Price of blood

Vicenzo’s POV

The air in the study was heavy with the scent of Cuban cigars and aged leather, the kind of atmosphere that spoke of power, secrets, and men who never slept peacefully. I leaned back in my chair, fingers tapping against the polished mahogany desk as my eyes bored into David, my younger brother, who stood opposite me like a restless shadow.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his eyes refusing to meet mine, and already I knew what he was here for. David had never learned to look me in the eye when he wanted something. He was ashamed of needing me, but not enough to stay away.

“So,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence, low and laced with disdain, “you finally come to me after months of pretending you want nothing to do with my business, my life, my empire. Yet here you are… standing in front of me, hands itching for the very thing you claim you despise. Money.”

David’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer immediately. I almost laughed at the irony. He wanted to play moral, stay ‘clean,’ act like he wasn’t tainted by the family name — but he still came crawling to me when the world got too heavy for his back.

He inhaled sharply and said, “I’m not asking for blood money, Vicenzo. I’m not asking for your dirty deals or your guns or your enemies’ heads. I’m working… in my own way. What I want from you is simple. I sell information. That’s all. I have something that can be useful to you.”

I arched a brow, a bitter smirk tugging at my lips. “Information? That’s your work now? Whispering secrets like some street rat? Tell me, brother, do you feel proud of yourself for pretending to stay clean while you swim in the same waters? Because the money you’re chasing… it’s the same damn money you run from.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “I’m not like you,” he snapped. “I don’t kill. I don’t pull strings that destroy lives. I find things out. I listen. I watch. And if someone’s willing to pay for it, I sell it. That’s not blood on my hands.”

I leaned forward, voice dropping, sharp as a knife. “Don’t fool yourself, David. Every coin in this family is stained. Selling secrets is no less dangerous than pulling a trigger. You just don’t have the spine to admit it.”

His face reddened with anger, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he straightened, his voice steady now. “I’ll get to the point. I want three thousand dollars for the information I have. And I also want… ten thousand more. A loan. I’ll repay it.”

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. Then the fire rose in me like a storm, quick and merciless.

“Three thousand for scraps of words? Ten thousand more as if I’m some generous fool?” My hand slammed against the desk, the sound echoing through the room. “Are you out of your mind, David? You come to me, demand money, and expect me to smile and hand it over? After everything you’ve said about me? After the way you spit on this life?”

David didn’t flinch. He lifted his chin, meeting my eyes at last. “I said I’ll repay it. You’re not giving me charity. I’m offering you something in return, and I’m asking for the rest as a loan. If you don’t want it, then fine. But don’t stand there pretending like you can survive without the kind of information I can get you.”

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping back. “Watch your tongue,” I warned, pointing at him. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

He gave a humorless laugh and turned, walking toward the door. “Then think about it, brother. Because whether you admit it or not, you need me. And whether I like it or not, I need you too. But don’t take too long to decide. I don’t have the patience for your pride.”

My blood boiled. No one talked to me like that — not soldiers, not enemies, not even the men who feared me in whispers. And yet here was David, my own flesh, daring to walk away from me with that smug tilt of his chin.

He reached for the doorknob, his back stiff with defiance. “I’ll be in my room,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with challenge. “I hope when I come back, your decision is intact.”

The audacity of him…

Just as he pulled the door open, a soft gasp filled the space.

“David?”

Both our heads snapped toward the doorway, and there she was — Alessia, our mother. Her eyes widened, her hands trembling against the wooden frame as if she had seen a ghost. She had not expected to find her lost son standing here.

Her voice broke, fragile yet sharp with disbelief. “David… what are you doing here?”

The silence that followed was suffocating. I watched David freeze, his mask of confidence faltering for the first time since he’d stepped into this room. His lips parted, but no words came.

And me? My chest tightened with a strange ache I hadn’t felt in years. Because if there was one person who could cut through the steel of my brother’s pride… It was our mother.