He stares at me. He looks at the phone on the table. He looks at the waste bin. He realizes, with dawn-breaking horror, that he isn't negotiating with a businessman. He is negotiating with a scalpel.
"Deal," he whispers.
I walk to the door. I don't look back.
"Get out of my building."
The hallway isa study in sterility.
White marble floors. Recessed lighting that mimics daylight but offers no warmth. Walls stripped of anything personal. My heels click against the stone—a precise, rhythmic metronome.Click. Click. Click.
The sun is already dipping low, casting long, sterile shadows across the marble floor. I don't need to check the time to know I have concluded the negotiation nineteen minutes early.
I am efficient. I am ahead of schedule.
I step into the private elevator and press the button for the penthouse. The doors slide shut, sealing me inside a box of polished steel and mirrors. I catch my reflection in the panel. Aman constructed of sharp angles and bespoke tailoring. A man who looks like a Falcone, speaks like a Falcone, and cuts like a Falcone.
Whatever exists beneath that construction is irrelevant.
The penthouse covers the top three floors of the building. It is a masterpiece of modern design—all glass walls, floating staircases, and furniture that looks like sculpture. It is also completely devoid of life. There are no photographs. No books left open. No coats thrown over chairs. It is a space designed for a ghost.
I place my briefcase on the kitchen island—Carrara marble, veined with grey—and loosen my tie. Just a fraction. The release of pressure against my throat is the only concession I allow myself.
I pour a glass of water from the filtration tap. Room temperature. Cold water shocks the system; tepid water hydrates. I drink it standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the skyline.
It’s raining. A miserable, freezing drizzle that blurs the lights of the city into streaks of neon. Somewhere down there, in the grime and the noise, people are living messy, chaotic lives. They are arguing. They are eating cheap food. They are touching each other.
I turn away from the window.
I rinse the glass. Dry it with a linen cloth. Place it back in the cabinet, perfectly aligned with the others.
My phone vibrates on the counter.
I pick it up. A message from Rocco.
Pop. House. Now.
Rocco. My brother communicates like a blunt instrument because he is one. He is the hammer to my scalpel, the brute force to my leverage. If he is texting me with three words, it means my father has spoken with zero.
I text back:ETA 20 minutes.
I retighten my tie. I check the knot in the reflection of the microwave. Symmetrical. Perfect.
I leave the penthouse without looking back. It doesn't matter. There is nothing there to miss.
The Falcone estateis a fortress disguised as a manor.
Built in the twenties by my great-grandfather, it sits on six acres of prime real estate, surrounded by iron gates and surveillance systems that cost more than the GDP of a small nation. The house is beautiful in a heavy, oppressive way—dark stone, ivy that looks like it’s strangling the brick, and windows that are narrow and tall, like arrow slits.
I pull my car—a silver Audi, understated, bulletproof—up the circular drive. Rocco is waiting on the front steps.
He is smoking. He knows I hate it. He does it specifically because I hate it. He is large, even for our family—a wall of muscle and bad intent wrapped in a leather jacket that strains at the shoulders. His head is shaved, and the rain gleams on his scalp.
"You took your time," he grunts, tossing the cigarette butt into a puddle.
"I took the speed limit." I step out of the car, opening my umbrella. "Some of us don't drive like we’re fleeing a crime scene."
"Where’s the fun in that?" Rocco falls in step beside me as we walk up the stairs. He smells of wet leather and tobacco. "He’s in the library. He’s drinking the '82 Barolo."
