Six

Ten years. Ten fucking years of blood, bullets, and brotherhood.

I stared at the ornate ceiling of Don Vicenzo's study, counting the cherubs painted in some long-dead artist's vision of heaven. Ironic, considering the hell that transpired in the room below them.

"You understand what you're asking, Six?" The Don's voice carried the weight of tradition. Of rules written in blood. "La fratellanza is for life."

I kept my expression neutral, years of training holding my features in check. "I understand, Don Vicenzo. But I've served faithfully. I've never asked for anything before."

The Don's fingers drummed against his mahogany desk – the same desk where I'd pledged my...