I gave them just enough to keep them listening, not enough to tie it back to me.
“Three of the Butera men took the prize,” I said, voice even. “On the don’s orders, I hear. They paid handsomely for her, won her out from underneath Ernie Simmons. And more, she’s still under their control. Alive. Unharmed, as far as I know. Though that’s more mercy than Ferrara would’ve shown anyone.”
It was all true, but the spirit of the words felt wrong. She wasn’t a trophy or a hostage or some object to discuss without her having a say in the conversation. She was Frankie—sunlight in a world that had always been dark before she invented it.
But they didn’t need to know that.
The information was bait, pure and simple. The Antonovs would pass it up the chain, and quickly it would find its way to Ferrara’s ears.
That was exactly what Anthony wanted from us.
This whole clusterfuck of a situation was an indirect message, a reminder that Ferrara’s weakness had already been exploited.
I’d just served my purpose as the delivery mechanism, solidifying my standing with the Buteras for years to come. The real irony was I hated myself for it.
“Christ,” one of the men muttered. “That’s one way to send a message. Ferrara’ll be fucking nuclear when he knows the truth. The way that man sees women…”
“And no way they haven’t touched her,” another piped up.
“I said unharmed,” I cut in. “Not untouched.”
I took a slow sip from my glass as the men laughed, pretending not to care about the disgusting lecherous way they viewed the girl’s sexual debut.
An unusual mixture of guilt and unease twisted tight around each other like barbed wire in my chest and my throat.
Frankie didn’t know. She was smart, sure, and she could tell she wasn’t exactly free to leave Jonathan, Devin, and me whenever she wanted.
But she didn’t know what she was to the Butera family.
That she was the most powerful leverage we had against her scumbag father. That she was, in technical terms, a hostage.
And if she ever looked at me and saw the truth, the way I’d kept her in the dark and used her all the while, I didn’t know if I’d survive it.
“She’s insurance,” I said finally, feigning detachment. “Nothing more. Ferrara doesn’t need to know the details. Just the message. The girl’s not his to bargain with anymore.”
It came out smoother, steadier than I felt.
Mikhail studied me for a long second, like he could peel back my skin and read what was underneath.
I didn’t flinch.
That was the trick of survival in this business—you never let them see the heartbeat. The twitch of the eye. The tiniest sign of humanity.
He grunted, leaning back. “Insurance, huh? Poor girl. Born into the wrong bloodline.”
That, at least, was true.
The conversation shifted again, away from Ferrara and toward distribution routes, the docks, and talk of a new shipment. I let them drone on while my mind drifted.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Even if it was strategy. Even if Anthony wanted the message out, the idea of Ferrara even thinking about Frankie made my stomach turn.
The man was a monster, and I’d just put her back at the top of his mind.
Put all of us back at the top of his list. I kept my expression neutral, fingers tracing the rim of my glass. My pulse had settled, but the guilt remained—a low hum I couldn’t silence.
Maybe there was a way to fix it. To keep her safe while still playing my part in this game. I had contacts still loyal to me in both families, threads I could pull without drawing attention.
If I maneuvered it right, I could redirect the blowback when Ferrara came sniffing around. Find some way to get Frankie to slip, still blessedly unharmed, through the cracks.
