THE IRON SILHOUETTE

The Eastbridge River had seen many things—mostly the wrong things—but nothing like the night Luca Varrano’s body floated to shore.

Tomaso Rienne stood over the water’s edge, shoes sinking into the mud as floodlights flickered against the current. The corpse lay half-hidden under reeds, throat slashed, eyes frozen wide with disbelief—as if Luca died trying to understand the betrayal that killed him.

Tomaso knelt, fingers trembling as he brushed mud from Luca’s cheek.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” he whispered.

Behind him, officers murmured, pretending not to stare too long at the third son of the Rienne crime dynasty. Everyone knew this wasn’t just a murder—it was a message.

And Tomaso was the recipient.

________________________________________

Two nights earlier, Luca was still alive—leaning against the balcony rail of Tomaso’s penthouse, cigarette glowing in the dark. He was Tomaso’s right-hand man, best friend since childhood, as close as a brother. They grew up running petty jobs together before graduating to real business—extortion, weapons transfers, protection networks.

Luca had always been the one who pulled Tomaso from the edge.

And Tomaso had always been the one who kept Luca from falling off it.

“Your father wants you in,” Luca said, smoke curling between them. “Big meeting. Big stakes.”

Tomaso exhaled slowly. “He wants obedience. Not a son.”

Luca bumped his shoulder. “You’re too dramatic for a gangster.”

“Someone has to balance out your idiocy.”

They laughed. But under the laughter was something deeper—something neither dared to admit.

Luca flicked the cigarette into the night and leaned in.

“If anything happens,” he said softly, “you keep living. Promise me.”

Tomaso frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Luca only smiled in that sad way he sometimes did—like he knew something Tomaso didn’t.

________________________________________

The Rienne mansion loomed like a cathedral of shadows.

Inside, Tomaso’s father—Cassian Rienne—sat at the head of a long dining table, flanked by lieutenants, bodyguards, and two of Tomaso’s elder brothers. His eyes were cold, sharp, heavy with authority that crushed rather than commanded.

“Tomaso,” he said, not looking up. “Sit.”

Tomaso sat.

Cassian folded his hands. “There is a traitor in this family.”

Luca stiffened beside Tomaso.

Cassian continued. “Someone is leaking trade routes to the Corvedi syndicate.”

The name filled the room with a quiet, dangerous weight.

Cassian’s gaze sliced toward Luca. “I have my suspicions.”

Tomaso’s blood chilled.

“Father, no—”

Cassian’s hand snapped up. “Silence.”

He rose slowly. “A traitor is a disease. And disease must be cut out.”

Luca stared back at the mob boss, unflinching. “If you want answers, ask me. Don’t guess.”

“Very well.” Cassian stepped closer. “Luca Varrano… did you betray my house?”

Luca didn’t speak.

Because he couldn’t.

Every word would be used against him.

Cassian nodded at length. “Take him.”

Tomaso lunged forward. “NO!”

Four armed guards grabbed him, restraining him as Luca was dragged out.

Luca didn’t fight.

But he looked back at Tomaso.

That one look—soft, regretful, fond—would haunt Tomaso forever.

________________________________________

Luca’s body washing up in the river was supposed to break Tomaso.

His father thought it would teach him obedience.

It did the opposite.

At Luca’s covert burial—no ceremony, no priest, no gravestone—Tomaso stood alone. Rain fell slowly and steadily, soaking into the dirt as he placed Luca’s silver ring on a small unmarked mound.

“You told me to keep living,” he murmured. “But I can’t. Not like this.”

His jaw clenched.

“Someone killed you. Someone close. Someone who knew where you’d be. Someone who wanted you gone.”

The Rienne family officially blamed the Corvedi syndicate.

Convenient.

Too convenient.

Tomaso knew better.

He wasn’t going to mourn.

He wasn’t going to bow.

He was going to find the truth.

And then he was going to burn the world until it matched his grief.

