★★Leon's POV★★



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I burst back into the dinner party, the air thick with tension as I struggle to compose myself. "Fuck this dinner, fuck her," I mutter under my breath, my frustration and desire warring for dominance.

Should I?

I yank at my tie, feeling like it's choking me, the knot tightening like a noose around my neck as I try to release the pent-up frustration that's been building all evening.

I had to escape, to get away from the tantalizing touch of her hand on my leg, the way her eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief as she leaned in close. If I'd stayed, I knew I wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation, and we would have ended up in a compromising position on that bench, our bodies entwined as we succumbed to the passion that's been simmering between us all night. The thought sends a jolt of electricity through me, and I can feel my cock straining against the confines of my pants, begging to be set free.

I try to adjust myself discreetly, but it's no use - the pressure is building, and I can feel the heat spreading through my groin like a wildfire. If I so much as touch myself, I know I'll come on the spot, the sensation building to a crescendo that's almost unbearable. It hurts, but at the same time, it feels so damn good, like my body is on fire with desire.

The weight of her body still lingers on me—the softness, the warmth, her scent. It's like a damn drug I didn't ask for, and I can't shake it no matter how hard I try. I can feel the frustration gnawing at my insides, every step back toward the house heavy with tension I can't release. The cold air doesn't help—it burns like fire on my skin, like I'm about to snap.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Gio. He's standing near the path, his eyes trained on me like a watchdog, the glare in his gaze impossible to ignore. His jaw is tight, his stance ready, like he's daring me to make the wrong move. I slow my pace, staring him down.

If he tries anything, I won't hesitate—I'll put a bullet between his eyes.

But I don't waste my energy on him. He's a distraction, and right now, I don't have the patience.

Once I make it back to the house, the dining room is alive with murmured conversations, the clinking of glasses, and forced laughter. Everyone's up from their seats, swirling wine in their glasses and exchanging pleasantries. The sight irritates me even more. These people have no idea what it's like to choke on chaos every damn day.

Damien notices me first and heads my way, his face etched with curiosity. "Where'd you go?" he asks, his tone annoyingly nosy.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my composure. "Smoke break," I say flatly, the lie rolling off my tongue with ease. Before Damien can push further, Antoine joins him, his eyebrows raised in question.

"Leon, there you are. Where the hell did you disappear to?" he asks, his curiosity matching Damien's.

The irritation boils over. "Can I not fuck off for a couple of minutes?" I snap, my voice low but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation around us. Antoine raises his hands in mock surrender, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Damn, dude. Relax," he mutters, chuckling softly.

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "Are we not leaving yet? I've had enough of this dinner." My gaze darts to our father, still deep in conversation with Luciano, completely oblivious to the rising tension.

Damien smirks. "I'm down to leave," he says, and Antoine nods in agreement.

"Yeah, I've had enough of this shit too," Antoine adds.

Together, we stride toward our father. He notices us and pauses his conversation, his sharp eyes narrowing. "Boys?" he says, his tone laced with impatience.

I glance at Luciano first, offering a nod of respect. "Excuse the interruption, Mr. De Angelis. Thank you for a lovely dinner, but we need to take our leave," I say, my voice calm and calculated.

Luciano smiles warmly, his presence strikingly different from my father's. His firm grip on my shoulder surprises me. "Of course, Leon. I appreciate you all coming tonight," he says sincerely, the kind of warmth that my father has never given me.

I nod again and turn to my father. "Monsieur (Sir,)" I say simply, locking eyes with him. He studies me for a moment, then nods, giving me the unspoken permission to leave. Without waiting another beat, we turn to go.

Just as we reach the doorway, the sound of heels clicking on the floor makes us stop. "Wait!" a voice calls, sharp and commanding. We all turn to see Iyana jogging toward us, her expression a mix of irritation and determination.

"Did you really think you were gonna leave me here?" she demands, her hands on her hips. "Alone?" Her eyes scan the room like we're abandoning her in the wilderness.

Damine groans. "Sis, I guess we can find another seat in the car," he says, his tone laced with annoyance.

Antoine smirks, crossing his arms. "Yeah, there's a spot—right on top of the hood," he teases, earning a laugh from Damien.

I stay quiet, my patience wearing thin. "Can we just fucking go?" I say coldly, cutting through their banter. The three of them look at me, their laughter dying as they nod. We head for the driveway, and just as we round the corner, the sound of heels against gravel stops me in my tracks.

It's her. Mariella.

She steps out from the shadows, her expression a mix of surprise and something deeper—fear, maybe, or hesitation. Her wide eyes meet mine, and for a moment, she's frozen, like a deer caught in headlights.

