intrepidity

The meeting was held in a dimly lit warehouse on the outskirts of the city—neutral ground, as these things often were. Aiden sat at the head of the table, his brothers flanking him like shadows. Elias to his right, calm but watchful. Roman and Marcus nearby, silent but dangerous. Aiden's suit was pristine, his posture relaxed, his fingers idly tapping against the polished wood of the table. But his eyes... his eyes were like ice.

Across from him sat Emilio Bianchi, an older man with graying hair, sharp features, and an arrogant smirk. He was a business partner—for now. The Bianchi family had been useful in the past, their resources aligning with the Valenti family's needs.

But Emilio had made a mistake.

A fatal one.

"I've been thinking, Aiden," the older man mused, swirling his glass of whiskey, completely unaware that he was inches away from his own demise. "Your little sister—Aurora, isn't it? She's of age now, isn't she?"

Elias stiffened. Roman's jaw ticked. Marcus clenched his fists.

Aiden, however, didn't react. He only tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.

Emilio continued, unaware that he was walking into a death sentence.

"She's quite the delicate thing, from what I've heard. Pretty. Sweet. Innocent." He leaned back in his chair, that smug grin still in place. "A marriage between our families would be mutually beneficial, wouldn't you agree? My son is about her age. It would solidify our partnership. And, well, in a world like ours... a young woman is safest when she belongs to someone."

The room went silent.

Dead silent.

Then—

CRACK.

Aiden's glass shattered in his hand.

No one moved. No one breathed. The only sound was the slow drip... drip... drip of whiskey and blood hitting the table, running down his fingers where the shards had sliced into his palm. But Aiden didn't so much as flinch. His expression remained eerily blank, but his eyes—they were a storm, a hurricane waiting to break free.

Elias placed a hand on the table, a silent warning. "Bianchi," he hissed, voice low, "you might want to rethink your words."

But Aiden wasn't feeling patient.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he stood. The sound of his chair scraping against the concrete was the loudest thing in the room. Every man present, even the seasoned killers, tensed as the Valenti capo moved.

Aiden reached into his suit jacket, and in one swift, fluid motion, pulled out his gun.

The barrel pressed directly to Emilio's forehead.

The man froze. The blood drained from his face. His smirk vanished.

Aiden leaned down, voice like frosted steel.

"Say that again."

Emilio swallowed, his confidence cracking. "Aiden, I—"

"Say that again," Aiden repeated, voice lower, more dangerous. The safety clicked off, the sound like a gunshot in the dead silence. "Go on. Say another word about my baby sister, and I will paint these fucking walls with your brain."

The tension in the room was suffocating.

No one dared to move.

"I—I didn't mean—"