CHAPTER 19
DOMENICO
The room stank of antiseptic and gunpowder.
Bloodstained shirts. Torn bulletproof vests. Grimy faces. Bandages hastily wrapped over wounds. Every man here bore the same signs—shame, fury, and exhaustion.
I stood at the head of the long table, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight. No one dared speak.
Not even Matteo, and he was usually the first to say something reckless.
He sat a few seats down, a thick bandage slashed across his side, a fresh cut blooming red through the gauze. Even wounded, he was alert—watching me like a wolf waiting for orders.
The silence stretched.
“Don…” one of the younger guards started, limping forward. “We traced the shooters—”
“Fammi indovinare,” I growled. “Takumi.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, Don.”
I slammed my fist on the table. The s
