Marco’s voice was a growl.“Names.”
“Russo.Name’s Russo.Old foundry on the west side.Eagle graffiti.”
I let the word settle.“Russo.”A thread to pull.
Relief flickered across his face—mistaken, fleeting.
“Thank you.”Then I raised my gun.Two shots.Two bodies.Mercy was a language I’d forgotten long ago.
“Clean.”Marco said, sliding his weapon into its holster.“Russo thinks he can outplay us.Use our streets against us.”
“Then Russo’s already dead,” I said.“We hit the foundry tonight.No hesitation.”
He nodded, anger flaring like a struck match.“They’ll learn what happens when they cross the Di Fiore family.”
“Gather the men.Only the ones we trust.”
“Trust,” Marco muttered.“A rare commodity.”
“That’s why we survived.”
Justice in my world came in blood.Russo had made his move and now it was ours.
3
MIA
Outside, the sky held its bruised pre-dawn hue, and a low rumble rolled across the city.My gaze drifted to the vase of roses on my vanity.The petals curled inward, edges browned, their beauty collapsing.Yet again, that man invaded my dreams.I rose and crossed to the window.Downstairs, there was the faintest shuffle—voices hushed.Business before sunrise.So much for peace.
My father’s words from last night came to mind, steady and dangerous:We don’t need an alliance which means you are free to marry who you wish.
Maybe he believed that when he said it.Maybe he even meant it.But in our world, love and leverage were the same currency; the exchange rate just changed with the blood on the floor.So forgive me if I didn’t believe it.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
Please, let today stay quiet.But quiet was never permanent.Not here.
By the time I reached the corridor outside the dining room, espresso wafted around.Two of my father’s lieutenants stood near the doorway.
“Russo’s men didn’t make it back,” one murmured.
“No survivors at the foundry,” the other replied.“Di Fiore hit them before dawn.”
The first man noticed me and straightened so fast his chair scraped the floor.“Ms.Moretti.”
The second followed suit.“Your father is waiting.”
They parted to let me pass, conversation dying mid-breath.Silence trailed me into the dining room.My father sat at the head of the long table, reading the morning paper.A silver coffee service gleamed beside him.
“Morning,” he said without taking his eyes off of the paper.“You are up rather early, my dear.”
“I would have loved a couple more hours, but I heard the ruckus down here.”I slid into my seat.
“Business never sleeps.You’ll learn that one day.”
I stirred my coffee though I had no intention of drinking it.“I heard names in the hall.Russo.Di Fiore.Something about a foundry.”
The paper rustled.“You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
