When I get off in front of my apartment, Jack flings the door open. "Sis, run!"
"What?"
That’s when pain explodes at the back of my head.
I collapse on the sidewalk. My vision swims. Everything hurts. I try to get up, but my body isn't obeying me.
Then I see him.
A man in a black suit, looming over me.
It's all I can glimpse before darkness takes me.
10
LUCA
Niccolò Neri isn’t the kind of man you keep waiting.
But even so, I take my time walking into his office, because I know what it means to walk with power.
He sits behind a massive mahogany desk, hands steepled, dark eyes tracking my every move. Older than me by a few years, Neri is clean-shaven, sharp-suited, and has the kind of presence that silences rooms before he opens his mouth.
“Lucchese,” he says, gesturing for me to sit. “You’re looking a little less cold than usual. A woman?”
I don’t respond.
He smirks. “Thought so. You’re lucky. The right one changes everything. The wrong one changes everything faster.”
I lean forward. “I didn’t come here to talk about women.”
“No, you came about Viktor.”
He opens a drawer and tosses a dossier onto the table.
“Baranov. Not one of mine. Never was. Russian brat with a chip on his shoulder and a trail of bodies behind him. Part of the Bratva outfit in Philly. He’s been inching into New York for about a year now.”
"Tell me about him."
“He handles gambling dens,” Neri continues, voice tightening. “But that’s not what he’s known for. Baranov likes to offer big bets to desperate men and then set impossible deadlines. When the men can’t pay, he takes their sisters. Cousins. Girlfriends. Sometimes even their daughters.”
My stomach turns.
“Prostitution?”
“Trafficking,” he confirms. “The girls vanish. Never to be heard of again."
I flip open the file. I’ve had my fair share of this world, but even the sight before me has me almost retching.
The girls in the photo don't even look human anymore. Bound, bruised, hollowed out. No names. Just bodies with their futures ripped from them.
I feel sick enough to throw up.
I’ve ordered hits. Broken bones. I’ve ruled with fear. But this? This is filth. This is rot at the root. Trafficking girls like they’re currency. Hunting women to punish the men they love.
My stomach knots with revulsion. My hands tremble as I turn the pages. I feelhorror. This isn’t business. This is a goddamn war crime wearing the mask of a debt collector.
I stand, but it’s not calm. My legs are trembling under the pressure of a thousand screaming thoughts.
