me. One of the men raised his gun a fraction.
I didn’t look away from Rafaele. “Tell them to lower their weapons.”
He studied me for a long moment, then lifted a hand lazily.
The guns lowered—but not much.
Power is a negotiation.
Control is an illusion.
“I won’t pretend this is personal,” Rafaele said. “It’s business. Legacy. Correction of an error.”
“You mean Matteo,” I said.
He shrugged. “The throne should’ve been mine. History agrees with me.”
“History will remember you as a traitor,” I said.
He leaned closer, voice dropping. “History is written by the man still breathing.”
I felt Callum tense.
That was enough.
“Callum,” I said softly, not taking my eyes off Rafaele. “Close your eyes, sweetheart.”
He obeyed instantly.
I moved.
The knife slid free into my palm like it belonged there.
The man to my right went down first—artery severed before his gun fully rose. I pivoted, kicked backward, felt bone crack. A shot rang out, grazing my shoulder, heat ripping through muscle—but pain was a luxury I didn’t have time for.
Rafaele swore, stumbling back.
I shoved Callum behind the café counter, my body between him and the gunfire.
“Stay down!” I ordered.
Another man lunged. I met him head-on, blade flashing, blood spraying hot across my knuckles.
This wasn’t graceful.
It was brutal.
Survival always is.
Rafaele bolted.
Coward.
I chased him into the alley, boots slipping on wet stone, heart pounding like a war drum. He was fast—but fear makes men sloppy.
“Rafaele!” I shouted.
He glanced back.
That was his second mistake.
I threw the knife.
It buried itself in his thigh. He screamed, collapsing hard against the wall.
I was on him in seconds, knee slamming into his chest, knocking the air out of him.
“You don’t get to run,” I said coldly.
His face twisted in pain, but his eyes still gleamed with malice. “You think this changes anything? Petrov already won.”
I grabbed his collar, slamming his head against the stone.
“Where is my son’s father?” I demanded.
He laughed weakly. “Chasing ghosts.”
Rage flared white-hot.
I pressed the blade to his throat. “Answer me.”
“You’re too late,” he hissed. “By the time Matteo realizes—”
A gunshot echoed down the alley.
Rafaele’s body went limp in my hands, eyes wide in shock.
I spun.
Louis stepped out of the shadows, gun still smoking.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You okay?”
I nodded once, breathing hard. “Callum.”
“Secure,” he said. “Two blocks down. Clean extraction.”
Relief hit me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
I wiped blood from my cheek and looked down at Rafaele’s body.
“Is he—?”
“Alive,” Louis said grimly. “Barely.”
Good.
I wasn’t finished with him.
Matteo’s voice came through my earpiece, raw and tight. “Lilianna.”
“I’m here,” I said. “Callum’s safe.”
The silence that followed was broken—shattered—by the sound of him exhaling.
“Thank God,” he whispered.
“We have Rafaele,” I added. “He’s wounded but alive.”
A pause.
Then: “Bring him.”
We relocated before the sirens reached the café.
A villa outside the city—old stone, heavy gates, Genovese territory that still remembered my father’s name. Callum slept in my arms during the drive, exhaustion finally pulling him under.
I didn’t sleep.
I cleaned blood from under my nails, hands steady despite everything. When the adrenaline faded, the pain came roaring back—but I welcomed it.
Pain meant I was alive.
Rafaele was tied to a chair in the basement, leg bound, blood soaking through the bandages. He looked smaller like this. Less myth. More man.
Matteo arrived just after midnight.
The moment he saw Callum safe in my arms, something in his eyes broke—and reforged itself into something darker.
He crossed the room in three strides, pulling us both into him.
“You’re safe,” he murmured into my hair. “You’re both safe.”
“For now,” I said.
He nodded. “For now.”
Then he turned.
Rafaele flinched when Matteo entered the basement.
“Cousin,” Rafaele croaked. “You always were dramatic.”
Matteo didn’t speak.
He walked forward and punched him so hard the chair tipped back.
Blood spilled from Rafaele’s mouth.
“Where is Petrov?” Matteo asked quietly.
Rafaele laughed, coughing. “You think I’d tell you?”
Matteo crouched, eyes level. “You will.”
“No,” Rafaele said smugly. “Because I’m still valuable.”
Matteo smiled.
It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen.
“No,” Matteo said. “You’re expendable.”
He nodded once.
Dante stepped forward with a blade.
I watched Rafaele’s confidence crumble.
“Wait,” he gasped. “I can help you.”
Matteo tilted his head. “Then start talking.”
Rafaele swallowed. “Petrov’s not in New York. He hasn’t been for weeks.”
My stomach dropped.
“Where?” Matteo demanded.
“Eastern Europe,” Rafaele said quickly. “Baltics. He’s consolidating. Building something big.”
“Why?” I asked from the doorway.
Rafaele’s gaze flicked to me, fear sharp now. “Because he’s done playing king. He wants to be an empire.”
Matteo straightened slowly.
“Then we end him before he crowns himself,” he said.
Rafaele laughed weakly. “You can’t reach him.”
Matteo leaned down, whispering into his ear. “Watch me.”
By morning, plans were already in motion.
Routes. Contacts. Weapons moved quietly across borders.
Callum slept peacefully upstairs, unaware that his future was being rewritten in blood and fire.
I stood on the balcony as the sun rose over Rome, Matteo’s arms wrapping around me from behind.
“I should’ve died back there,” I said softly.
“No,” he replied. “You survived. That’s different.”
I turned in his arms, pressing my forehead to his.
“They won’t stop,” I said.
He kissed my hair. “Neither will we.”
Below us, the city woke up.
And far away, a man named Petrov was about to learn the cost of touching what was mine.
The war wasn’t just escalating.
It was going global.