Giordano POV
I lit a cigar with the same hand I’d just used to backhand one of my own men.
The fucker hit the floor, bleeding from the mouth, still begging. I didn’t care. I needed answers. Someone let the girl slip. Someone opened the cage.
And I was going to find out who.
The cigar tasted bitter this morning. Maybe it was me.
Maybe it was the stench of betrayal I could already smell on one of the bastards lined up in my office.
Eight men. All loyal. All trusted.
And one of them was lying.
I didn’t speak at first. Just sat there in my carved chair, with the wolf heads on the arms and sipping black espresso like it was blood. The room was quiet, save for the tick-tick-tick of the old grandfather clock in the corner.
Tick.
Tock.
Like a countdown to someone’s execution.
I looked
