"It's about all of them. They think bloodlines are destiny." I feel my face twist, not bothering to hide the sneer. "Let's make that a prophecy."
Enzo pockets his phone. “I’ll call you at midnight.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Handle it.”
He takes the stairs two at a time, eager to get to work. I stand there a moment longer, feeling the wind push through the cracks in the window. I picture Lucy’s shoulders, thin and tense and perfect, and I want to be the only thing that ever troubles her.
It should be enough. It isn’t.
Enzo delivers before midnight, like he always does; I suppose that’s why I keep him near, despite how often he grates my nerves. This time, he brings cigars fresh from the Dominican, a bottle of Macallan, and a folder as thick as a wedding cake.
“Two hours,” he says, holding up the folder, “and I already have a baker’s dozen of walking ulcers ready to bleed for us.”
I open the folder. The first sheet is a printout of John Stuyvesant’s calendar—meetings with city council members, visits to some of my criminal colleagues, fundraisers at the club, half a dozen lunches with women who aren’t his wife. “Start with the councilman,” I say. “Pay him a visit. Let him know, unless he wants his little education kickback program splashed all overthe tabloids, he needs to withdraw support from Stuyvesant’s businesses.”
Enzo grins. “You want a leak, or you want a flood?”
“I want a tsunami. Give them a reason to call me. To beg.”
He flips to the second tab, marked FOUNDATION. Quick work—already, three donors are ready to rescind their endowments. “The ex-mayor’s wife is on the board, you want her?”
“Only if it’ll make Lucy’s mother twitch,” I say. “Otherwise, save it for leverage.”
The next sheet—family scandal. A cousin who likes the slots too much. An uncle with a taste for junior interns. A list of shell LLCs and blackmail-ready emails. “Send warnings, then send threats,” I say. “And if anyone calls with an offer to settle, tell them I want it in escrow and then double the number.”
Enzo pauses, watching my face for a tell. “None of this brings her back, Ale.”
“It brings her family to their fucking knees. I’ll get her back on my own.” I say, sharp enough to taste metal.
He sets the rest of the dossier on the table, lighting a cigar. He’s right, of course. But it doesn’t matter. “When do you want to move on the grandmother?” Enzo asks lightly, though he knows what it means.
“Not yet. If we go for her too soon, we risk isolating Lucy completely.”
I lean back in the armchair. The room smells of tobacco, velvet, and chemical war. “Wait until the old bitch makes a play, then we answer in kind.”
Nothing to do now but wait.
Days blur into hours, and hours stretch into long, restless periods where I pace my offices, checking feeds and numbers, waiting for any sign of her. The city shifts from night to day, glass walls reflecting my face at strange angles. I sleep in shortbursts, always waking with a start, sure I missed a call or a knock at the door.
What there is is fallout. I get half a dozen calls from mutuals who want to play both sides: Don’t you think you’re being a bit extreme, Ale? Is this about the girl, or is this about your pride? I listen, I mark the names, and I hang up. Every time I do, I think of Lucy’s voice, the little hitch when she said, “I can’t,” and of my own rage, an animal pacing behind my ribs.
Enzo works nonstop, barely sleeping, sometimes passing out on my office couch with his phone still pressed to his cheek. He digs up old debts, calls in favors with the NYPD, and even gets a bishop from his seminary days to spread a rumor about the Stuyvesant charity. "You’d be amazed what priests will do for a bottle of Lagavulin," he tells me, his voice hoarse and proud.
Three days later, the Stuyvesants finally respond. The envelope on my desk screams old money: cream-colored cardstock so thick it could stop a bullet, my name written in calligraphy that probably cost more than most people's rent. I slide my letter opener under the blood-red wax seal, feeling like I'm cutting into the past itself.
Inside, a single sheet—no signature, but it doesn’t need one. To Whom It May Concern: If your campaign continues, we will take steps to ensure you are never allowed within a thousand yards of Lucinda. She is not a toy for the broken sons of criminals. Find another hobby. Also: you are being watched, and not just by us.
My first instinct is to laugh. The second is to burn the letter and scatter the ashes over the East River. Instead, I fold it, tuck it into my breast pocket, and pour myself a fresh whiskey.
“Enzo,” I call, and he appears within seconds.
He scans the letter, lips moving silently. “You want a bodyguard on her?” he says, voice thin.
“No. I want them to know that every move they make, every play, every phone call, is already mine. Get me details. I want the grandmother’s house watched, the aunt’s therapist bugged, the cousin’s credit card statements flagged.”
Enzo hesitates. “If we go that far, there’s no going back, Ale. Even if you win, you lose her for good.”
I drink the whiskey neat, no chaser. “The mistake is thinking I ever lost her. I’m simply giving her space.”
