43. War Zone

Antonio stood there, seething. The shop was a war zone—glass shards glinted like treacherous ice on the floor, necklaces and rings lay scattered amidst velvet displays torn apart. He cursed out loud, his hands curling into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. Anger surged through his veins like hot steel, pulsing with each rapid beat of his heart. “Who the fuck tried to mess with my business?” he spat, tasting the bitterness of betrayal. “Someone with a death wish,” Sam muttered. Antonio moved deeper into the chaos, eyes scanning the disaster before him. Everything was in disarray, from the toppled showcases to the shattered display cases. It was clear that whoever had done this wanted to send a message. But to whom? He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was personal. His mind raced, trying to connect the dots, but anger clouded his thoughts. Maybe it was one of Slava’s men, someone who decided to stay loyal even after his death. “Sam,