Chapter 18 18.

Chapter 18 18.


Ten years ago

In the Sicily town of Italy, that reeked of the unmistaken smell of blood and power.By the Cliffside stood the Romano estate, a fortress joined to the depths of the earth itself.

Inside the grand study, the three Romano brothers stood before their father, a man whose shadow feared men of power and caliber.

By the far end stood Dante Romano, the eldest of the Romano children. Even at twenty-seven he's abs stood straight revealing a well structured chest. His suit was ironed and his dark hair slicked back making visible his eyes, cold yet beautiful. His eyes never moved from the map on the desk as it hovered over Italy.

In the middle was Rocco. A boy who had grown into a man too quickly through the sheer force of his own rage. By the right part of his face a jagged scar ran through his eyebrow, earned in a street fight. He breathed loudly, his knuckles bruised with his gaze fiercely fixed on the floor.

And then there was Salvatore.

At twenty-five Salvatore had the same sharp jawline and dark hair as his brothers. He stood at the far left, his hands tucked into his pockets, trying to look like he didn't care that he was the disappointment of the family.

"The Volkovs are expanding," their father said, his voice cold and fierce. "Moscow isn't enough for them anymore. They want the Mediterranean ports.”
“We can't let that happen because we need their oil."

"The alliance is weak," Dante spoke up, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion. "I'm sure the trust us no more maybe because they think the Romanos are too... sentimental."

Dante flicked a glance at Salvatore, his eyes saying more than words can.

"Then, we seal the deal," their father continued, "One of you goes to Moscow for a year. Yunno…deceive them.”

The room went silent. Well, the knew who they were dealing with. If they the Romanos stepped out of line, execution was near.

"I'll go," Rocco growled, his chest puffing out. "I'll show those Russians what a Romano is."

"No," Dante said, his voice cutting through Rocco’s bravado. "You’re too impulsive. You’d kill someone within a week and start a war we aren't ready for. But as it pains me to announce, I’m needed here to run the books."

Both older brothers turned to look at Salvatore.

Salvatore felt a cold pit form in his stomach because he knew this was a trap but he just couldn't prove it. Dante had been whispering in their father's ear for months, looking for a way to get Salvatore out of the way. Salvatore was the one who asked too many questions, the soft amongst them.

"Salvatore will go," the father decided, his word final. "But he doesn't go alone. I'll send someone with him, someone the Volkovs trust."

The door to the study opened, and a girl walked in.

She couldn't have been more than twenty-two. She was wearing a simple peach-colored dress that looked out of place in the dark, masculine room. Brown and sharp eyes. She looked fragile, but when she walked, she moved with the calculated grace of a predator.

"This is Venna," Dante introduced her, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "She is the daughter of a Volkov lieutenant. She will be Salvatore's bridge to the Moscow elite."

Salvatore looked at the girl. And for a second, her gaze met his, and he felt a spark of something he hadn't felt all his. Her gaze reeked of innocence piercing his soul.

"I don't need a babysitter," Salvatore muttered.

"You don't need a babysitter?" Rocco laughed, clapping Salvatore on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

“I think you need more than that.”
\---

The first six months in Moscow were a blur of numerous activities. Salvatore was a "guest" of the Volkov patriarch, but he was followed everywhere by guards. The only person who was allowed to be truly close to him was Venna.

They were a fake couple to show the Volkovs that the Romanos and Volkovs were family. However, the fake romance began to turn into something real. In the quiet hours of the Moscow nights, Salvatore found himself talking to Venna about things he never dared to say in Sicily.

He told her about the journals he kept. He told her of how powerful he wanted to become, more powerful than the Italians and Russians joined together and Venna listened. I'm turn she opened up to him about her own cage how her father had raised her without love.

"We're the same, Sal," she whispered one night, sitting on the edge of his bed in the Volkov guest wing. The moonlight making her skin to gleam. "We’re just ghosts waiting for someone to notice we’re still breathing."

"I notice you," Salvatore said, leaning into her. It was the first time he'd come that close to a woman.

“And you're amazing.” Then he pressed her lips against hers in a soft, passionate kiss.

