The hotel—fucking—Valgrande.
Straight out of a goddamn billionaire's catalog.
All polished stone and darkwood.
Clean lines and soft lighting.
It pretends to be peaceful.
But it's crawling with the mafia—and rich, sick, twisted people who do deprived things in their spare time.
Like illegal hobbies.
And some acts or things that can be considered as criminal.
Like orgies, arms dealings, drugs and murder.
Six stories high, it was tucked into the quiet streets of Domodossola—like it didn't have secrets bleeding from its walls.
The kind of place that whispered money.
Not power.
And that made it more dangerous.
'You can fucking buy anything and anyone with money.'
The CIA wouldn't make it past the gate without a bullet snapping at their heels.
And if they managed to get inside?
They'll disappear like magic.
It's like these people have built-in CIA undercover detectors.
No body.
No nothing.
Just gone.
Without a trace.
Tony only managed to get inside because he knew how to blend in.
He knew how these things go.
From the old lion's teaching.
He scowled.
The Luchese suit uniform clung too tight to his shoulders.
He grunts while adjusting it.
"Fucking too tight."
Like it wanted to choke him.
"I don't fucking like you and your owner," he whispered to the clothes.
As if it could talk.
He didn't like this place either.
This shitty lobby.
Not the echoing marble floors of that made every step feel like a warning.
Not the ceiling high glass walls restaurant across from him.
It made people feel vulnerable.
Even if they didn't know why.
Especially if you're one of those filthy rich people who do questionable things.
That is—if they can still feel some guilt.
He silently 'tsked' and shook his head slightly.
'I didn't mean me. It doesn't fucking apply to me.'
As if by saying and denying it would make the vulnerability—and the guilt—go away.
The whole first floor looked like it belonged to some luxury lifestyle magazine.
Art that probably cost fucking too much.
Furniture that was just another way to show off.
But Tony knew what sat underneath all that shine and shitty glamour.
Control rooms.
Private elevators with manual overrides.
Restricted floor and rooms the staff never spoke about.
Surveillance that caught every blink.
Every hidden transaction.
Confidential secrets.
Some corners were even made to blind.
Or are they really?
Some floors that weren't meant for ordinary wealthy guests.
But not quite.
Not when the owner of the hotel was the Don Federico Luchese.
Whose perversion was quite well known.
Tony adjusted the collar of his 'borrowed' Luchese suit.
A gun was digging into his back.
Also 'borrowed'.
He hated carrying one.
Hated the way it felt like a choice he couldn't take back.
A bitter memory was resurfacing, but he bit it down.
He knew how to use a gun of course.
He's an ex-SEAL.
Ex-CIA agent.
He can shoot when he's on a mission.
Especially if he was saving a mission's life or his.
But he still hated it.
He'd never get fucking used to it.
Or rather, he just refused to get used to it.
Upstairs, four floors above, the party was still in full swing.
Music.
Laughter.
People with champagne flutes.
Doing things he rather not know.
People with no fucking idea.
Or who did—but still did not care.
And here he was.
Walking past mirrored walls and glass doors.
Past the glowing chandeliers in the lobby.
Toward the adjacent restaurant that was quiet.
Too silent.
Almost empty.
Almost.
Toward the Santa De Leones and Luchese' Don.
He kept his steps steady.
Confident.
Like he was one of the Luchese suit.
But his eyes had already clocked everything in.
The security layout.
Exits.
The potential crossfire angles.
And he had seen the things on the CCTV footage that he had already secured.
He didn't want to think about it, but he had.
Tony breathed in a sigh.
A bile of disgust was rising.
He tried to think instead of where he had the footage hidden—
Inside the wall panel behind the breaker box on the third floor.
No one would find it unless they tore the hotel apart.
He walked briskly in the lobby.
'This goddamn place was too wide.'
He gave a subtle look around.
'Too exposed.'
From here, he'll enter the restaurant.
Act like he's one of the Luchese men.
