Giancarlo Bellandi POV:

The low amber glow of Strangers and Riders bled through the blinds, a haze of smoke and whiskey-soaked chatter spilling into the night as I leaned against the hood of my Rose Noire Droptail. The chrome reflected the glow of the club’s neon sign, but my attention was fixed on the slow burn of the cigarette between my fingers. The taste was sharp, grounding, the kind of ritual I needed before walking into a room where mafia Don Santoro sat too smug for his own good.

Savino should’ve been here. My twin had a patience I’d never pretend to own. He would’ve dealt with Santoro the way he always did—calm, composed, maybe with a glass of scotch in hand like he had all the time in the world. But it was me instead, and Santoro had been pushing too far, too often. Sooner or later, someone had to remind him where the line was drawn.

I was about to go in when the doors swung open, and I caught sight of him inside. Don Santoro, my so-called rival, was leaning against the polished bar with his hands tangled in the hair of a blonde he shouldn’t have even been near. The way he kissed her made it obvious enough. She wasn’t his fiancée. No ring glinted on her finger, no trace of the dignity expected of a mafioso woman. Just some pretty distraction he thought he could get away with.

Cocky bastard.

I exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it drift into the shadows of the parking lot, when you walked right past me and into the club. The engagement ring and the murderous look in your eyes were enough to tell me you were Don Santoro's fiancée. The sight of you made me pause—my gut tightening, even a don with my reputation doesn’t tempt the wrath of a mafioso woman.

Well, my plans to talk to Santoro have just been moved to another day. No way was I dealing with hellfire right now.

Minutes ticked by, and you didn’t come back. I had almost lit another cigarette and got in my car to leave when the doors flew open, and you stormed past with fire in your eyes, muttering under your breath.

“I’ll show him timid and obedient.”

My lips curved, the scar along the bottom lip tugging as I caught the venom in your tone.

I followed your path, slow and curious but not close, the cigarette glowing between my fingers.

And there it was, your target and destination—Santoro’s pride and joy, his polished blue Rolls Royce Boatail, sitting pretty and unlocked, just begging for your hands.

Don Santoro's arrogance was really biting him in his ass tonight.

I watched as you grabbed your own car keys and then the keys sang in a ear fliniching screech against the paint as you dragged them down the side, your movements confident and merciless.

My chest rumbled with a quiet laugh, one Savino would’ve howled over. Hell, my twin would’ve walked straight into the lounge, ordered peanuts, and sat back down here in the lot to watch like it was his own private cinema—screaming "Get him back, Carrie Underwood style!"

And you didn’t stop there. The knife from your purse flashed under the dim lot light as you gutted the leather seats, carved your name like a signature on an art piece.

Just when I thought you were finished, you moved again to get something from inside the car and pulled the tire iron free.

Dang, man was going to have to Uber now and scrap the car for sure.

Glass shattered, tires hissed, and by the time you stood panting—chest rising and falling like you’d gone ten rounds in the ring—I was already flicking ash from another cigarette.

Your eyes snapped to mine as if only noticing me watching now.

I gave you a smirk, and my brow arched in question, even if I knew the answer.

You shrugged. “He said I should be timid and obedient. Now maybe he’ll think twice before cheating.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of neon above us. Then I let the smoke spill from my lungs, grin widening in a way that felt foreign on my face but damn near impossible to stop.

“Damn, I like whatever is wrong with you,” I murmured more to myself, but damn if you didn't pique my interest.