"Oh—uh," she stammers, her voice barely audible. She glances nervously between me and the others, like she's struggling to find her footing.

Iyana's face lights up. "Mari!" she exclaims, hurrying toward her.

Mariella's gaze flickers to her, then back to me. I smirk, watching her cheeks flush red under my stare. She quickly looks away, trying to regain her composure. "Iyana, are you leaving?" she asks, her voice soft, but her eyes betray her unease.

"Yeah, sadly. It's late," Iyana says with a shrug.

Mariella glances at me again before replying. "Yes, I guess it is late. Well, have a good night, guys," she says, her tone polite but distant.

Antoine grins, unable to resist a jab. "You too, Sleeping Beauty," he teases, his words making Mariella pout. She crosses her arms, the gesture so unintentionally cute that I have to bite back a smirk.

She catches my expression and immediately rolls her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"We need to hang out soon," Iyana says, her voice warm and friendly.

Mariella's face softens, and she nods. "Of course. Just text me. You have my number, right?"

"Yeah, I got it," Iyana replies, checking her phone.

Damine narrows his eyes. "You two exchanged numbers?" he asks, clearly annoyed.

Mariella glares at him. "Yes, Damien, that's what you do when you make new friends," she says mockingly, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Antoine and Iyana snicker, but Damien looks ready to snap. His fists curl at his sides as he steps forward, but I cut him off with a sharp tone. "Assez (Enough.) I'm already getting a migraine," I say, my voice brooking no argument.

Mariella's nervous gaze flicks to me, and I step closer to her, invading her space. She takes a hesitant step back, and I smirk at the reaction, my voice dropping low as I lean in. "Sweet dreams, petite princesse (little princess,)" I murmur, my words a teasing caress. "Try not to think about me too much."

Her brows knit together in irritation, her lips parting as if she's about to fire back. But before she can, I turn and walk past her, the others following close behind. My smirk lingers as I hear the sharp click of her heels fading behind me.

****

The salty breeze brushes past me as I move silently, boots barely making a sound against the gravel. My gun is at eye level, every muscle in my body coiled, ready. The port terminal stretches out before me, dimly lit by flickering lights. It's quiet, save for the rhythmic crashing of the waves against the docks—a hauntingly soothing backdrop to the violence about to unfold. Niko's secret armory and drug storage is tucked into these bins. Not so secret anymore, thanks to the drunken fools who couldn't hold their liquor. Their loose tongues paid their price; now it's time for Niko to pay his.

The night is perfect for this—dark, cool, and still. Damien and Antonio are spread out, my men stationed strategically, blending into the shadows with night vision goggles enhancing our edge. Every step is calculated as I slip around a red storage bin, pressing my back flat against it. My breaths are shallow, controlled, as I inch closer to the central hub where I know they keep the documents and records I need.

Footsteps. Voices.

Low and gruff, speaking in Greek. Two men, coming from behind me. My heart pounds, but my movements are instinctual. I still my breathing and hug the shadows, waiting. As they pass, oblivious to my presence, I move like a predator. One swift motion and the first man crumples to the ground with the butt of my silenced pistol against his skull. The second turns, his eyes wide with panic, mouth opening to shout—but I'm faster. A single shot to the head, muffled by my suppressor. His body hits the ground with a dull thud, lifeless. The first man groans softly, stirring, but I don't hesitate.

Another shot silences him for good.

I smirk, the adrenaline buzzing in my veins, and continue my approach, weaving between the storage bins. My earpiece crackles.

"Leon," Damien's voice comes through, low and urgent.

"Yes?" I whisper, keeping my voice barely above the sound of the ocean as I press myself against another container, scanning my surroundings.

"I've got eyes on a group," he says. "They're sitting ducks—playing cards, laughing. Completely oblivious."

I peer around the corner and spot them. He's right. Four men, crowded around a crate, their weapons resting carelessly at their feet as they laugh and play cards under the dim glow of a hanging bulb. Easy targets.

"I see them," I murmur. My gaze lingers on them for a moment, noting the layout, the angles, and the best approach. I'm ready to strike when Antonio's voice crackles in the comms.

"I've made it," he says, his voice winded.

I shake my head, rolling my eyes. "Why the hell are you out of breath?" Damien cuts in, annoyance lacing his tone.

"Because a guy the size of Leon just came out of nowhere," Antonio snaps back. "I had to take him down. You try fighting someone built like a damn tank and see if you're not winded."

A smirk tugs at my lips and Damien teases as he says "I'm proud of you, Tony."

"Ouais, ouais, rigole bien, (Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,)" Antonio mutters.

I chime in. "Focus, both of you. We don't have all night." I say softly, eyes still locked on the targets ahead.

