“You’re bold tonight.”
She sighs and lowers her phone. “I apologize, sir. It’s been a taxing week. Border disputes in Mexico. Suppliers fighting each other in Algiers. I had to personally dispose of a traitor in Afghanistan this morning. And our guest hasn’t improved at all.”
I flinch slightly at that last bit of news. I’ve been hearing it consistently for five years now, but it never fails to stab a thorn of regret deep into my stomach.
But I appreciate how frank she is. The only person in the world who can talk to me this way is Lucy. She’s been my right hand for the last twenty years. We’ve been through more violence and pain than any normal human should endure. She helped me grow my empire from a small crew in the slums of northern Naples to a multinational conglomerate. A hydra with many heads and even more talons.
I trust her implicitly.
But even she should know better than to cross certain lines.
“I keep you busy.”
“That’s my preference.” She looks back down at the phone. “This shouldn’t take long. Giulio Ferrante is old school, but he’s not stupid. We’ll supply him our vodka for his clubs and our heroin for his dealers. He’ll pay well. All you need to do is shake his hand.”
“Sometimes I wonder what the point of being a Dragon actually is.”
“Fear? Respect? Something along those lines.”
“We should have made him come to me.” I close my eyes for a moment. Under other circumstances, that’s exactly what I would have done.
But promises are promises.
“Getting out is good for you,” Lucy says.
“Easy for you to say.”
“When’s the last time you left the Fortress?”
I try to remember. “Two months ago.”
“You need to show yourself from time to time. Make sure everyone knows you’re still around and just as scary as you’ve always been.”
I lean back, a slight smile on my lips. “Is that what I am? Scary?”
“Terrifying.” She looks back, face completely flat. “We’re here.”
The car parks out front of a high-end nightclub. There’s a line out front. Hopeful people wait in the light drizzle. Girls in skimpy dresses and men in expensive suits. Giulio runs a string of the most exclusive and expensive clubs scattered all over the world from LA to Tokyo and back again. This is his latest venture.
We’re immediately allowed inside. Lucy stays by my side. Enzo, the head of my enforcers and primary security, remains around the perimeter with a team of former special forces killers. All ofthem are obscenely well paid, though I’d bet half would work for me for free, mostly just for the excitement.
I stride into the club, struggling to maintain my composure in the chaos.
People are difficult. They’re complicated and messy. Especially in a place like this. Men and women grind against each other, pouring alcohol down their throats, yelling over the music, laughing and shouting. It’s disgusting and painful. I scan the crowd, searching for a familiar face, jaw tight as we’re led toward a set of stairs.
But I slow and nearly stop. Through the crowd, standing alone at the edge of the bar, is a girl.
She’s small. Pretty. Big brown eyes and thick dark hair. Italian heritage, if I had to guess, but definitely American. Her skin is paler than the women from the slums of Scampia. Her features are delicate, but she holds herself upright, like she’s daring people to approach. She’s not drinking and seems almost bored. Her eyes meet mine and, for a second, she looks right back at me, bold as can be.
Most people shrink from my stare.
But not this girl.
It catches my attention, but only for a moment.
A young man cuts through the crowd and approaches her. They speak and clearly know each other. I watch them a moment longer, the promise I made years back complete once again, before I follow Lucy and Giulio’s men up to a private conference room.
The old club owner shakes my hand for a few seconds too long and talks far too loudly, but at least the room is soundproof and mostly empty.
