I open the door and walk out.
The noise of the pub hits me again. The laughter, the music, the life. It feels distant now. Muted. I see Rory at the bar, still spinning his coin. He looks up, a smile starting on his face, but it dies when he sees my expression.
He slides off the stool. "Kill?"
I walk past him. I walk past Brennan and Doyle. I walk past the men I’ve bled for, the men I’ve killed for. I push through the front door and step out into the rain.
The cold water soaks my shirt instantly. I lift my face to the sky, letting it wash the sweat and the blood from my skin. But it doesn't wash off the feeling of the trap snapping shut.
Alessandro Falcone.
I picture him. Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. Hands that have never held a weapon heavier than a scalpel.
My father is wrong. It’s not a cage. It’s a funeral.
I just haven't decided whose yet.
Chapter Two
ALESSANDRO
Victor Crespi is bleeding.
Not externally—his navy suit is immaculate, his cuffs are starched, and his hands are folded neatly atop the glass conference table. But I can see the hemorrhage. It’s in the rapid, thready pulse visible against his collar. It’s in the micro-tremor of his left eyelid when he blinks. It’s in the smell of him—sharp, acrid spikes of cortisol cutting through the heavy musk of expensive cologne.
He is terrified.
I haven't said a word in three minutes.
I let the silence stretch. I let it fill the room, pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the grey smear of the Chicago skyline. Silence is a diagnostic tool. Most men can’t handle it. They feel the need to fill the void with noise, and in the noise, they reveal the pathology.
"The projection is... conservative," Crespi says, his voice cracking on the last syllable. He clears his throat. "We anticipate a twelve percent yield by Q3."
I don't look at the binder he pushed across the table. I don't need to. I look at him.
"You're insolvent, Victor."
The color drains from his face. It happens instantly, a physiological crash that confirms my diagnosis.
"I— That’s absurd. The portfolio is robust. The waterfront access alone?—"
"The waterfront access is leveraged against a shell company in the Caymans that dissolved last Tuesday," I say. My voice is level. I lean back in my chair, steepled fingers resting against my chin. "And your 'robust' portfolio is currently servicing debt that you can't cover. You didn't come here to sell me a property. You came here to sell me your debt."
Crespi opens his mouth, then closes it. The lie dies in his throat. He looks small suddenly, the expensive suit swallowing him whole.
"My father," I continue, "would have broken your legs for wasting his time. He would have viewed this meeting as an insult."
"Alessandro, please. I have a liquidity issue. A temporary?—"
"I am not my father." I stand up. The movement is precise. "I don't break legs, Victor. I liquidate assets."
I pick up his binder and drop it into the waste bin. The thud is the loudest sound in the room.
"You have twenty-four hours to transfer the deed to the Pier 19 warehouse. The price is the assumption of your debt. Not a penny more."
"That’s robbery! The land is worth three times that!"
"The land is worth what a Falcone is willing to pay for it," I say. "And right now, the price is your survival. Do we have a deal, or do I make a call to the zoning board and have your remaining properties condemned?"