I steady my breathing, the men playing cards still unaware of their fate. My grip tightens on the gun, and I whisper into the comms, "Nettoyons ça (Let's clean this up.) "

With a nod to myself, I step forward, the shadows swallowing me whole as I prepare to rain chaos down on Niko's empire.

The comms in my ear buzz faintly as I move through the shadows, my boots silent against the concrete. My heart is steady, my focus razor-sharp. Antonio is somewhere to my left, Damien to my right, with a handful of my men scattered like ghosts across the port. The Greeks think they're untouchable here. That arrogance will cost them tonight.

"Leon," Damien whispers in my ear, his voice calm but laced with the anticipation of bloodshed. "They're moving. Looks like a patrol sweeping east toward Antonio."

I tap the earpiece twice in acknowledgment. "Antonio, keep low. Don't let them spot you."

Antonio's voice crackles back, low and tight. "Already ahead of you, dude. But they're big. Like the guy I took down earlier."

"Bigger they are, harder they fall," Damien mutters dryly.

I smirk, my fingers tightening around the grip of my pistol as I press forward. The sound of the ocean masks the shuffle of boots in the distance. My night vision goggles pick up movement ahead—five men, heavily armed, moving in a tight formation. They're coming straight toward Damien's position.

"Damien," I say softly, "we've got five heading your way. Stay hidden until I give the signal."

"Copie ça, (Copy that,)" he replies, his voice steady, calm.

I press my back against a storage bin, peering around the edge to get a better look. The Greeks are disciplined, their movements coordinated. But they're not ready for what's about to hit them. I motion to two of my men nearby, signaling for them to flank from the left. I take the right, creeping closer with every step.

The first shot comes from Damien's direction—a silenced round that takes out the rear man. Before the others can react, chaos erupts.

I step out from cover, my silencer spitting death. Two more drop before they even know what's happening. One turns toward me, his rifle raised, but I'm faster. I fire, the bullet piercing his chest. He crumples to the ground, his weapon clattering uselessly beside him.

Antonio bursts from the shadows with a roar, tackling the last man to the ground. They struggle, the Greek swinging wildly with a knife. Antonio grabs his wrist, slamming it into the ground until the blade drops. Then, with a brutal elbow to the face, Antonio knocks him out cold.

"Nice of you to join the party," Damien says, emerging from his hiding spot, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder.

Antonio grins, wiping blood from his knuckles. "Had to make it dramatic."

I nod to the bodies on the ground. "No time for celebrations. More will be coming. Sweep the area and clear it."

My men fan out, their movements swift and efficient. But the Greeks are already onto us. The sound of footsteps and shouted orders echoes through the port.

"Contact! Côté Sud! (Contact! South side!)" one of my men shouts over the comms.

"Se déplacer! (Move!)" I bark, sprinting toward the noise.

We meet them head-on near the loading docks—ten Greeks, heavily armed and ready for a fight. The air explodes with gunfire. Bullets ricochet off metal containers, sparks flying as we take cover.

Damien fires from behind a crate, his aim precise, taking down two with clean headshots. Antonio, wielding a shotgun, charges forward, blasting anyone stupid enough to get close. I'm in the thick of it, my pistol emptying into one man's chest before I switch to the knife strapped to my thigh.

A Greek lunges at me with a crowbar, his swing wide and reckless. I duck under it, driving my knife into his side. He screams, collapsing to his knees, and I finish him with a quick twist of the blade.

"Behind you, Leon!" Damien shouts.

I spin just in time to block a strike from another man, his knife clashing against mine. We grapple, his strength impressive but not enough. I twist his arm, forcing him to drop the blade, then drive my elbow into his jaw. He stumbles back, dazed, and I put a bullet in his head.

Antonio is a whirlwind of chaos, his shotgun roaring as he takes out another pair of attackers. "This is what I'm talking about!" he yells, grinning like a madman.

"Less talking, more killing!" Damien snaps, reloading his rifle.

The Greeks start to retreat, their numbers dwindling. But one pulls out a grenade, his hand moving to the pin.

"Grenade!" I shout, diving for cover.

Damien doesn't hesitate. He raises his rifle and fires, the shot hitting the man's hand. The grenade falls, exploding in a deafening blast that sends bodies flying.

When the dust settles, the port is silent again, save for the sound of our heavy breathing.

I stand, surveying the carnage. "Everyone good?"

"Alive and kicking," Damien replies, brushing dust off his jacket.

Antonio laughs, patting his shotgun. "I think I'm in love with this thing."

I smirk, holstering my gun. "Clean it up. Make sure there are no survivors. We're taking everything they've got."

As my men move to secure the area, I glance toward the horizon, the ocean glittering under the moonlight. Tonight, the Greeks learned a hard lesson: no one crosses me and walks away.

