But first, I was going to see what it felt like to be seen by Alessandro Vitale. Really seen. The way he'd looked at me in his office like he was already planning how to take me apart.
I fell asleep with my phone in my hand and Sandro's message on the screen, dreaming of cedar and leather and cold dark eyes that missed nothing.
One week until our next meeting.
I was counting the days.
CHAPTER 4: SANDRO
THE VIP ROOMat Inferno stayed locked except for these meetings. No staff. No security cameras. Just the four of us and whatever problems needed solving away from eyes that might betray us later.
I arrived first, as always. Poured myself two fingers of Macallan 25 and settled into the leather chair that had become mine through years of habit. The room was designed for discretion—soundproofed walls, reinforced door, furniture expensive enough to remind everyone who entered that this was where real power lived.
Matteo came through the door at exactly 10 PM, moving with that controlled violence he never quite concealed. Compact and coiled like a spring under constant tension, he looked like what he was: a weapon that happened to wear expensive clothes. Black shirt, black slacks, silver chain at his throat that had been a gift from the first man he'd killed. His scarred knuckles told stories he never bothered to hide.
"Sandro." He poured himself vodka, neat. Matteo didn't believe in subtlety in liquor or violence. "We doing this or what?"
"Waiting for the others."
He grunted and took the chair across from me, sprawling in a way that managed to look both relaxed and ready to spring into action. "Heard the new lawyer did good at the bail hearing."
"Better than good. He's sharp."
"Sharp enough to be trusted?"
"Sharp enough to be useful. Trust is something we'll build." Or manufacture, depending on how malleable Emilio Rossi proved to be.
Elio arrived next, precisely on time because Elio was precise about everything. Tall and lean, dark hair going silver at the temples despite being only thirty-four. He wore his usual uniform—tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, tie knotted with mathematical exactness. Everything about Elio screamed control and order. He ran our security and logistics with the same obsessive attention to detail he applied to his personal appearance.
"Gentlemen." Elio nodded to both of us and poured himself scotch with movements that wasted no energy. Even his gestures were efficient. "I assume this is about the financial irregularities you mentioned."
"Among other things." I waited.
Luca was late, as usual. He operated on his own schedule, managing our legitimate fronts with a charm that made people forget he was as dangerous as the rest of us. When he finally walked through the door at 10:07, he brought the scent of expensive cologne and the easy smile that had convinced countless politicians and businessmen to trust him.
"Sorry, sorry." Luca straightened his tie—already perfect—and grabbed the bourbon. "Had a city councilman who wanted to discuss zoning ordinances over dinner. Tedious but necessary."
"How tedious?" Elio asked.
"He'll vote the way we want on the Brooklyn development project. Cost us a campaign donation and a promise to hire his nephew as a 'consultant.'" Luca settled into the remaining chair with the fluid grace of a man who'd never worked physically in his life. "The usual."
I waited until everyone had their drinks and their attention. These meetings had a rhythm. Small talk first, then business. We'd built this organization together over fifteen years, and the rituals mattered almost as much as the results.
"We have two problems," I began. "One immediate, one potentially catastrophic. I'll start with catastrophic."
I pulled the ledgers from my briefcase and spread them across the table. Financial records for Inferno and our associated businesses, marked with the discrepancies I'd found over the past three months.
"Someone's skimming money through shell accounts. Fifty thousand dollars over the last quarter. Small amounts, carefully structured to avoid triggering audits. But it's systematic and it's deliberate."
Elio leaned forward, scanning the highlighted transactions with those sharp eyes that catalogued everything. "These accounts weren't authorized."
"No. But they were created using legitimate access codes. Someone with high-level permissions set them up."
"How many people have those codes?" Matteo's voice had gone flat. Dangerous.
"Six." I let that hang in the air. "The four of us. And Vincent Paglia, our accountant."
"And?" Luca prompted.
