“Yeah. Just thinking about the next phase. The new construction company. The meeting the other heads want about Giacomo.”
As soon as I say his name, their faces twist into matching frowns. Giacomo is about as popular as a mortician. No one in this world likes him, and he goes against the code of the brotherhood.
“Did you hear what he’s been doing?” Valerio asks, looking to Marcello.
“Some of the kids he’s pulling into his schemes are barely fifteen,” I say.
Both of them hiss under their breath.
“Children should never be touched by this world,” I add. “We have a code. Rules that keep us from turning into monsters.”
They hum their agreement.
“Word on the street is he’s getting married.”
“Married? Which woman has the poor misfortune of being engaged to him?” I can’t think of anything worse than being wedded to a man like Giacomo.
“No one knows. He’s kept her under lock and key these last few weeks. But from what I’ve heard, she’s striking.” Valerio downs the rest of his drink. “Whoever she is, I hope she has the stomach to deal with Giacomo.”
I nod in agreement.
Rooftop Girl flashes through my mind for no good reason, and I hate myself for even thinking of her in the same breath as him.
Marcello clears his throat and lifts his glass. “Enough about that asshole for now. We’re here to celebrate your win, my brother. I know this isn’t the crown you wanted to wear, but I’m proud of what you’re doing with what your father left you.”
Valerio lifts his empty glass. “Here’s to more success, more money—and, in my case, more women.”
Marcello mutters, “Unnecessary.”
“Oh, extremely necessary,” Valerio smirks.
I roll my eyes and clink my glass with theirs.
They’re the only thing that keeps me grounded in this storm.
I can’t afford to obsess over a woman I don’t even know.
The jazz fades, the whiskey burns, and still—it’s her face that lingers.
She should’ve been a blip in my past.
I drink to that lie and pretend I believe I’ll never see her again.
4
BEATRICE
The apartment is beautiful.
Every corner gleams with curated perfection—glass and chrome, marble and silk. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Manhattan skyline like art. A breeze carries the scent of roses from the vase near the piano, blending with leather and cedarwood.
This place breathes money and power.
All the things I now associate with Giacomo Feriama.
Giacomo speaks on the phone in hushed, muffled Italian. I don’t understand much—my father never taught me—but I pick up a few things. From what I can tell, he’s upset.
And that alone makes me nervous.
