"The leak might be close. Someone who knows your schedule, your priorities—"
"Someone who knows about Sienna." My voice went deadly quiet.
"Should we tell your wife?" Marco asked once Angelo had left.
Wife. The word still felt foreign, even after six weeks. And yet, seeing it written next to "whore" had sent a flare of possessive fury through me that I hadn't anticipated.
"No," I said firmly. "She doesn't need to know."
"Boss, with respect, if someone's targeting your marriage—"
"I said no." My voice dropped to a dangerous register. "This is my problem to solve."
Marco's face remained carefully neutral, but I caught the skepticism in his eyes.
"You think I'm making a mistake," I said.
"I think the Moretti girl is a complication we don't need right now."
Complication. The word grated more than it should have.
"But since she's here, keeping her in the dark might make her vulnerable."
"Or it might keep her safe," I countered. "The less she knows, the less danger she's in."
"Have Dante and Vito meet me this afternoon," I said, changing the subject. "The Calabrese underboss has been asking for a meeting too. Set it for four. Here, in the VIP section."
"And your wife?" Marco asked. "She'll need to make an appearance soon. People are talking."
"I'll handle Sienna," I said, ignoring the flash of heat the statement provoked. I'd kept her underground these past six weeks, telling myself it was for her safety. And it was—partially. But another part of me, the part I didn't want to examine too closely, liked knowing exactly where she was. Liked that she was mine alone, untouched by other men's gazes, unreachable to anyone but me.
Possessive. Jealous. Dangerous feelings I had no business entertaining.
"Just take care of security. I want to know who delivered that note before sunset."
Marco departed, leaving me alone. The club looked different by day—less glamorous, more stark. Reality without the softening effect of darkness.
Six weeks ago, this space had felt like victory. My kingdom, reclaimed after two years in a cell and three years of brutal rebuilding. I'd been twenty-three when I went to prison. Twenty-five when I got out to find my father's empire carved up and sold off. Twenty-eight now, with everything I'd clawed back piece by piece.
Proof I'd rebuilt from nothing.
I returned to my office, pouring over security reports and surveillance footage. Looking for the pattern I knew was there—the breach, the leak, the traitor in my ranks.
An hour crawled by. Then another.
I reviewed personnel files, cross-referencing schedules with the blackmail delivery times. Made calls to my territory captains, checking on operations, maintaining the appearance of business as usual while my world threatened to fracture.
By the time my phone buzzed with Marco's text, the sun had shifted, afternoon light slanting through the windows.
Meeting with Calabrese set for 4 PM. Ricci accepted immediately. Too eager.
I was still processing that when the phone rang. Unknown number.
"Romano," I answered.
"Congratulations on your marriage." The voice was smooth, cultured, instantly recognizable. Salvatore Ricci, underboss to the Calabrese family. "It seems to be working out well for both families."
My grip tightened on the phone. "What do you want, Ricci?"