That was the night he got the tattoo. Salvatore let her draw a slight carving with a needle and ink they had smuggled in. A small "V" on the side of his neck, right where his pulse beat the strongest.

"Now you're mine," Venna had whispered, her fingers tracing the ink. "And I'm yours. No matter what the families say."
“Even though this might be temporary.”

\---

One faithful Tuesday morning.

Dante and Rocco arrived in Moscow for a "progress meeting" with the Volkovs. Salvatore was excited to show them that he had handled the pressure, that he had secured the alliance.

But when he entered the Volkov dining hall his heart skipped beats when he didn't find a celebration. Only eyes staring hard at him.

Dante was sitting at the long table, a glass of vodka in his hand, looking perfectly at home. Rocco stood behind him, his arms crossed, a smirk on his face that made Salvatore’s blood run cold.

"Sit down, Salvatore," Dante said.

"What is this?" Salvatore asked, his eyes searching for Venna. When his eyes met her she was standing in the corner, her face pale and wouldn't look at him.

"The Volkovs have a problem," Dante said. "A leakbto be precise. Someone has been feeding information to the Morettis…telling Michael Moretti about our shipping routes."

"I don't know anything about that," Salvatore said, tapping his feet excessively at the marble floor below.

"We know you don't," Rocco chimed in, stepping forward with a sudden wave of anger. "Because you're too busy being distracted!"

Dante slid a file across the table.

“What's this.”

“See for yourself, Salvatore.”

When Salvatore opened it, it was full of photos. Photos of him and Venna talking. Of him showing her his journals... Photos of them together in the dark.

“But, what's wrong with this—”

"Venna isn't a Volkov lieutenant’s daughter, Salvatore," Dante said, his voice dripping with mock pity. "I hired her And she’s been on my payroll since the day you left Sicily."

Salvatore felt like the floor had vanished. He looked at Venna. "Venna? Is that true?"

She finally looked at him and her eyes were flat.
"It was a job, Salvatore. Dante paid me to make sure you didn't grow a spine while you were away. He wanted to make sure you stayed 'sentimental' so he could control you."

"But... the things you said," Salvatore choked out. "The nights... the tattoo..."

"All part of the script," Venna said, her voice cold and distant. "Dante told me exactly what you wanted to hear. He knew you were lonely."

Dante stood up and walked over to Salvatore, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I did this for you, brother. I had to show you that the world doesn't care about your heart. Only your name.”

“Always remember this, Love is a weapon, and you let a girl use it to cut your throat."

"He's crying!" Rocco pointed, laughing. "The little prince is actually crying!"

"Enough," Dante snapped. He turned back to the Volkov patriarch. "The alliance stands, as a sheer proof of our loyalty, we are turning over the girl. She’s served her purpose for the Romanos. Do what you want with her."

Two Russian guards grabbed Venna leading her towards the door. However, she just looked at Salvatore one last time, a flicker of something crossing her face before she was dragged out of the room.

“Could it be regret?”

Salvatore stood alone in the center of the hall, his brothers looming over him. Then he looked at the “V” on his neck.
“Never again.”

"Now you're ready to be a Romano, brother," Dante whispered.

\---

And that day, Salvatore Romano died. The very little percentage of the will to Love, gone.

He didn't remove the tattoo but kept it as a reminder of the day his brothers showed him that even the woman in his bed was a soldier in a war he wasn't winning.

He spent the next ten years becoming a monster. He learned how to lead, how to kill, and how to use people before they could use him. Dante and Rocco were satisfied; they thought they had molded the perfect tool. Little did they realize they had created something far more dangerous.

But Venna didn't disappear. She stayed in the shadows of the Russian Empire, a ghost of the girl she used to be, waiting for the day Salvatore would return to Moscow.

And when Michael Moretti approached her with a deal to sabotage Salvatore’s new "bride," the journalist Elena Moretti, Venna didn't hesitate.

She did it becaus
e if she couldn't have the boy she had once loved, she would make sure no one else could have the man he had become.

Back in the present

Elena sprawled on the floor clutching an almost lifeless body.
“Luciano, please do something!”

Then two cars drove in. “Master Dante?”

\---