“Two weeks,” Nico repeats, testing the words. “We share intelligence, coordinate security, and identify Tartarov’s operatives in both organizations.”
“Exactly,” my father confirms.
Maximo shifts beside his father, visibly uncomfortable. “Dad, we should discuss this with the captains before?—”
“No,” Nico cuts him off sharply. “Too many hotheads on both sides who’d sabotage this before it begins. We keep this between us until we have something concrete to show them.”
I understand his reasoning. Marco will want to analyze every angle. Lorenzo will resist working with Morettis on principle alone. But if we present them with irrefutable evidence and a unified plan, they’ll fall in line.
“Agreed,” my father says. “We keep this quiet until we can present a complete strategy.”
“Two weeks,” I confirm, stepping forward and extending my hand across the invisible boundary that has separated our families for generations.
Nico’s eyes search mine for a long moment, looking for deception or weakness. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he grasps my hand firmly.
“Two weeks,” he echoes. “But if this is some elaborate De Luca trick?—”
“It’s not,” my father interrupts. “We’re not the enemy anymore, Nico. Tartarov is.”
Nico nods slowly, releasing my hand. “Then let’s make sure he regrets ever setting foot in Philadelphia.”
As the Morettis turn to leave, Maximo pauses, looking back at us. “For what it’s worth, De Luca... those financial reports your wife compiled? That’s quality intelligence work.”
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ll ever get from a Moretti. I nod in acknowledgment.
After they’re gone, the three of us stand in the empty warehouse, the weight of what we’ve just done settling over us.
“That went better than expected,” Fed says, closing the briefcase.
“Or worse,” I counter. “Now we have to convince our own people that working with the Morettis is the only way to survive.”
My father places a hand on my shoulder. “Your mother was right. Sometimes the hardest battles are the ones we fight against our own pride.”
As we walk back to our car, I pull out my phone. A text from Carmela:Please tell me you’re okay.
I type back quickly.
On my way home. It worked. We have a truce.
Her response is immediate.
Thank God. I love you.
The words on the screen make my chest tighten. She said it last night for the first time—actually said the words out loudinstead of just showing me through actions. And now, seeing them in text, they feel even more real.
I type back.
I love you too. See you soon.
Fed glances at my phone and grins. “Texting your wife like a lovesick teenager?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I can’t keep the smile off my face.
My father chuckles from the front seat. “Enjoy it while it lasts, son. Once you have children, the romance gets complicated.”
“Speaking from experience?” I ask.
“Your mother and I had our moments,” he admits, his tone softening. “Still do, when she’s not threatening to bury me in the garden for tracking mud through her kitchen.”
