A woman lounges on a chaise, one slender arm draped above her head, the other holding a book. Her bikini is barely there—white fabric against sun-kissed skin creating a contrast that draws the eye to every curve. Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, catching sunlight like liquid gold. Even from this distance, her profile is striking—high cheekbones, full lips, a graceful neck.
My pulse quickens as she shifts position, the movement causing water droplets to trail down her flat stomach. She's in perfect shape—toned without being muscular, curves in all the right places, legs that seem endless.
"Damiano," Alessio murmurs, but I can't look away.
She hasn't noticed us yet, completely absorbed in her book. There's something captivating about her focus—this isn't a woman posing for attention but someone genuinely unaware of her effect.
When she finally glances up, she notices our presence and quickly sits upright.
Who the fuck is she?
I stare at the woman by the poolfor another long moment before Alessio clears his throat, breaking the spell.
"Damiano," he says, nodding toward the entrance.
A man in a suit appears at the door. Square jaw, military haircut, eyes constantly scanning. Everything about him screams ex-military turned private security.
"Mr. Feretti," he says with a practiced smile. "I'm Carson, Mr. Easton's head of security. He's expecting you in his office."
I give one last glance toward the pool, but the blonde has already disappeared.
"Lead the way," I tell Carson.
We follow him into Easton's mansion. The interior doesn't disappoint—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, expensive artwork. Old paintings of stern-faced men I assume are Easton ancestors line the hallway. A grand staircase curves up to the second level, its polished wooden banister gleaming under recessed lighting.
Unlike my place, which screams new money with its modern architecture and technology, Easton's mansion whispers old wealth. Generations of it. There's a certain smell to these kinds of homes—furniture polish, aged wood, and the faint scent of preservation.
The ceilings are coffered, detailed with gold leaf that catches the light. Persian rugs stretch across hardwood floors. Everything is meticulously arranged, not a single item out of place.
"Mr. Easton is waiting for you in his office," Carson repeats.
I keep my expression neutral as we enter Easton's office—a meticulous display of power designed to impress. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, antique maps mark what I assume are his territories, and a massive desk dominates the space.
Byron Easton rises from behind it, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, steel-gray eyes calculating beneath heavy brows. At sixty, he carries himself with the confidence of a man who's survived in our world for decades.
"Damiano," he says, extending his hand. "It's been too long."
His handshake is firm— the assured pressure of a man who knows his worth.
"Byron." I match his tone. "Appreciate the invitation."
Alessio remains a step behind me, silent but watchful. I can feel the tension rolling off him—he doesn't trust Easton. Neither do I, but business is business.
Easton gestures to a seating area with leather chairs around a low table. "Please, sit. Drink?"
"Whiskey, neat."
He pours three glasses from a crystal decanter. The amber liquid catches the light as he hands them out. I take a small sip—excellent quality, as expected.
"Let's not waste time," I say. "You want Queens. I want to know what you're offering."
Easton smiles, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Direct. I've always appreciated that about you, Damiano."
He sets his glass down and leans forward. "I have distribution networks in Queens that would benefit from your supply lines. You want to expand there; I have the infrastructure already in place."
"And in exchange?"
"Access to the Bronx. My product, your protection. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
