Chapter 83: Volpe

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[Lorenzo Castelli]

The lower levels of the Castelli estate felt completely different from the rest of the house.

Up above, everything was designed to mask the reality that the Castelli family had built their empire through bloodshed, fear, connections and men who knew how to make others vanish without a trace.

The upper halls were spacious and beautifully adorned, with polished floors that mirrored the chandeliers; even the staff moved through the estate with a practiced quietness that kept the facade intact.

But down here, there was no facade.

Lorenzo walked alongside Timothy in the dimly lit corridor, his shoes making soft sounds against the concrete.

The further they went, the chillier the air became.

The inviting scents of expensive candles and polished wood from above faded, replaced by a stark mix of antiseptic, sweat, damp stone, and some metallic odor they both chose not to name.

Timothy stayed silent.

He’d learned long ago that sometimes, silence spoke louder than words, and this was definitely one of those moments.

Lorenzo adjusted his cuff as they neared the final door.

He looked just as he had upstairs: his suit impeccably tailored, his pale hair tied back neatly, and not a single sign he had just spent hours negotiating a duel contract with Alex and hearing the details of a failed assassination attempt against his husband.

People often misunderstood him. Many thought anger had to be loud, but...It didn’t.

Sometimes, it was simply a man walking calmly down a corridor, pondering how much information another man would share before it was too late.

Timothy opened the door. The stench hit them harder inside.

The prisoner was strapped into a metal chair under a harsh light, his face so beaten it was nearly unrecognizable and nearly every inch of him covered in blood.

One eye was almost swollen shut, and his split lip quivered; he breathed in shallow, wet gasps.

His hands and feet had been mutilated during earlier interrogations, causing him to tremble with every movement.

Upon seeing the door open, the prisoner shifted his gaze, and for a split second, a flicker of hope crossed his face.

Then he saw Lorenzo, and whatever little hope he’d had vanished instantly.

Lorenzo stepped inside.

The man swallowed hard. "Y...you came back."

Lorenzo shut the door behind him.

"Yes." His voice was steady, almost polite.

The prisoner glanced at Timothy, then back at Lorenzo. "I...I told your men everything I know, sir."

"You gave them a name." The man’s breath hitched. Lorenzo advanced closer. "Volpe."

The prisoner froze. Lorenzo noted his reaction immediately, stopping a few feet away.

"You know more than just the name."

The man shook his head. "No."

"You reacted before I even finished saying it."

"I don’t know anything!"

Lorenzo’s expression held steady. He pulled a chair from the wall and sat down across from him.

The prisoner stared at him, clearly baffled as to why the Don of the Castelli family would lower himself to sit in such a filthy room with him.

Lorenzo rested one ankle over the opposite knee. "You were hired to kill my Omega."

The man’s eyes shifted. "Yes."

"Did Volpe himself hire you?"

"I n...never met him, sir."

"Who did you meet?"

"A man."

Lorenzo waited, letting the silence stretch. The prisoner shifted in his chair, wincing immediately.

"He wears a mask," he whispered.

"What kind?"

"A fox."

Timothy’s expression turned hard. Lorenzo remained calm. "A fox mask?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever take it off?"

"No."

"Did you see his face?"

"No."

"What about his voice?"

The man hesitated. "Different."

"How so?"

"I don’t know. Sometimes it sounded older; sometimes younger. I thought h...he was changing it."

Lorenzo’s gaze sharpened. "Why?"

"I don’t know."

"Try again."

The man’s chest rose and fell quickly. "He didn’t trust anyone. Nobody knew who he really was. We were told to call him Volpe...that’s all."

Lorenzo leaned in closer. "Who introduced you to this Volpe you speak of?"

"A man named—" The prisoner stopped.

Lorenzo waited, his eyes fixed on him. "I don’t remember."

"You remembered everything just a moment ago."

"I swear."

"Then remember."

"I can’t...I can’t." the man sobbed. "Please..."

Lorenzo’s voice remained calm. "You have very little left to lose."

The prisoner dropped his gaze. "I needed the money."

Lorenzo almost laughed...not because it was funny, but because that answer felt so painfully ordinary.

A man had been hired to murder Alex for money. Not out of revenge, loyalty, or hatred. Just money.

"I was behind on debts," the prisoner mumbled. "Someone...someone offered me work. They said it was a simple job: follow the convoy, wait for the right time, kill the Omega, and then leave."

"Who provided the details?"

"Volpe’s men."

"How many?"

"Small crew. Six, maybe seven."

"Maybe?"

"I didn’t count."

"So you were willing to take part in an assassination without knowing who was paying you, who was leading, or how many others were involved?"

