The glass of whiskey sits on the bar in front of me, untouched.
I thought I did this to save him. I thought the marriage was a shield. I thought if I gave myself to the Falcones, if I let them cage me, then Rory would be safe.
I was wrong.
The marriage didn't buy safety. It bought a target.
Someone is watching him. Someone who has my number. Someone who wants me to know that they can get close enough to take a picture.
And if they can take a picture, they can take a shot.
I look up at the mirror behind the bar. I see my own reflection—hollow eyes, pale skin, the look of a man who is slowly realizing that the trap he walked into has no exit.
I grab the whiskey glass.
I down it in one swallow. It burns all the way down.
Good.
Let it burn.
I need the fire. Because whoever sent this photo just started a war they aren't ready for.
I slam the glass down on the bar.
"Brennan," I say. My voice is steady now. The hangover is gone, replaced by something colder. "Get the boys. We have a problem."
Chapter Seven
ALESSANDRO
The quarterly projection is wrong.
It’s a rounding error on page twelve of the construction report. A fraction of a percent. Negligible to anyone who isn't looking for a reason to tear the document apart. My accountants missed it. My advisors missed it.
I missed it for ten minutes.
I stare at the number. My pen hovers over the paper, the ink bleeding into a tiny, black blot that spreads across the white page like a disease.
I can't focus.
The boardroom is full—six men in expensive suits, two legal counsels, and my father’s consigliere, all waiting for me to speak. They are looking at me with the deferential anxiety that usually accompanies these meetings, the quiet terror of men who know that a single misstep can end a career or worse. But today, their fear feels distant. Like static. White noise humming in the background of a frequency I can't tune out.
The problem is not the number.
The problem is the bruise on my neck. It’s hidden beneath a black cashmere turtleneck, but I can feel it pulsing against the fabric every time my heart beats. A constant, low-grade reminder of the man who put it there.
Killian.
The name is a stone in my shoe. Sharp. Irritating. Unavoidable.
I close the folder. The sound is sharp in the quiet room, like a gunshot.
"Fix the projection on page twelve," I say. My voice is steady, betraying nothing of the chaos inside my head. "And get the updated labor costs from the unions by noon. If the numbers are off by a single cent again, you’re fired."
"Yes, Mr. Falcone." My legal counsel, Giordano, nods quickly, relieved that the scrutiny has passed. He gathers his papers with trembling hands.
The door opens.
