Me:They didn’t marry.
Logan:No. She disappeared into the ether on her eighteenth birthday. Rumor has it Giuseppe made that happen.
Me:And Remo has been waiting for the old man to die.
Logan:Yeah.
Remo is the kind of man who sees a woman as a signature on a contract, and would take her refusal as a betrayal.
The picture is becoming clear.
Remo wants Calista. She says no. He doesn’t take it well. Her protector dies. I get the contract. She’s not some innocent caught in crossfire. She’s a fucking mafia princess. She’s a target. But suddenly, that feels like the wrong word.
Then what’s the right word, Lucian?
I have no answer for that.
I go to my apartment, knowing where she’ll be the following morning. I have her routine in the report as well. I need to clear my head in my safe space.
I live in a luxury high-rise condo in West Chelsea near the High Line. It suits me. It has private elevator access, reinforced security, and a rooftop view of the Hudson, which I like. It’s quieter than Midtown or Billionaire’s Row, where my brothers live, but I prefer this; it gives me quick access to Maddox Tower and is removed enough to provide me with the privacy I need.
It’s minimalistic. Dark wood. Black marble. No photos. No personal touches. Everything is clean, sterile, and functional—except for the small collection of knives displayed like art, because theyarefucking art.
Each knife is mounted in a custom shadowbox, precisely spaced on the dark stone wall like a private gallery.
AHeiji Higo no Kamifrom Kyoto—folded steel, hand-sharpened. Carried by men who walked with honor and died with quiet hands. AWakizashiblade, shortened and restored, centuries old. A samurai’s second sword—used for mercy. Or for shame. A French paratrooper’s knife from the 1940s—used in the dark, thrown to kill. And my first—ugly, American, practical. Black grip. Carbon steel. No elegance. Just survival.
Logan once asked me why I keep them on the wall instead of locked away. I told him the truth.
“I keep only the parts of me I can control where I can see them.”
I don’t hang paintings. My walls are floor-to-ceiling windows—the city is my art.
I’ve got the essentials: a soundproof home gym, and a safe for my weapons.
After a night trailing Miss Mafia Princess through the city, I hit the shower.
I’m not tired—I’m wired.
I make coffee. That’s it. I don’t cook. I eat out or order in. There’s a chef in the building. The bar’s fully stocked.
What else can a man want?
I sit at the kitchen island, scrolling through photos of her—those I took a few hours ago.
Objectively, she’s a beautiful woman. There’s no deceit in her eyes, just resilience. Quiet strength.
I don’t like how I’m feeling.
I shouldn’t be lookingather—I should be looking at ways to kill her.
My jobs are usually clean. Not because the targets deserve it—most of them don’t—but because I never care.
The lines are clear.
You’re a problem. Someone wants you gone. I remove you.
Probity is a luxury someone else can afford.