The man looked at the floor. "I needed the money." he said again.

Lorenzo’s eyes turned colder. "And now?"

The prisoner looked back up. "Now?"

"Do you still need it?"

He shook his head quickly. "No."

"Good."

Lorenzo stood. The prisoner watched him, anxiety etched on his face.

"I can disappear!" he blurted out. "I swear, I’ll leave the country and won’t come near you again. You won’t hear my name. I’ll—!"

"You tried to kill my husband."

"I didn’t know—!"

"You didn’t know he was my husband?"

"I knew!" The man’s voice cracked under the strain.

Lorenzo halted. The prisoner immediately lowered his head.

"I knew," he repeated quietly. "They told us exactly who he was."

Something unpleasant stirred in Lorenzo’s chest. Not fear; he’d already experienced that earlier, though he’d never admit it.

It had been there when Timothy told him Alex had been attacked and it returned when Lorenzo arrived at the convoy to see Alex lying on the ground with a knife above him.

Anger buried that fear so quickly that even he had barely recognized it. Now, though, there was just coldness.

Lorenzo studied him for several long seconds before turning to Timothy. "Extract everything else you can from him, he might still be hiding something else."

The man immediately began to plead as soon as he realized that meant more hours of endless torture.

"Please!" Lorenzo didn’t look back. "I’ve told you e...everything I know!"

"Then there shouldn’t be any issue."

"Please, sir!"

Lorenzo paused at the door, a name lingering in his thoughts: Volpe.

It wasn’t unfamiliar.

He’d heard it before..years ago, back when he was a child, sitting on the floor of his family’s old house with a wooden soldier in one hand while his brothers raced through the hallway.

"Volpe!"

The memory was vague, frustratingly vague. He recalled Dante’s voice, Mateo’s laughter, someone shouting about finding a spy.

Lorenzo had looked up from his toys, irritated by the ruckus, never grasping why his brothers were so taken with those silly, childish games.

They would run around pretending to be spies, soldiers, criminals, detectives, sometimes thieves, while Lorenzo preferred books and toys he could organize neatly.

Dante’s voice again rang out. "Volpe!"

And then that memory faded. Lorenzo stood silently in the doorway.

It might mean nothing, maybe just a childhood game, or someone else’s nickname, mere coincidence. But he wouldn’t ignore it either.

He glanced over his shoulder. "Kill him once you’re sure there’s no else to get from him."

Timothy nodded. "Yes, Don."

Lorenzo left, closing the door behind him as the prisoner’s desperate voice faded away.

He walked back down the corridor without a backward glance. Volpe.

The name trailed after him all the way upstairs, and for the first time that night, Lorenzo found himself wondering if the man behind the attack on Alex was closer to his family than he would like to accept.

----

I woke up feeling sore. Not injured or dying...just sore enough that every part of me seemed to be protesting the fact that I’d decided to learn how to fight.

For about thirty seconds, I lay there staring at the ceiling, debating every choice that had led me here: the challenge, the contract, those two weeks of training, and my brilliant idea to learn self-defense.

Oh, and let’s not forget the even more brilliant decision to make winning a divorce the reward.

Clearly, I had lost my mind... again!

I rolled onto my side and immediately regretted that too.

"Wonderful," I muttered into my pillow.

My muscles weren’t even fully hurting yet, which somehow felt worse because I knew whatever was coming would likely be much more unpleasant.

I got out of bed, threw on the least embarrassing athletic clothes I could find, and headed downstairs.

By the time I reached the estate gym, I was already sweating...not from training, but from nerves.

The gym was bigger than most actual gyms I’d seen, which made sense given that this was the Castelli estate, where apparently normal-sized anything was a no-go.

There were mats covering part of the floor, punching bags hanging from one wall, weights arranged into incredibly neat rows, and enough equipment to give the impression that whoever designed this place was on a personal crusade against weakness.

Nikolai was already there, standing in the middle of the mat in black training gear, arms crossed, looking fresh as a daisy.

Of course, he did...his hair wasn’t even disheveled.

I stopped a few feet away and gawked at him. "You look annoyingly ready."

"Good morning, sir." Nikolai sighed. "Warm up."

I dropped my bag against the wall. "What kind?"

"Stretch."

I lowered myself to the mat. "Whatever you say, Snitch Sensei."

Nikolai stared at me, trying not to roll his eyes. "And try not to throw anything at my head today."

I feigned innocence. "I have no idea what you’re talking about."

He rubbed his forehead, and I couldn’t help but smile. At least I was still funny. That lasted about five minutes until he started kicking my ass.