Chapter 157 Rocco
The pain in my hand throbs.
Rafael sits beside me as the family doctor stitches the deeper cut. The needle digs into torn flesh, thread tightening with each pull. I keep my face still, my jaw locked, my breathing controlled.
Pain is nothing new.
But tonight, it carries a different weight, anger, betrayal, and the bitter taste of old memories stirred up by a ghost with a knife.
The doctor finishes, wraps my hand in clean gauze, and leaves without so much as a word. Rafael stays, leaning back against the edge of my desk, watching me the way he watches loaded explosives, calm, calculating, expecting detonation.
“You're lucky that cut wasn't deeper,” he says.
I flex my wrapped hand and feel the pull of stitches. “Lucky isn’t the word I’d use.”
His eyes narrow. “Did you at least hurt him?”
My silence is enough answer.
Rafael's jaw ticks, but he nods. "Good. He deserves worse."
Before I can respond, the front door slams open, hard enough to shake the frame.
Riccardo's voice is booming down the hall, angry and unchecked.
“Where the fuck is he!?”
Rafael and I exchange looks.
And then Riccardo stumbles in.
He's limping-badly. His jeans are torn at the thigh, stained dark with dried blood. A new bandage wraps his leg, tight and heavy. His shirt is half-buttoned, hair a mess, eyes ablaze like he walked straight out of hell and then decided he wasn't done burning things yet.
I stand.
“What happened?”
Riccardo points at me with fury sharpened by adrenaline. “Your ghost friend’s men happened. That’s what.”
Rafael steps closer, assessing him, voice low with brotherly authority. “Sit before you tear that wound open.”
“Don’t tell me to sit,” Riccardo snaps, then winces hard as pain spikes through him. He grabs the back of the sofa and lowers himself down with a grunt. “They ambushed me on the old highway. Three of them. Masks. Camillo’s style.”
My blood runs colder-not surprised, but pissed.
Riccardo rips a hand through his hair. “You should’ve called us,” he throws at me, anger dripping from every word. “You go after Camillo alone and I end up with a bullet in my leg because his dogs are sniffing around our business.”
“Bullet didn’t stay in,” Rafael says, eyeing the bandage. “You’re lucky.”
“I’m lucky?” Riccardo barks, his glare incredulous. “The only lucky one is Camillo because if I’d gotten my hands on him tonight, I would’ve put his head through a concrete slab.”
I feel a dark satisfaction at the image.
Rafael folds his arms, and his tone cools down the room. “Whether you like it or not, we respond smart. Not reckless.”
Riccardo snorts. “Smart? He shot me!”
“He wasn’t there,” Rafael corrects. “If he was, you wouldn’t be sitting here yelling. You’d be in a morgue.”
Silence follows.
Heavy. True.
Riccardo sinks back against the cushions, jaw grinding.
Rafael turns to me. "You took a knife to the hand. Riccardo took a bullet to the leg. Camillo wants us rattled." His eyes flicker with something lethal. "So we'll show him we don't rattle-we hit back."
Riccardo raises his head. “Hit back how?”
Rafael moves toward the side table, opens a drawer, pulls out a folded map and a burner phone.
He tosses both onto the coffee table.
“Camillo’s car,” Rafael says simply. “It’ll be blown sky-high before sunrise.”
A savage grin curls over Riccardo's lips. "Good. Let the bastard burn."
I say nothing, but inside a cold, grim pleasure settles in my chest. In our world, fire sends a message. It’s loud. It’s clear. It’s unmistakable.
Rafael continues, voice even.
“The bomb’s being placed as we speak. We’ll watch the news tomorrow morning with espresso.”
Riccardo smirks, leaning back.
“We should send him flowers, too. Black roses.”
The three of us share a look, one that carries anger, unity, and silent promise.
Camillo wanted a war?
He was about to drown in one.
I woke up early the next morning.
Waiting for news of an explosion.
It comes at 6:14 AM.
Rafael steps onto the balcony beside me, phone to his ear. He listens, his expression unreadable.
“…Understood,” he says, “Clean it up.”
He hangs up.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Well?”
Rafael blows out through his nose. “The car exploded just as planned.”
“And Camillo?” Riccardo asks from the door, limping inside, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
Rafael hesitates just one instant.
“Not dead.”
Riccardo curses viciously. “How the hell—”
Rafael cuts him off. “He wasn’t inside. He was two meters away.”
My teeth clench. "How scratched?"
"Superficial," Rafael says. "Blown back by the force, bruised, some cuts. Nothing too fatal."
"So the bastard practically walked away," Riccardo growls.
Rafael nods once. "But he got the message."
At that exact moment, my phone buzzes.
One new message.
Unknown number.
But I know who it is before I even open it.
Nice try, brother.
You'll have to do better than fireworks.
Next time you miss, I won't.
My pulse spikes.
Riccardo leans over my shoulder. “He did NOT—”
“He did,” I mutter.
Then another message comes in.
A photo.
Camillo sitting on the hood of a burnt-out wreck, shirt torn, stomach wrapped with bandage, blood on his temple, cigarette in hand, smirking like he's posing for the cover of some magazine tagged Death Doesn't Want Me. He doesn’t look good and looks badly injured but he’s still flaunting it,
Riccardo snatches the phone. "I swear to God, I'm going to tear his spine out—"
Rafael calmly pulls the phone from him. “He wants us unhinged.”
“Well congratulations to him,” Riccardo snaps. “Because I AM unhinged.”
I take the phone back and stare at the photo again.
Camillo's eyes.
Alive.
Mocking.
Inviting.
He's playing a game only he knows the rules to.
A war only he understands the shape of.
And worse.
He’s having fun.
Rafael lays a steady hand on my shoulder. “We'll hit him again. But next time… it won't be a warning."
Riccardo cracks his knuckles, murderous and eager. “Next time, he won’t walk away.”
My hand tightens on the phone, stitches pulling, pain flaring. I say nothing.
Because hatred is sitting too comfortably in my chest. Because the line between past and present just blurred again.
Because Camillo-alive, taunting, relentless-has reopened a part of me I thought I buried years ago.