"Then you do what you do best."
The words landed between us.
"I don't like it," Santo said. But the protest had already lost its heat.
Marco pulled out his phone. Already working. "Neutral territory. Somewhere public enough that violence is impractical. Somewhere quiet enough for a real conversation." His thumbs moved across the screen. "I know a place in Lincoln Park. White tablecloth. Good wine list. The owner owes me a favor."
"Wire me," I said. "Both ears. I want you hearing everything in real time."
"Obviously." Marco's voice carried a thread of offense, as if I'd insulted his professionalism by stating the obvious.
"And I want Santo within visual range of the entrance. Not inside—close. Close enough to move if the situation changes."
Santo straightened. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, but it redirected—from frustration to purpose. He had a job now. A role. Something to protect, someone to watch over. That was always what Santo needed: a clear target for the ferocity that otherwise turned inward.
"When?" Marco asked.
"Tonight." I picked up my phone. Typed a response to the burner number with the same measured courtesy Enzo had used. Two predators, exchanging pleasantries, circling the kill. "No point in letting him set the tempo. We meet on my schedule, at our location, under our conditions. He wants to talk, he'll accept the terms."
The response came within minutes. A single word:Agreed.
I stared at the screen. The patience of that word. The confidence. A man who didn't need to negotiate the details because he believed he held every card that mattered.
We'd see about that.
I pocketed the phone. Looked at my brothers—Santo by the door with his scarred fists and his barely leashed violence, Marco at the desk with his espresso and his ruthless intelligence. My family. My soldiers. The men who would burn the city to the ground before they let me fall.
I could still feel the warmth of Gemma's skin against mine. Still hear her laugh. Still taste the corner of her mouth where I'd pressed my lips an hour ago, in a sunlit bedroom, in a life that felt almost normal.
I was going to protect that life.
Whatever it cost.
Therestaurantexistedinthat particular register of expensive anonymity where fortunes were traded and wars were declared between courses. White tablecloths. Muted lighting. The murmur of conversations.
I felt the wire against my skin—the small receiver taped beneath my collar, the microphone no larger than a shirt button. Marco's voice had been in my ear during the drive:Testing, one-two. If he mentions Gemma, scratch your left eyebrow. If he threatens you directly, touch your watch. If you need extraction—
I won't need extraction.
If you need extraction, the word is curator.
I didn’t reply.
Santo was outside. I'd spotted his car on the way in—parked across the street with a sightline to the entrance, engine running, looking like exactly what he was: a wolf in a leather jacket, waiting for permission to bite.
Enzo Valenti was already seated.
Of course he was. The patient man, arriving early, claiming the territory of the table the way he claimed everything—quietly, with the appearance of courtesy, establishing dominance through the simple act of being there first.
Coal-black suit. Perfect tailoring. A silk tie the color of steel, knotted with the precision of a man who understood that details were weapons. His silver-templed hair was immaculate. His posture was relaxed. He looked like what he was: old money, legitimate power, a respected businessman enjoying a Tuesday evening at a fine restaurant.
His eyes told a different story. Pale grey and cold as lake water in December, they tracked me across the dining room with the flat assessment of a predator measuring distance.
"Don Caruso. Dante." He rose. Extended a hand. His grip was firm, measured—neither aggressive nor weak, calibrated to communicate nothing except civility. "Thank you for coming."
"Enzo." I took the seat across from him. Positioned myself with my back to the wall, sightlines to both exits. Old habits. "I appreciate the invitation."
We ordered drinks. He chose a Brunello. I chose sparkling water. He noticed—I saw the fractional lift of one eyebrow, the assessment logged and filed. A man who wanted his mind sharp. A man who didn't trust the company enough to drink.
