“Roman’s old world,” Nico said. “He loves his sons, sure. Sees them as extensions of himself. Legacy. One of them disappoints him enough, he can pretend he never existed and pour everything into the others. Wives… he can get another. Might not be the same, but men like him know how to bury that kind of pain.”
He spread his hands.
“But his daughter? That’s different. That’s the soft part. The one thing men like him spend their whole lives trying to keep clean while the rest of them rolled in the mud. You hurt his little princess, you don’t just bruise him. You unmake him. Grab her, and Roman will tear the world apart trying to get her back. So will his sons, and so will the Devils.”
The room went still.
I felt Isabella’s gaze on me. I glanced her way. Our eyes met over the polished wood.
Gianna Giorlando.
The little queen of a vineyard on paper. A ghost in Roman’s business life.
Isabella smiled. Slow. Serrated.
“I like the way the boy thinks sometimes,” she said.
I let my own smile follow.
“We’ll need to coordinate with Vladimir,” Yashida said. “Make sure it doesn’t look like a trap.”
“Oh, it won’t,” I said softly. “Our Russian insider willbe very convincing when he says the architects need their ‘input.’”
I could already see it.
A half-finished palace on the water. Rebar ribs. Concrete skin. Roman’s wife and daughter walking the echoing halls in hardhats and designer shoes, pointing at fixtures that didn’t exist yet. Vladimir at their side, all apologetic smiles and quiet reassurances.
Then the sound of boots on bare floors. Men stepping out of the shadows that had been planned in advance.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Yashida inclined his head again. Fiorenzo’s fingers twitched. Nico looked like he’d just been handed a knife and was given permission to use it. Isabella sat back, satisfied.
Outside, the city kept humming, unaware.
“Roman chose Atlantic City and put his back to the ocean,” I stated, looking past them at the city outside. “Let’s see how long he can hold his breath when we drag him underand drown him.”
Nineteen
Jersey Boy
By the time Blackjack finished talking, Miami looked like he’d crashed his bike for the second time.
He sat in the chair opposite Blackjack, braced arm, cast on one leg that stuck out a little awkward, crutch leaning within reach. Quinn perched on the arm of his chair, fingers threaded through the back of it like she was the only thing keeping him from sliding right out of the room.
Blackjack leaned back, arms folded, watching him with that flat, steady gaze he used when he knew there was no good version of what he’d just said.
“So,” Miami said finally, voice rough. “While I was laid out getting reassembled, you idiots started a three-front war, pissed off a mafia king, brought in an all-female club from up north, and one of our prospects got killed in a glass box full of high-end bottle service?”
“That’s the CliffsNotes edition, but yeah,” 8-Ball said from his spot by the filing cabinet.
Miami stared at Blackjack like he expected him tocrack a smile and say he was exaggerating.
Blackjack didn’t.
“And Raptor…” Miami’s throat worked. “Where?”
“Up high, in the neck,” I said from my place against the wall. I knew what he was asking. “Fast. Valkyrie tried. I tried. Turnpike did what he could on the other side. He went down fighting. That’s all there was.”