Act like he has something to report to Don fucking Federico Luchese.
Like he was on their payroll.
And then what?
His mind spun.
Would he give the footage to the goddamn CIA?
To Beth?
This mission was forced on him anyway.
And he doesn't owe Beth or the CIA anything.
His real goal of burning his bloodline has gone to shit anyway.
And Tony doesn't care about it now.
If he could have Angel..
His silver eyes darkened.
Or he could use the footage—trade it.
Leverage.
A clean shot at Don Luchese.
A bargaining chip for Angel's freedom.
Reveal everything.
About how the CIA wants to take him down.
Then how about the innocent civilians?
The victims of those gangs in East L.A., Philly and New York?
'But I don't fucking know them.'
And it's not like the police and the CIA would let it go on.
Those people have someone to save them.
'It doesn't have to be me.'
But Angel doesn't have that.
'He only has me,' his chest tightened.
Or..
Tony hesitated on his steps.
He can already see the people inside in the middle of the restaurant.
Playing something on the green felted table.
'Mahjong?'
Incredulous.
'They also have gambling?'
Then Tony's face softened.
Remembering a childhood that he almost forgot.
Then his eyes hardened.
Silver eyes sharp again.
Cold.
His eyes trained on Don Leon's face.
He could also take the footage to the Don of Santa De Leones.
His 'grandfather'.
Swallow his pride.
Ask for help.
'Then I would have been spitting on Antonia's memories.'
His lips curled bitterly.
Could he?
Then he remembered Angel.
If its for him…
"I'm sorry Ana," he murmured his twin's nickname.
He exhaled hard.
Hands clenched at his sides.
The guilt still burned.
But something else pulled his attention.
A flicker.
Beyond the courtyard.
Across the streets.
The building that looks like a hotel or an office.
A faint wink in the window of a dark room.
Red.
A pinpoint.
Then another.
Higher up.
Then two more.
He froze.
It wasn't a reflection.
A sick pull twisted his gut like a rope.
'Snipers?'
Fuck.
'Why?'
His eyes looked at the restaurant right in front of him.
Big windows.
Dim lighting.
Wide open space.
The dining tables spread like a stage.
And they were all down there.
Smack dab in the middle.
Leandro.
Alvaro.
And..
The old lion.
Exposed.
Panic flared—brief, hot.
But he buried it with instinct.
Turned it into motion.
He stormed through the rest of the lobby.
Heart hammering.
The restaurant's rear entrance came into view.
Guarded by Luchese men.
He ran.
They saw him coming.
"Ehi! Dove vai? (hey, where are you going?)"
"Non ti muovere! (don't move!)"
Tony didn't give them a second to finish.
He swung his fist.
A loud crack echoed.
A jaw.
The second guard reached for his piece—
Tony rammed his shoulder into the man's chest.
Hard.
Knocking him off balance.
Then he sprinted past.
Voices behind him.
Shouts.
But some of the Santa De Leones men turned.
One recognized him.
"E Antonio! Il nipote del Don, il suo erede! (It's Antonio! The Don's grandson, his heir!)
"Fategli strada! (make way for him!)"
He burst into the dining hall.
The space was warm.
Luxurious.
It smelled like the Don's favorite cigar and brandy and sweat.
For one surreal second, it felt like Tony had gone back to the past.
To his childhood.
A normal night.
With the Don's cigar and liquor, and Tony's hot cocoa.
Old men and children playing mahjong at a corner table.
With laughter and quiet teaching.
Tony saw them.
His younger brother.
His father.
And his grandfather.
Don Leon, eyes were already on him—sharp.
Knowing.
Not surprised.
Like he was waiting.
Waiting for Tony.
And behind him—
Red light.
Tony's voice ripped through the room.
"GET DOWN NOW!"
But it was too late.
Glass exploded.
Shattered into pieces.
A shot cracked the air—Don Leon jerked forward, blood blooming.
**