The words are out before I can stop them.
Don Marco goes very still. Sets down his cup slowly.
"Say that again."
"I choose her." I meet his eyes. "I'll handle the Bratva. I'll clean up the mess. But I'm keeping her."
"Even if it costs you everything?"
"Yes."
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs. "You're just like your father. Same stubborn stupidity. Same willingness to throw everything away for a woman."
I don't respond. My father died when I was eight. Shot in the street over a gambling debt. My mother followed him six months later—heart failure, the doctors said, but I knew she'd given up on living.
"At least marry her," Don Marco says finally. "Make it official. Make it clear she's under our protection. It won't stop everyone, but it'll stop some." He pauses. "And the cops can't make her testify against you."
That stops me. I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Smart," I say.
"That's why I'm still alive at seventy-two." He taps the newspaper. "You're not the first soldier to fall for a civilian. Won't be the last. But if you're going to be stupid about a woman, at least be smart about protecting yourself."
"She won't agree."
"Then make her agree." He waves a hand. "You're good at making people do what you want. Figure it out."
He picks up his newspaper, opens it. The dismissal is clear.
I stand.
"Luca."
I stop.
"Fix the Bratva situation," he says without looking up. "And don't make me regret not killing you myself."
"Yes, sir."
I walk out of the club, past Sal at the door, into the cool night air. The streets are busier now. Dinner rush in full swing.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
Three of ours just got picked up by NYPD. Bratva retaliation. They're hitting our operations.
It's starting.
I should stay. Handle this. Start making calls, gathering our people, planning our response. Instead, I get in my car and drive toward Tribeca. Toward her.
I'm two blocks from my building when I notice the tail. Black sedan, three cars back. It's been with me since Houston Street, matching my turns too perfectly.
Amateur.
I take a right onto a side street. Narrow. Less traffic. The sedan follows.
I park in front of a closed bodega, and the engine running. Wait.
The sedan pulls up behind me. One man gets out. Thick build, shaved head, leather jacket. Bratva ink on his neck—I can see it even in the dim streetlight. He's reaching into his jacket as he approaches.
