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The hospital room was quiet save for the soft hiss of oxygen and the steady beep of the monitor. Vincenzo tried to let the silence settle, but his wounds burned with every breath. Kadie sat in the chair near the corner, legs drawn in, arms hugging herself. She had not winked since the ambush. Her red and swollen eyes were fixed on him. Vincenzo had nearly closed his eyes when his phone buzzed.
The number on the screen froze him. Unknown. Untraceable but answered anyway.
A voice came through, calm as silk but laced with venom..
“Vincenzo LaRosa,” he said smoothly, almost mockingly. “Do you know what it feels like to lose the only thing that matters to you? You will. Because your son… is mine now.”
The words struck harder than the bullets that had put him in that bed. Vincenzo’s throat went dry, his body stiffening against the pillows. Kadie froze, instantly recognizing the cold weight in his tone. That was Zao Min, the man who had her son.
“You bastard,” he growled. “If you touch him—”
“—You’ll do what? You’re lying half-dead in a hospital while I hold Enzo’s life in my hands. This is not about him, Vincenzo. This is about you. You took everything from me, so I’ll take the one thing you cannot live without. Consider it… balance.”
Zao Min chuckled, the sound like smoke slipping through the receiver. “Do not waste your time trying to trace me. By the time your dogs sniff the air, we will be gone. But I’ll let you keep one promise to yourself: you’ll hear your boy scream before he dies.”
The line clicked dead while Kadie’s heart dropped into her stomach. She covered her mouth, choking back a cry.
For a second, the room spun in silence, then Vincenzo tore the IV from his arm, blood spotting the sheets. Rage surged through him, drowning out the pain. He shoved himself upright, breath ragged, vision blurred, but the voice of Zao Min replayed in his skull, twisting the knife deeper.
He snatched the phone again and started dialing with hands that shook not from weakness, but from fury. Every call was an order. Every order was war.
Kadie rushed forward. “Enzo, please! Stop—just breathe!” Her hands trembled as she reached for him, desperate to steady him. “We will find him. We’ll get him back. But not like this. You’ll kill yourself before you can save him.”
He didn’t even hear her. His eyes were fire, his voice raw as he barked into the phone.
“Pedro,” he barked, “Trace every whisper of Zao Min in Europe. Mobilize everything: the ports, airports, every dock, every mole—shut them down. Move now!”
Kadie’s voice broke as she grabbed his arm. “Please, listen to me!”
He tore free, almost shaking with rage. “They have my son, Kadie! Do you understand? My son!” His roar filled the room, raw and jagged, and for a moment he wasn’t the Don of Italy but a father with his world ripped away.
“He is my son too! And he is going through it because of you!” Kadie said, her voice lingering with anger and hurt. Vincenzo’s eyes softened for a second, knowing she was right. He had sworn to protect both of them, but things were getting out of hand.
Kadie’s chest heaved, panic clawing at her throat. The walls closed in, the machines beeped, his fury rose, and the suffocating weight of her words pressed down. Kadie’s hands flew to her face. The nurses even rushed in, panic and confusion ridden across their faces.
“I can’t—” she gasped, stumbling back. Her vision blurred with tears. “I need air. I can’t breathe.”
Before Vincenzo could stop her, she bolted for the door, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the corridor.
“Signore, you’re still in recovery—”
“Leave!” His voice sent them thundering out of the room.
One call after another, he set his network ablaze. Names spilled like ammunition. Old debts were pulled from the shadows. Even as pain raked his body, his voice cut through it, sharp as steel:
“Bring me Zao Min’s couriers. Shut Antonio’s channels. Pull everyone off the streets. I don’t care what they’re doing. Zao Min thinks he can ghost through Europe? Shut down every route, port, rail, and airstrips. If a ship moves in the Adriatic, I want eyes on it. If a plane lifts without clearance, I want it grounded.”
He didn’t wait for acknowledgement before switching lines.
“Charlie—wake up the Marseille crew. Zao Min still leans on the old routes through the south. I want warehouses turned upside down, every shipment checked. No discretion. Tear it apart. Pull Marseille. And someone get eyes on the Shanghai connections; he never moves alone. Watch the docks. Watch the ports. He’s hiding the boy somewhere, but he’ll need to move him.”
The next call, his tone changed, becoming softer but darker. “Rosario. You owe me. Tonight, you repay it. Watch Antonio. If he moves, if he so much as breathes wrong, I want you shadowing him. And if you find proof he is in on this with Zao, end him.”
The Don’s fury radiated through every syllable, cutting blood ties with Antonio, his only brother. His heart hurt, but again, he reminded himself that he had given Antonio too many chances to be better, but that ship had sailed.
By the time he ended the last call, his phone screen glowed with queued orders already rippling through Venice, Milan, Marseille, and Shanghai. Like dominos falling, his empire was shifting into war footing.
He leaned on the desk, every muscle trembling, blood spotting fresh through his bandages. The pain was nothing. What Zao Min had ignited inside him was far worse than bullets.
His voice rasped into the quiet, a vow to no one and everyone, and the last call he saved for Zao Min himself—his own message, slow and lethal, recorded into the void.
“You made a mistake, Zao Min. You think this is revenge, but what you’ve done is light a fire that won’t go out until you’re ash. You breathe because I allow it. My son breathes because I will it. And I promise you, the moment I find you, there won’t be enough smoke in the world to hide you. I have taken care of your situations before, and believe me, I will do it again.”
He ended the call and dragged himself toward the window. Venice’s lights glimmered on the water like stars, but to Vincenzo they looked like targets waiting to be burned.
The Don of Italy was no longer a patient. He was a father. And war was coming.