Wounds That Never Healed
Pain was the first thing Adriano felt. Then cold. Then darkness.
A heavy groan escaped from behind the gag stuffed in his mouth. His eyelids fluttered, lashes damp with blood and sweat, the coppery tang pooling on his tongue. The ache in his head pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat—slow, dull, pounding.
He tried to move.
But he couldn’t.
His arms were tied to the armrests of a chair. His ankles bound to the legs. Gag cinched tight.
Panic tried to climb his throat but was muffled behind cloth and spit. He writhed, muscles straining against the ropes, his chest heaving as realization flooded his mind.
Trap. Ambush. Betrayal. Alessandro.
Adriano screamed into the gag, rage and fear bubbling in his throat, but the only sound was a muffled snarl. Sweat dripped down his temple. His vision started to adjust as blurry shapes began to take form around him.
Then all of the sudden, the lights turned on. Warm, golden, artificial light bathed the room. Adriano blinked. He was in a living room—an absurdly elegant one. Marble floors. Ornate furniture. A fireplace with no fire. Walls decorated in framed oil paintings. The kind of room that looked like it cost a fortune just to breathe in.
Then came the sound of footsteps.
Adriano stilled.
They were slow and confident. The soft thud of Italian leather echoing across the marble.
And then, Alessandro walked into room like he was hosting a fucking dinner party. He wore tailored slacks, a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the serpent tattoo that curled around his forearm like it owned him. He moved with the relaxed posture of a man who knew he was the apex predator in the room.
“Adriano,” he said casually, walking over to the minibar. “You’re awake? Finally.”
He poured himself a glass of red wine, took a sip, then crossed the room and sat down on the white leather sofa in front of Adriano. Calm and amused.
He lit a cigar, exhaling a slow stream of smoke that curled into the air like a serpent.
“I honestly overestimated you guys,” Alessandro said, shaking his head with a chuckle. “All that noise. All that firepower. And still—you all fell for it like little boys playing gangster.”
Adriano grunted something behind the gag, his green eyes blazing with unrestricted anger.
“What was that?” Alessandro said in a mockingly polite voice, cupping his ear. “Speak up, fratellino. I can’t quite hear you.”
Adriano rolled his eyes.
With a smirk, Alessandro stood, walked over, and pulled the gag free from Adriano’s mouth. Adriano coughed, spat blood, then looked up with cold fire in his gaze.
“I hate you.”
“Nothing new,” Alessandro said flatly, returning to his seat. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
Adriano leaned forward as far as his restraints allowed. “Why do you always have to do this, Sandro? Why do you always have to ruin things for me? You hijacked a million-dollar drug deal. You murdered part of my new crew and all for what?”
Alessandro took a drag from his cigar, eyes half-lidded. Then he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift between them like a veil of poison.
“You’ve grown wings,” he said coolly. “And Padré ordered me to clip them.”
Adriano scoffed, tilting his head. “Father made you do this?”
“He told me you needed to be taught a fucking lesson,” Alessandro snapped, the edge in his voice sharp as a blade.
“You know you don’t have to do everything he tells you to,” Adriano said, his voice low.
“And that’s the problem with you, Adriano!” Alessandro exploded, slamming his fist on the table beside him. “You don’t understand what it means to be part of this family. What it means to be Mafia! It means respect! It means loyalty! It means taking orders from your fucking Don!”
Adriano let out a long, dry, humorless laugh.
“But for you, it’s more than that, isn’t it?”
Alessandro’s brows furrowed. “What?”
Adriano grinned, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t follow his orders out of loyalty. You do it because you’re still chasing something you’ll never have.”
Alessandro narrowed his eyes.
“You’ve spent your entire life sucking up to him for his love and approval because our mother never gave that to you, did she, Sandro?”
“Shut up.” Alessandro growled through gritted teeth.
“She knew what you truly were from when we were just kids. She saw it the moment you stabbed our nanny to death at the age of ten.”
Alessandro’s expression twisted.
“You’re a fucking monster,” Adriano spat. “And no one—not even your own mother—could love you.”
The wine glass shattered before it even hit the floor.
Alessandro launched forward, fury igniting every inch of his face.
He punched Adriano in the face—once, twice—then grabbed him by the hair and smashed his forehead down onto his rising knee. Adriano’s body jerked, chair cracking under the force.
Alessandro roared and climbed on top of him, fists raining down in a blur of rage. Blows crashed into Adriano’s ribs, his face, his chest—each one landing with sickening thuds.
Adriano screamed in agony, his face bloodied, his vision swimming—but Alessandro didn’t stop.
Tears streaked down Alessandro’s cheeks as he pounded his brother over and over, blind with emotion, the kind that doesn’t just come from hatred—but from heartbreak.
“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT!” he screamed, his voice cracking.
He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching.
Didn’t hear the gasp.
But he heard the voice.
“Alessandro?” Then more urgently, “Adriano?!”
Still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
Until strong arms suddenly wrapped around his torso and forcefully yanked him off Adriano.
“Sandro, STOP!” the voice pleaded. “Calm the fuck down! That’s our brother!”
Alessandro thrashed, snarling like a beast, but the arms held firm.
“GET OFF ME!” he roared.
“NO!” the voice shouted back. “Sandro, look at me! LOOK AT ME!”
Alessandro finally turned.
His wild, tear-soaked eyes met a face he hadn’t seen in a while.
Gabriele.