"There’s no such thing as neutral ground," I mutter.
We pull up to the gate. Two of Da’s men are standing guard. They see the car and wave us through. I drive past them, the gravel crunching under the tires.
The warehouse is massive. A leviathan of corrugated metal and brick, sitting on the edge of the water. The bay doors are open. Several black SUVs are already parked inside.
I spot them immediately.
The Falcone cars.
They are pristine. shiny, late-model armored transports that look like they just rolled off a showroom floor. They sit in a phalanx formation, radiating money and power. Next to them, my father’s rusted sedans look like scrap metal.
I kill the engine. The silence that follows is heavy.
"Showtime," Rory says softly. He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. "Remember. Don't let him get in your head."
"He can’t get in my head if I knock his off."
"Killian."
"I’m joking." I’m not joking.
I open the door and step out. The air here smells of the lake—dead fish, diesel, and cold water. I button my jacket. I adjust my cuffs. I feel the gun against my ribs.
I walk toward the open bay doors.
My father is standing in the center of the warehouse, flanked by Brennan and Doyle. He looks nervous. He’s shifting his weight, checking his watch.
And then I see him.
Standing on the other side of the warehouse, separated from my father by twenty feet of empty concrete, is a group of men in dark suits. They are still. Disciplined. They stand with their hands clasped in front of them, like a praetorian guard.
In the center of the group stands the man from the photo.
Alessandro Falcone.
He is taller than I expected. He’s wearing a charcoal suit that probably costs more than my car. He isn't looking at my father. He isn't looking at the armed men.
He is looking straight at me.
His face is a mask of perfect, terrifying calm. His eyes are dark, unreadable from this distance, but I can feel the weight of them. He watches me walk toward him, and he doesn't blink. He doesn't shift. He stands there with the absolute stillness of a man who has already calculated the outcome of this encounter and found it acceptable.
My pulse kicks against my collar.
It’s a hard, rapid rhythm—the biological alarm that rings when a predator enters the room. My split knuckle throbs in time with it, a hot, sharp ache that travels up my arm. My hands want to curl into fists. I force them to stay open.
I keep walking. I don't slow down. I hold his gaze, and I let the Reaper come to the surface. I let him see exactly what he’s bought.
I stop five feet in front of him. Close enough to strike. Close enough to see the faint, clinical curiosity in his eyes as he scans my face, cataloging the bruise, the scar, the violence.
"Kavanagh," he says. His voice is smooth, deep, devoid of any recognizable human emotion.
"Falcone," I reply. My voice is a growl.
He holds out a hand. It’s not a greeting. It’s a test.
"Shall we get this over with?"
I look at his hand. Long fingers. Manicured nails. A surgeon’s hand. I look at his face. And for the first time in my life, I am looking at something I don't know how to break.