The convoy rolled into one of our secure warehouses, far from prying eyes, where walls were thick with secrets and the air carried the faint smell of oil and gunpowder. It had been a flawless raid, leaving no witnesses, no loose ends—only chaos for the Greeks to uncover come morning. My men moved efficiently, unloading crates of weapons, stacks of cash, and enough drugs to fund a small war.

As the crates were cracked open, the glint of rifles and the distinct packaging of narcotics gleamed under the cold fluorescent lights. Damien was pacing between the stacks, barking out orders, while Antonio inspected one of the rifles with a smirk.

"High-grade military shit," Antonio muttered, running his fingers over the barrel of a rifle. "The Greeks were stockpiling for something big."

"Doesn't matter what it was," Damien snapped, his voice sharp. "They'll never get the chance to use it."

I stayed silent, leaning against a pillar, my eyes sweeping over the operation. My men moved like a well-oiled machine, cataloging, storing, prepping for redistribution. It should have been satisfying. Yet, something about this raid didn't sit right.

Then Marco approached me, his expression unusually tense. "Boss,(Patron)" he said, clearing his throat, "nous avons trouvé quelque chose... d'étrange. (we found something... off.)"

I straightened, my curiosity piqued. "Quel genre de 'off '(What kind of 'off')?"

He gestured toward a solitary bin set apart from the rest of the crates. It was old, battered, and unassuming, but the way Nico looked at it set my nerves on edge.

Wordlessly, I crossed the room and opened it. Inside were stacks of folders, haphazardly thrown together. The top one slid open as I lifted it, revealing grainy black-and-white photos of a man with fear etched on his face. Underneath, a report detailed his disappearance.

"Missing persons," I muttered, flipping through more of the files. Page after page, photo after photo. Men. Women. Children. Each with chillingly detailed notes—names, dates, times, locations.

"Merde, (Shit,)" Damien murmured, stepping closer to get a better look. "What is this?"

"The Greeks weren't just running guns and drugs," I said, my voice low. "They've been hunting people. Trafficking them."

Antonio swore under his breath, his hands clenched into fists. "Putain d'animaux. (Fucking animals). "

I kept flipping through the files, my movements growing more frantic as the weight of what we'd uncovered sank in. Each page told a story of horror, of lives stolen and traded like currency. Then, I saw it.

The De Angelis's .

The name jumped off the page, and my heart slammed against my ribs. My hands moved faster, yanking the folder free from the pile, scattering papers across the floor.

I didn't care.

The moment I opened the file, the world seemed to slow. Alessia De Angelis. Her face stared back at me from an old photo, her eyes hauntingly familiar. The report detailed everything: her abduction, the days leading up to her death, and the horrific aftermath.

But what froze me was the name written in bold letters at the bottom of the final page: Thedoros Zervos.

The patriarch of the Greek operation.

Nikolas' father.

The bastard hadn't just been running his empire from the shadows. He'd orchestrated Alessia's abduction. Every sickening detail, every calculated move—it was all here. The brutality Mariella's mother suffered wasn't random. It was deliberate.

"Brother?" Damien's voice pulled me back, but I didn't look at him. My gaze was locked on the file, the edges crumpled in my tightening grip.

"This," I said, my voice cold and steady, "is proof. Alessia wasn't just a victim of circumstance. The Greeks hunted her. Thedoros Zervos made sure of it."

Antonio's face darkened, his usual smirk replaced with a deadly seriousness. "That son of a bitch."

Damien ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. "What are we gonna do? Does Mariella know?"

"No," I said sharply, closing the file and tucking it under my arm. "And she won't. Not yet."

Antonio raised a brow. "You're keeping this from her?"

"For now," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm not walking into her life with half a plan and a stack of nightmares. This is bigger than her revenge. Bigger than mine. If we're going to take down the Greeks for this, we do it right."

"And how do you plan to handle it?" Damien asked, his voice low.

I glanced at the pile of files, then at the men I trusted most. "We dismantle them piece by piece. Thedoros, Niko, everyone tied to this. We burn their empire to the ground, and when there's nothing left, I'll hand Mariella the ashes."

Antonio grinned darkly. "Sounds like a hell of a plan."

"It's more than a plan," I said, gripping the file tightly. "C'est une promesse (It's a promise.)"

With that, I walked away, leaving the warehouse humming with activity behind me. The file was a weight in my hands, but it wasn't just paper. It was justice. A reckoning. And I'd make sure the Greeks paid for every scream, every drop of blood they'd spilled—including Alessia De Angelis's.

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NIKO'S FATHER?? WHAT!

This just got a whole lotta interesting.

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