"The situation is perfectly clear. You have been compromised. The Kavanagh has turned you, or taken you, or broken you. And your brother is contemplating burning this city to its foundations to find you."
Rocco.
The name lands in my stomach like a lead weight. Rocco, who would dismantle every building in every district until he found me.
"Call Rocco off," I say.
"I will call Rocco off when you are standing in front of me," my father says. "You have until this evening. If you are not in my office by then, I will assume you are unable to comply, and I will instruct Rocco accordingly."
The line goes dead.
I lower the phone. The screen fades to black.
The studio is quiet. The morning light is flat and white. Killian and Rory are watching me. They know the look on my face. They know the aftermath of a patriarch's call.
"Salvatore," Killian says.
"He's giving me until this evening. After that, he sends Rocco."
"Rocco, who would?—"
"Burn the city down. Yes. Starting with your territory."
The silence carries the gravity of a countdown. We have the data. We have the plan. And we have a window that is closing with every hour.
Killian sets his coffee down. The mug hits the counter with a quietthud.
"Then we'd better get a suit," he says.
Chapter Nineteen
ALESSANDRO
The suit fitslike a second skin.
It should. Alessandro made a phone call from Rory’s studio, spoke rapid-fire Italian for four minutes, and three hours later a tailor arrived at the service entrance with a garment bag, a measuring tape, and the terrified efficiency of a man who knows exactly who he is dressing. The man didn't ask about the bruises on my chest or the bandage on my side. He just measured, pinned, and stitched, his hands moving like birds around my ribs.
The result is hanging on the bathroom door.
I stand in front of the mirror.
Charcoal wool. Single-breasted. Cut to accommodate the width of my shoulders without making me look like a bouncer at a funeral. The trousers break clean at the ankle. The shirt is white, crisp, open at the collar.
No tie. Alessandro’s instruction.Ties are for men who follow rules.
I holster the Glock 43 beneath my left arm. It disappears into the cut of the jacket. No print. No bulge. Just nine rounds of hollow-point reassurance sitting against my ribs. The leather of the holster creaks softly as I move, a comforting sound in the quiet room.
I look at my hands. The split knuckle has healed to a dark line. The tape residue is gone. My hands look almost civilized against the white cuffs—almost, except for the scarring across the metacarpals and the slightly crooked ring finger where a break healed wrong ten years ago.
The gold wedding band catches the light.
I haven't taken it off. It feels heavy. Permanent. A piece of metal that has become part of my hand.
Alessandro appears in the doorway behind me.
I watch him in the mirror.
Black suit. Black shirt. Black tie. The monochrome is deliberate. He looks severe. Authoritarian. His hair is combed back with architectural precision. He looks like a weapon sheathed in silk.
