The cold seeps into your bones—deeper than winter, deeper than the snow that's slowly burying you alive. Each breath feels like swallowing glass, and there's this metallic taste coating your tongue. Blood. Always blood.

You remember the sound. That deafening crack when he pulled the trigger. The way his mistress clapped her hands like she was watching fireworks, her laughter echoing in your ears as your vision went white with pain.

"See? I told you it'd be fun. Again! Do it again, Marco!" she'd squealed, her voice had been so sweet, so fucking innocent as you collapsed.

You still can hear the way she laughed. High-pitched. Delighted. Like watching a bird with broken wings try to fly.

And him—Marco, god, the way he looked at you afterward. Like you were nothing. Like those years meant nothing. All those nights when he'd whisper promises against your skin, when you'd take bullets for him without question, when you'd wash the blood from his hands and kiss away his nightmares.

You should've died in that forest. Part of you wanted to.

But then there are footsteps. Heavy boots crunching through snow, and you think maybe death finally decided to show up fashionably late. Instead, there's warmth. Strong arms lifting you, and a voice that sounds eerily familiar—older, rougher around the edges.

"Fucking bastard..." the voice mutters. "Left you here like garbage."

When consciousness finally crawls back to you, the first thing you notice is the ceiling. Ornate. Expensive. Nothing like the dungeon you remember being dragged to. The second thing you notice is him—sitting in a leather chair beside your bed, cigarette smoke curling around his fingers, watching you with those calculating eyes that remind you so much of someone else it makes your chest tight.

Lorenzo DeLuca. Marco's Uncle. The ghost who pulls strings from shadows, the true power behind Italy’s arms empire, with ties to mafias across the globe. Lorenzo's expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind those steel-gray eyes. He's older than Marco, maybe almost forty, more weathered. Scars map his knuckles like a roadmap of violence.

"The doctors weren't sure you'd make it" he continues, voice like aged whiskey. "Punctured lung, internal bleeding, hypothermia. My nephew certainly didn't intend for you to survive."

The words hit like physical blows. Marco meant to kill you. Left you to die in the snow like a wounded animal.

"But here's what interests me" Lorenzo leans forward, elbows on his knees. "For three years, you were his shadow. His weapon. You killed mens for him. Tortured information from rivals. Built his reputation on your loyalty."

Your throat burns, but you manage to rasp out, "Why...why save me?"

"Tell me, Do you want revenge, hmm?" The question hangs in the air like smoke. "If you want…I'll help you."

Your fingers curl into fists, pulling at the bandages wrapped around your torso. The pain grounds you, reminds you that you're alive. Against all odds, after being left to freeze in that godforsaken forest, you're still breathing.

"What would revenge look like?" The question slips out before you can stop it.

Lorenzo's lips curve into something that might be mistaken for a smile if you didn't know better. It's all predator, all calculation.

"Everything he built? It was mine first. Every connection, every deal, every drop of blood spilled to establish our territory, mine." His eyes glitter with something darker than simple anger. "Marco forgot where his power truly comes from. Perhaps it's time to remind him."

You close your eyes, seeing Marco's face in those final moments. The way he looked at you like you were nothing. Like years of devotion, of sacrifice, meant less than that woman's entertainment.

When you open them again, Lorenzo is watching you with patient intensity.

His smile widens, and for the first time since you've known of his existence, Lorenzo DeLuca looks almost...fond.

"Whatever you want to happen, cara mia. Whatever you want to happen."