“I’m tactile. And I prefer my problems to arrive with a plan and goddamn head attached.”
He laughs—short, thin. “You’re impossible.”
“Only when someone’s worth the trouble.”
The barb lands where it should. He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his eyes flick to the Castello as if cataloguing exits, guards, angles.
“Look,” he says, all humor vanishing from his voice. “The Pakhan asked me to reach out. He likes opportunities in new markets. He thinks the Folonaris’ connection might?—”
“Don’t. I’m not involving myself with that family.” The warning is flat, cold. “You want to talk business, talk business. But don’t ask me to mediate between your Pakhan and the Folonaris. That family is nothing but trouble.”
He nods. “Fine. I’ll set up the call.”
“Tell your Pakhan I’ll listen when I’m good and ready. Until then…” I tap my hand over where my Glock rests. “Don’t show up on my territory without asking.”
Nestor tilts his chin. “You ever miss the old days? The way we used fight our way to the money? The simplicity?”
“No. The old days were ugly. At least now I have better wine.”
Nestor laughs, slips his hands in his pockets, and straightens. He gives me a last look—one part appraisal, one part provocation—and then turns to his vehicle. His truck door slams. Engines cough to life. The tailpipe hums a low warning as he peels out, black smoke blending into the morning haze.
Men like Nestor are predictable. Men like his Pakhan are not.
And men like me? Well, I don’t let surprises sit for long.
31
MARA
The rain starts like it’s testing the windows—soft at first, then harder, steadier, until it sounds like the sky’s finally had enough.
I’m curled on the corner of my bed, blanket wrapped around me, phone glowing against my knees. Sleep’s a joke tonight. Nicolo’s been in his office for hours, and every time I close my eyes, my brain decides to replay that morning by the pool and the incident that happened in his office in full HD.
So instead, I scroll.
Matteo’s name sits near the top of my messages. My thumb hovers. We haven’t talked in days—my fault, mostly. He’s stoic, I’m emotional, we fight. Or at least what I consider our version of fighting. You can never get any sense of emotion out of my brother. He’s more emotionally constipated than Nicolo is.
I finally decide to shoot him a message.
Me
Still alive?
The typing bubble pops up almost instantly.
Matteo
Breathing fine. Lots of meetings. Why?
Me
Just wanted to check on you.
How’s Vivian?
Matteo
I don’t know. Was that all you wanted to ask, Mara?
