“You didn’t finish telling me why you’re here.”
I shake my head, wondering why the fuck I bother doing business with a man who has the perception of a cardboard box.
“I didn’t evenstarttelling you. And…” I pause, leaning in. “I’d never tell you to begin with.”
Nestor opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but we’re interrupted by Romiro, Emiliano, and Dominico.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, Nestor,” Emiliano says as he slides in beside me, while Dominico takes the seat by Nestor.
Romiro doesn’t sit. Instead, he leans over the back of the booth, watching us.
“What can I say? Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.” Nestor shrugs, as if anyone actually believes his bullshit.
“Cut the shit. We all know that you live for the thrill of stirring trouble,” Dominico says, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
Nestor gives him a wink before standing. “Well, at least I’m aware when I’m not wanted.” He turns his attention to Emiliano, his tone serious. “The Brotherhood is looking to set up a meeting with you.”
“And you can tell the Brotherhood what I’ve told them before. Hell will freeze over before I allow Russians to deal in my fucking territory.”
Emiliano has been refusing to collaborate with the Bratva, following in his pop’s steps.
Nestor straightens his jacket, his playfulness disappearing altogether from his face. “You’re too cocky for your own good, Emiliano. Let me remind you what happens to those who disrespect us.”
He lunges across the table and holds a gun at Emiliano’s temple, malice glinting in his eyes. Romiro and Dominico both stand, their guns drawn and pointed at the idiot. Nestor doesn’t spare them a glance.
Click.
The gun’s empty. The crazy fucker loves to mess with people.
“Russian roulette. Want to play?” He places the gun in front of Emiliano.
“Get the fuck out of my city beforeIput a bullet between your eyes.” Eli doesn’t even entertain the idea of picking up Nestor’s gun.
Nestor snatches his gun, shoving it back into his jacket. “If you think this is the last of me, you’re mistaken, Folonari.” He turns to look at me. “See you later, Esposito.”
“I’d prefer if it was never,” I murmur.
3
MARA
I’m in my room getting ready for dinner, staring at a girl I almost recognize: mascara, a neat middle part, a mouth that remembers how to smile on cue.
Once, family dinners were the best part of my day, but that was before Pa died. Now they feel like performance.
Dress the part. Sit straight. Don’t make Emiliano worry. Don’t give Lucio ammunition. Don’t let Matteo read between the lines. Don’t remind Romiro that I’m the softest target in a hard world.
I set the powder puff down and push back from the vanity. The pink, the white, the soft yellow…my room used to fit me. Lately, it feels like a lie someone forgot to repaint.
The last year stripped me raw. Nightmares. Waking up with the taste of fear in my mouth. Listening for footsteps that never come and guns that sometimes do.
I leave before I can talk myself out of it. The townhouse hums with the energy of this evening: the low clink of glass, the faint hiss of espresso, a radio murmuring in the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs, I pause at the doorway, drawn by voices.
Lucio is leaning on the door like he owns the frame, grinning at Ma. She stands at the stove, stirring something that smells like garlic and tomato and a sweetness I haven’t let myself feel in months.
“Lucio,” she says like trouble has finally come home.
“Ma.” He kisses both her cheeks before she can scold him for whatever he definitely did.