________________________________________

Days turned into nights, nights bled into violence, and Tomaso followed leads that no sane man would chase.

A rumor here.

A whispered name there.

An alley fight.

A broken jaw.

A bribe.

A bullet.

Piece by piece, he uncovered something shocking:

Luca wasn’t the traitor.

He was hunting the traitor.

Inside the Rienne family.

Tomaso found Luca’s hidden ledger inside an abandoned garage they once used as kids. Buried beneath old tarps, the notebook detailed secret meetings, unexplained money flows, coded transactions.

One name came up again and again:

DARIEN Rienne.

Tomaso’s oldest brother.

Tomaso’s pulse hammered.

Darien—the heir apparent.

Darien with everything to gain from Luca’s death.

Darien, Cassian’s favorite.

And Darien had blamed a loyal man to cover his own betrayal.

Luca died protecting Tomaso from the truth.

This time, Tomaso didn’t cry.

He planned.

________________________________________

The gala was the biggest event of the year—criminal royalty, political puppets, wealthy parasites all gathered under chandeliers dripping with blood-money crystals.

Darien held court in the center, laughing confidently, whiskey in hand. The air around him reeked of arrogance.

Tomaso approached slowly.

Darien’s smile thinned. “Little brother. You look… tired.”

“Digging up graves does that,” Tomaso said softly.

Darien’s eyes flickered. “Careful.”

“Why?” Tomaso stepped closer. “Afraid of the truth?”

Darien’s jaw tightened. “You’re grieving. Grief makes you reckless.”

“And guilt makes you sloppy.”

For a moment, they stood inches apart, brothers by blood but enemies by choice.

Darien leaned in. “Walk away, Tom. Father won’t protect a man who digs in the wrong place.”

“I’m not digging,” Tomaso whispered. “I’m hunting.”

He slipped Luca’s ring from his pocket, letting it drop into Darien’s glass.

The metallic clink echoed like a death sentence.

Darien’s expression shattered.

Tomaso smiled.

“You killed him.”

Conversation around them halted. Heads turned. Music faltered.

Darien moved efficiently—like a cornered animal—hand diving toward his concealed weapon.

But Tomaso was faster.

The gunshot echoed through the hall like thunder.

Darien fell.

Breathless.

Silent.

Red spreading across the marble floor like a confession.

________________________________________

Tomaso didn’t run.

He dropped the gun and knelt beside his dying brother.

“You killed the wrong man,” Tomaso whispered. “Luca was loyal. More loyal than any Rienne.”

Darien coughed, blood on his lips.

“He… knew… too much.”

“You were the traitor,” Tomaso said. “You sold us out.”

Darien’s fading smile was cold. “And father… let me.”

Tomaso froze.

“What?”

Darien’s last breath rattled from his chest.

Tomaso stood slowly.

Cassian Rienne stared back at him from across the room—expression unreadable, hands clasped behind his back.

“Take him,” Cassian ordered.

Guards surrounded Tomaso.

But Tomaso didn’t resist.

He simply said:

“You killed Luca.”

Cassian smiled with chilling calm.

“Luca threatened the stability of our empire.”

Tomaso’s laughter was quiet, dangerous.

“You’re wrong.”

He lifted his chin.

“Luca’s death destroyed it.”

________________________________________

Tomaso escaped custody the next night—no one knew how, only that three guards turned up dead and one door went missing.

The city whispered a new name:

“The Iron Silhouette.”

A shadow hunting the Rienne dynasty itself.

Tomaso became a ghost.

A storm.

A reckoning.

Every night, he carved away the empire that killed Luca—piece by bloody piece.

He burned supply lines.

Exposed secrets.

Turned allies against each other.

Cassian Rienne’s reign began to crumble.

But Tomaso no longer sought justice.

He sought balance.

He sought Luca.

And he would not stop until the Rienne empire drowned in the same river that stole his brother.