I swirl the whiskey in my glass. "Your sudden interest in cooperation is... unexpected."
"Markets change. Adaptability is survival." Easton spreads his hands. "There's money to be made working together instead of against each other."
"Details," I prompt.
Easton pulls out a folder, laying out maps and diagrams of distribution routes in Queens. "I propose a 60/40 split on profits in Queens—in your favor, of course. For the Bronx, I'd expect the same terms in reverse."
The deal makes sense on paper. Too much sense.
"And security?" I ask.
"Each family handles their own people, but coordinates. No surprises, full transparency."
I lean back in the chair, studying Easton across the table. The deal he's proposing makes perfect financial sense—almost too perfect. There's something else at play here. My instincts prickle with suspicion.
"The terms sound reasonable," I say carefully. "But I'm curious what guarantees we'd have beyond signatures on paper."
Easton's lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "In our world, Damiano, we both know contracts are only as good as the bonds behind them."
He takes a slow sip of whiskey before setting his glass down with purpose. "I propose something more... traditional. Something that would ensure both our families remain committed to this arrangement long-term."
I can feel Alessio tense beside me.
"A marriage," Easton states, like he's suggesting nothing more significant than a business lunch. "My daughter, Zoe, and you. A union to bind our families and our business interests permanently."
I nearly choke on my whiskey. "A marriage? What is this, the fucking Middle Ages?"
Easton remains unruffled. "It's practical. It's how families like ours have solidified alliances for generations."
I force out a laugh. "I'm well aware of our traditions, Byron. But arranged marriages? That's something even my grandfather left behind."
"Is it?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Look at the Calabrese merger with the Rossis in Chicago last year. Or the Barone-Vitelli alliance in Boston. The old ways persist because they work."
I set my glass down harder than intended. "I don't need to marry someone to honor a business agreement."
"Not need, perhaps." Easton shrugs, appearing unconcerned. "But it would demonstrate commitment from both sides. My daughter is beautiful, educated, moves in the right social circles. The optics alone would benefit your legitimate businesses."
I lean back in the chair, jaw tightening as anger ripples through me. The audacity of this man to think I'd agree to an arranged marriage like I'm some medieval prince.
"No." The word comes out hard and final.
Byron raises an eyebrow. "You haven't even?—"
"I don't give a fuck who she is," I cut him off, my voice dropping to that deadly quiet my enemies fear. "I don't care how beautiful she is. I don't care how educated or connected she might be. She could be fucking Helen of Troy reincarnated, and my answer would still be the same. No."
The temperature in the room seems to drop. Beside me, I sense Alessio's silent approval, his body relaxed but ready should things escalate.
Byron's face hardens for a split second before he controls it, forcing his features into an expression ofdiplomatic disappointment. "That's... regrettable. I thought you'd see the strategic value."
"There are other ways to build trust." I say, setting my whiskey glass down.
"And yet," Byron persists, "the old ways still hold power. You know this. The families respect tradition."
"Then they can join a historical reenactment society. Are we done here?"
CHAPTER FOUR
Iwatch through the heavy silk curtains as Damiano Feretti strides out of our front door, his broad shoulders filling out his tailored suit with a predatory grace I hate myself for noticing. My pulse races, but not from attraction—from pure hatred.
