I take a drink of the whiskey. It burns, but it doesn't settle the cold fury in my gut. Someone killed a man and stuffed my family history in his mouth to frame me. Someone watched my brother walk down the street and sent me a picture just to prove they could touch him.
"Show me the scene," I say.
Alessandro turns without a word and walks toward the hallway. I follow him. He leads me not to the living room, but to a door I hadn't opened yet—a room I assumed was a closet or storage.
He opens it.
I step inside and stop.
If the rest of the penthouse is a museum, this room is the command center. It’s small, windowless, and humming with the sound of expensive electronics. A wall of monitors dominates one side, currently dark. A heavy, modern desk sits in the center. In the corner, a dedicated server rack with blinking lights cycles through encryption protocols.
The air here is cooler than the rest of the apartment. It smells of ozone and static.
"Jesus," I say. "You running a cartel or a space program?"
"I manage risk," Alessandro says simply.
He walks to the desk and touches the surface. The monitors flare to life. Maps. Spreadsheets. Live feeds from what look like security cameras all over the city.
He taps a few keys, bringing up a folder labeledCASE FILE: VITELLI.
Photos fill the main screen. High-resolution crime scene shots.
I step closer. I’ve seen dead bodies. I’ve made dead bodies. But looking at Marco Vitelli—a man I never met—laid out on a plastic sheet with his face caved in makes my stomach twist. The violence is brutal, excessive. Whoever did this enjoyed it.
"The assault was left-dominant," Alessandro says, pointing to the bruising pattern on the torso. "The strikes favor the left side. You're right-handed."
"So is every Kavanagh soldier. Da breaks us of using the left hand in a fight before we turn twelve. Right hand is for business. Left hand is for defense."
"The zip ties are standard hardware store. Untraceable. Your crew uses heavy-duty cable ties sourced from the industrial supply on Dock Street. Heat-rated. Specific tensile strength."
I look at him sharply. "You know where we buy our zip ties?"
"I know where you source everything."
He says it without arrogance. Just a fact. He has dissected my family’s operation down to the granular level. He knows our suppliers, our methods, our history.
"You really are a machine," I say. It’s not an insult. Not anymore. It’s an acknowledgment of a capability I didn't know he had.
"Someone wants a war," he says, ignoring the comment. "They want us to tear each other apart before the marriage can solidify the alliance. If Rocco had his way, we’d be shooting up Gallagher’s right now."
"Your brother wanted to hit us?"
"He wanted blood. He saw the coin and stopped thinking. I stopped him."
"Why?"
Alessandro turns to look at me. The screen light reflects in his eyes, making them look obsidian. He leans back against thedesk, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulls the fabric of his turtleneck tight across his shoulders.
"Because the evidence was wrong," he says. "And because I saw you last night."
The air leaves the room.
"What?"
"Last night," he repeats steadily. "In the kitchen. In the bedroom. I saw a man who was drowning in shame. A man who uses violence to cover fear, not to inflict suffering." He pauses, his gaze dissecting me. "A man like that doesn't order a cold-blooded torture session twelve hours later. You are reactive, Killian. Not sadistic."
I feel the heat rise up my neck. I look away, staring at the photo of the dead man because it’s easier than looking at Alessandro. He saw me. He saw the weakness I tried to hide with aggression, and he used it to build a psychological profile that just saved my life.
