Rory snorts. He pulls two mugs from the shelf and pours coffee from the thermos he brought. The smell hits me—strong, dark roast, expensive. Rory’s one vice. He brings the mugs over and sets one down in front of me, then drops the grease-stained bag next to it.
"Eat," he orders. "Bacon and egg from Sal’s. Extra cheese. You need the grease to soak up whatever poison you drank last night."
I pick up the coffee. The heat seeps into my cold fingers. "I’m not hungry."
"I don't care. Eat it. You have a meeting in two hours, and if you throw up on Alessandro Falcone’s shoes, I will personally never let you live it down."
The name hangs in the air between us.Alessandro Falcone.
It sucks the oxygen out of the room. I look at the coffee, staring at the black liquid, watching the steam rise in twisting, violent shapes. Last night, the name was a shock. This morning, it’s a sentence.
"Did you talk to Da?" I ask.
"Briefly." Rory sits on the edge of the coffee table, ignoring the armchair. He pulls a folded manila envelope from inside his coat. "He’s at the warehouse already. Setting up security. He’s acting like this is a coronation, Kill. He’s got the 'good whiskey' out."
"He’s relieved," I say. I take a bite of the sandwich. It tastes like salt and fat, and my stomach rolls, then accepts it. "He thinks he just bought himself a retirement plan."
"He sold his son." Rory’s voice drops. The sarcasm vanishes, replaced by a sharp, jagged anger that he usually keeps hidden. "Let’s call it what it is. He traded you for a ceasefire."
"It’s not just a ceasefire. It’s survival. The Russians?—"
"I know about the Russians!" Rory stands up, pacing the small length of the room. He stops at the window, looking out at the alley, his back to me. "I know they’re moving in. I know we’re outmanned. But this? Marrying you off to the Falcone prince? It’s insane. It’s... it’s perverse."
I watch him. The tension in his shoulders is tight enough to snap. He’s scared. Not for himself—Rory has a reckless streak a mile wide—but for me. He thinks I’m walking to the slaughter.
"It’s done, Rory," I say quietly. "The papers are drawn. The deal is cut."
He turns around. He reaches for the manila envelope he dropped on the table and slides it across to me.
"Read it."
"What is it?"
"It’s the dossier. The real one." He taps the paper. "I spent the night digging. Not the surface-level crap Da has. I went deep. I pulled his academic records, his medical board reviews, his financial footprint."
I put the sandwich down. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pick up the envelope. It feels heavy. Heavier than paper should be.
I open it.
The first thing I see is a photograph. It’s candid, grainy, taken with a long-range lens. Alessandro Falcone is stepping out of a black town car. He’s wearing a coat that fits him like armor. His face is turned partially away from the camera, but the profile is sharp, severe. He looks cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from weather, but the kind that comes from the absence of heat.
"He’s not a mobster," Rory says. He’s watching me read. "Not really. He’s a surgeon. Trauma specialist. He did his residency at Hopkins. Top of his class. He was on track to be one of the best cardiothoracic surgeons in the country before Salvatore pulled him back home."
"A doctor," I mutter. I flip the page.
"Look at the psychological profile."
I scan the text....High-functioning sociopathic tendencies... obsessive compulsion for order... detachment from emotional stimuli... IQ 145...
"He’s a machine," Rory says. "He doesn't fight with anger, Kill. He doesn't lose his temper. He calculates. He looks at people and he sees anatomy. He sees leverage points. He’s not going to punch you; he’s going to dissect you."
I look at the photo again. He looks pristine. Untouched. A man who has never had to scrub blood out from under his fingernails because he pays other people to do the bleeding for him.
"Let him try," I say. I toss the file back onto the table. "He can calculate all the angles he wants. When I put my hand around his throat, the math won't save him."
"Don't be stupid." Rory grabs my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong. "That’s exactly what he wants. He wants you to be the brute. He wants you to be the 'Reaper' so he can outmaneuver you. If you go in there throwing punches, you’re playing his game."
"I don't play games, Rory. I end them."
