His gaze warms, pride flickering through it, sharp and unmistakable. “Good,” he says. “Because this was only the beginning.”
I look out the window as the city slides past, my reflection staring back at me, steadier than it has ever been.
And with startling clarity, probably since the night I ran, I know exactly where I stand.
Not separate and apart from him.
I stand within the circle of Giovanni’s power, where protection and possession blur into something far more dangerous.
And far more enduring.
23
LUCIA
There are fewer men in the room when we meet two days later.
Which makes the hush when Giovanni Dragoni enters even more notable.
It only takes a cursory glance to see that every man present understands the cost of sitting across from him and leaving the table intact.
I stand at Giovanni’s side dressed in matching black. Done with niceties.
They’ve capitulated and I’m here because he intends for them to see me, and because what they understand from that sight will shape everything that follows.
The leader of LaFratellanzaNera sits at the far end of the table, older than most of the men who answer to him, patient in a way that suggests strategic survival rather than luck.
Raffaele Mancuso has outlived every war by refusing to strike first, and his stillness carries more weight than any raised voice ever could.
His reputation reaches the room before he speaks, and when he studies Giovanni his gaze is steady with the memoryof empires that collapsed from the inside while their leaders believed themselves untouchable.
Slowly, deliberately, his attention shifts to me and lingers just long enough to confirm what he is calculating. In his mind, I’m still the variable. Still something that might be removed if pressure is applied correctly.
Giovanni’s hand settles at the small of my back, firm and unmistakable, not for comfort but as a reminder that he is aware of every eye in the room and what they are weighing.
Mancuso finally speaks. “Dragoni.”
Giovanni does not alter his expression when he replies. “Mancuso.”
The space between those names stretches, heavy with history that does not need to be spoken aloud. Mancuso leans back slightly, his posture relaxed in a way that invites response without yielding ground.
“The offer is agreed,” he says evenly. “South Side of Chicago. The borders. The understanding.”
Giovanni inclines his head once. “Good. And the agreement will continue to stand because I allow it.”
A subtle shift ripples through the room, not anger and not disbelief, but something colder and more complex, a recognition edged with resentment. Mancuso’s mouth tightens briefly.
“And Bellandi?”
The name is uttered without the drama lurking in his eyes, and still it alters the atmosphere.
Giovanni’s voice remains level. “Bellandi remains mine.”
Mancuso’s gaze sharpens, his patience sharpening with it. “He’s a problem you cannot afford to keep holding onto.”
Giovanni’s smile arrives slowly, deliberate and unapologetic. “I can keep anything I choose.”
Silence follows as Mancuso folds his hands together, studying Giovanni with renewed attention.
