"Enzo's not missing this," Alessio says as the garage door rises.
"He'll survive. Better to have him making deals with the Russians than antagonizing Easton," I reply, shifting into gear.
As we pull out onto the private driveway of the estate, I press down on the accelerator. The car responds instantly, hugging each curve of the long driveway as we head toward the gates. This is what I need—the focus driving requires pushes away the nightmares, thememories, even the weight of running an empire built on blood and loyalty.
"So what's the play with Easton?" Alessio asks as we approach the gate.
"Easton will expect us to come in hard," I say, glancing at Alessio. "He'll be prepared for threats, intimidation—the usual approach."
"So we flip it. Come in reasonable, open to negotiation."
"Exactly." I tap my fingers against the leather steering wheel. "We need those distribution channels in Queens. His territory borders exactly where we need to expand."
"It's a fucking trap," Alessio counters, his voice dropping with suspicion. "Why reach out now after years of cold war?"
I consider this as I navigate around a taxi that cuts me off. "Maybe his business is hurting. Maybe he's finally realized cooperation is more profitable than conflict."
"Or maybe he's setting us up." Alessio's expression darkens. "We go in soft, we look weak."
"There's a difference between weakness and strategy," I reply, pulling onto the street that will take us to Easton's territory. "We need to focus on securing more sales. The Russians are pushing product through his neighborhoods at half our price."
"So we eliminate the competition."
I shake my head. "Too messy. Too public. The feds are watching us closer since that business with the commissioner's nephew."
Alessio nods reluctantly. "So we negotiate. But I don't like it."
"Neither do I," I admit. "But sometimes you have to dance with the devil to get what you want."
"And sometimes the devil steps on your fucking toes," Alessio mutters.
I can't help but smile at that. "That's why you're there. To make sure no one gets too close."
The tension in the car shifts slightly as Alessio settles into his role. This is how we've always worked—I negotiate, he intimidates. I make the deals, he enforces them. Two sides of the same coin.
"So the play is cooperation," I say, laying it out clearly. "We offer distribution rights through our channels in the Bronx. In exchange, we get access to Queens."
"And if he wants more?" Alessio asks, eyes narrowed.
"Then we listen." I turn onto the street leading to Easton's compound. "But we give nothing else away."
We pull up to Easton's mansion, the car's engine purring to a stop outside the wrought iron gates. Two guards approach, their bulky frames barely contained in cheap suits, hands hovering near concealed weapons.
"ID," one grunts through my window.
I give him a look that would make most men step back, but I comply. No need to start trouble before we're even inside.
After verification, the gates open, and I guide the Aston Martin up the curved driveway. Byron's property is impressive—old money displayed through manicured gardens and colonial architecture. Different from my more modern estate, but wealth recognizes wealth.
"Cameras everywhere," Alessio mutters, his eyestracking security measures. "At least four armed men visible."
I nod, parking near the front entrance. "Stay sharp."
As we exit the car, the summer heat hits immediately, humidity making the air thick. My suit suddenly feels constrictive, but I don't loosen my tie. Image is everything in these meetings.
We approach the front door, gravel crunching beneath our shoes, when movement catches my eye—a flash of golden skin and blonde hair by the pool area to our right.
I turn my head and freeze.
