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This baby was his pride and joy, a roaring declaration that he was better, richer, more powerful.

Plus, the ladies drooled over it.Drooled over him by extension, which was even better.They’d slip into the passenger seat all eager smiles, not realizing until too late what he would expect of them.A price was always required, and Matteo never lowered his rates.They paid with their mouths while he shifted gears.It amused him every single time, knowing they’d pretend later that they hadn’t wanted it.They always did.

“Hey, Marco!”Matteo called, strutting toward the door like he owned the place.His shoes clicked sharply against the sidewalk, polished leather that cost more than Marco’s rent.“Any issues today?”

Marco, the slab of meat stationed at the entrance, lifted his head.Broad shoulders, arms crossed, face a granite mask.“All quiet here, boss.”

Boss.The word sent a thrill through Matteo’s chest.He wasn’treallythe boss—Enrico held that title with a stranglehold—but being second in command meant something.It meant power by association.Fear by proxy.And fear was nearly as good as respect.

Not that he’d ever say that to Enrico.The little bastard was twitchy about authority.Small men usually were.Enrico had that classic Napoleon complex, snapping like a rabid dog whenever he felt challenged.Matteo had learned to keep his mouth shut, to bide his time.

He flicked the collar of his lavender shirt.Only a real man could pull off lavender, he thought smugly, and Matteo was nothing if not a real man.He enjoyed proving that fact too—sometimes with his fists, sometimes with his gun, and sometimes with the kind of brutality that made even seasoned soldiers flinch.Unnecessary?Sure.But necessary was boring.

He was halfway to the door when movement caught his eye.A lump across the street.A bum.Filthy, curled against the concrete, wrapped in a blanket that looked like it had been dipped in sewage.

Matteo stopped, his jaw tightening.

This area wasn’t the Ritz.He knew that.But he hated the sight of trash right outsidehisclub.This was supposed to be his stage, his place to show the world who he was.And the bum ruined the view.

“I’ll be right back,” he tossed over his shoulder to Marco, then strutted across the street.His shadow fell across the lump.“You gotta go,” Matteo barked, his voice sharp.“Not here.”

The bum didn’t move fast enough.Maybe he hadn’t even heard.Matteo’s temper snapped.He kicked the man hard, his polished shoe sinking into ribs that gave too easily under the blow.The satisfying thud echoed in his ears.

A groan slipped out of the man, and Matteo grinned.

“There we go,” he hissed.“On your feet, you filthy piece of trash.Find another alley.”He leaned down and spat, his saliva catching the man’s cheek before dripping into the dirt.“Consider that your eviction notice.”

He didn’t bother waiting.The man would crawl off.They always did.

Kicking him hadn’t been necessary—everyone on these blocks already knew who Matteo Caruso was.Knew better than to plant themselves in his line of sight.But still… it felt good.The kick reinforced his reputation.Reminded everyone watching that he could hurt you for no reason at all.That was the kind of fear that lasted.

Straightening, Matteo smoothed his jacket back into place and strolled across the street again, smug satisfaction buzzing through him.He gave Marco a sharp nod as if to say,Did you see that?That’s power.

Then, like a king returning to his court, he stepped inside the strip club to conduct his business.

Chapter 25

Matteodidn’tnoticethebum straighten just slightly after he swaggered back across the street.

Raffael Moretti—aka “Raffy Lupo”, aka Special Agent with the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force—let the groan linger on his lips until Matteo disappeared into the club.He used the crumbling, brick building to hold him up, his body aching from the kick.The bastard hadn’t pulled it.Matteo had meant it.The son of a bitch liked breaking things, people, anything weaker than him.Raffael filed it away with every other brutality he’d witnessed since embedding himself under the cover of “Raffy Lupo,” the musclebound idiot happy to run errands for meager scraps of respect.

He wiped Matteo’s spit from his cheek with the back of his hand, jaw flexing hard.It took everything in him not to straighten up fully, drag Matteo back across the street, and show him what real power felt like.Raffael could have had him unconscious in seconds.Could have put him in the hospital with broken ribs and a collapsed lung.

But that wasn’t the mission.

Not yet.

Instead, he slouched deeper into the filthy blanket, letting the stink of piss and old rot cling to him.He needed Matteo to keep believing he was nothing but a bum, a dim-witted stray grateful for scraps.The kind of man Enrico Bianchi collected like stray dogs.The kind he could sneak close enough to get information that would bury the whole damned family.

Because make no mistake—Raffael wasn’t just after Enrico.He was going to burn the entire Bianchi organization to the ground.Every capo.Every soldier.Every parasite that bled the city dry.

That was his oath.That was the reason he’d taken the undercover assignment that had eaten years of his life.

He’d play the idiot.He’d take the kicks.He’d grunt, shrug, and act like he barely knew which way was up.Matteo thought homeless people wouldn’t fight back?Fine.Raffael would let him believe it.He’d let every one of them believe it.

And when the time was right?

He’d be the one standing while their empire collapsed into ash.