Nico's jaw tightened. His hands trembled with rage — a tremor that started in his fingers and climbed through his wrists until his entire forearm was rigid with it. He was not a man built for patience. The outfit he had assembled reflected that: fast money, faster violence, loyalty purchased rather than earned. Without another word, he yanked his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket and began typing furiously, his thumb stabbing at the screen with the controlled brutality of a man driving nails.
A second later, my own phone buzzed against my thigh.
I glanced at the screen — and my stomach dropped.
He had sent those doctored surveillance photos to every connected associate and intermediary in his network. The faces of the men in the images were blurred, rendered unidentifiable, but mine? Mine was crystal clear. My face. My body. Framed in the grainy half-light of what appeared to be a private club's back room, positioned to suggest exactly the kind of betrayal that got women in this world buried in silence. The photos were lies — Cristiano carrying my unconscious body to a safe house after a rival crew's associates had cornered me — but lies, in the Five Families' world, only needed to be believed for one news cycle. After that, the truth was irrelevant. The stain was permanent.
Nico let out a cruel laugh. The sound filled the room the way smoke fills a closed space — slowly, inescapably, poisoning everything it touched.
"Still feeling stubborn? Let's see how long you last in this business."
I tightened my grip on my phone. The screen's glow burned against my palm, and I could feel the cold, sinking weight of understanding spreading through me like ice water injected directly into my veins. I knew exactly what he was doing. This wasn't just about revenge — it wasn't the wounded pride of a man whose woman had defied him. He wanted to destroy any chance I had of moving forward. Every family, every crew, every legitimate front operation on the Eastern Seaboard would see those photos before morning. No one would touch me. No one would shelter me. In a world governed by Omertà and reputation, he was stripping me of both in a single gesture.