"Got something." Fix's voice is flat, all business. "Took some doing, but I found a way in. Not a middleman." A pause. "A Marchetti brother. He's willing to meet."
I go still. "How?"
"Doesn't matter how. What matters is it's happening. Today. Noon." Another pause. "This is as good as it gets, Grim. Don't fuck it up."
"Where?"
He gives me an address. A casino on the south side—one of theirs.
"I owe you," I tell him.
"Yeah. You do." He hangs up.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, phone in hand, thinking about what comes next. A sit-down with the Marchettis.The chance to end this clean—or the chance to start a war that buries everyone I care about.
No pressure.
Saint finds me in the garage an hour later.
I'm checking my bike, running through maintenance I don't need to do, burning off energy I don't know what else to do with. He leans against the doorframe and watches me for a minute before he speaks.
"Heard you've got a meeting."
Fix. Of course he told Saint.
"Noon," I confirm. "But Fix already told you that."
"With a Marchetti brother."
"Yeah."
Silence. I can feel him studying me, weighing something. Making a decision.
"You're not going alone," he says.
I look up. "This isn't club business, Saint. This is my mess. I'm not dragging?—"
"You're not dragging anyone anywhere. I'm choosing to go." He pushes off the doorframe, crosses to where I'm crouched by the bike. "You're my brother. You've had my back for fifteen years. You think I'm letting you walk into a Marchetti sit-down alone?"
"It could go sideways."
"It could." He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."
I don't know what to say to that. Gratitude's never been something I'm good at—never had much cause to practice it. But something loosens in my chest, some tension I didn't know I was carrying.
"Alright," I say finally. "Noon."
Saint nods. Claps me on the shoulder once, hard, and walks back inside.
I go back to checking the bike. My hands are steadier now.
The back room of the casino is nicer than most people's houses—dark wood paneling, leather chairs, the kind of art on the walls that costs more than my bike. We're led through a service corridor by a guy in a suit who doesn't make eye contact, doesn't speak, just opens doors and stands aside.
There's a table in the center of the room. Two chairs on each side. A man already seated on the far side, flanked by two others who look like they bench-press cars for fun.
Luca Marchetti sits with the kind of stillness that comes from knowing you hold all the cards. Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, expensive suit. He watches us approach with eyes that give away nothing.
"Gentlemen." His voice is mild. Pleasant, even. "Please. Sit."
