I end the call and exhale slowly. Lorenzo’s time is running out. For years, I’ve played my role, his on-call fixer. Let him believe I’m his loyal dog. Let him think I’m just another soldier in his army. He won’t see me coming, and when I strike, he’ll never rise again.
Seven
“When a man becomes vengeful, he plots like a tactician and kills like a soldier.” — Cyan MacBrady.
Rizzotto Holdings stands at the heart of New York’s financial district, a head office of opulence built to mirror the man who commands it. Don Lorenzo. A relic clinging to power in a world that will soon stop bending to his rules. He surrounds himself with wealth, but money can’t buy the one thing he’s losing: fear. In our world, it’s the currency we pay with.
We are at security, and as always, we surrender our weapons at the entrance. No one walks into Lorenzo’s inner sanctum armed, except for his most trusted. One of his men pats me down, his movements brisk but thorough.
“You lot must have a bloody shrine in the break room with all the weapons you’ve seized,” I remark dryly. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve come across?”
The guard snorts. “We could start a damn museum. Had a guy try to hide a knife in a sandwich once. I mean, who knew lunchtime could be so deadly? Let’s just say we made him eat that sandwich.” He steps back, smirking. “But you? Clean today. No trophies for us.”
It’s my turn to smirk. “I’d have done the same.” My steps are confident as I head toward the elevator. Being unarmed doesn’t bother me. I’m the weapon. A well-placed pen or a broken glass in my hands—both are lethal tools. We step into the elevator, and the ride is smooth and silent. The doors slide open, revealing Lorenzo’s outer office. The space is a testament to his obsession with control, with walls lined with books on power, war, and philosophy. His fortress of books won’t save him when his time comes.
Behind the immense black desk, Sage, his secretary, looks up. Her eyes light up when she sees me. I fucked her once. Maybe twice. It was never about pleasure, just a means to an end. A way to peel back Lorenzo’s secrets.
Now, even the thought of touching her turns my stomach. Maybe it’s the way she adjusts her blouse, the calculated flutter of her lashes. I don’t play games I’ve already won. I must give something away in my expression, because ever professional, Sage smooths her features and pastes on a smile.
“Capo MacBrady, Mr. Rizzotto has been expecting you.” Her voice is cool and detached. “Follow me.” Her six-inch heels click against the marble floor as she leads the way to his office door. Time to face the king of a dying empire.
I step over the threshold into Lorenzo’s sanctum. “You’re late, boy. It’s about time you got here.” He stands behind his fortress-like desk, where for decades he ruled the underworld with an iron fist. Don Lorenzo Rizzotto, even in his mid-sixties, is a man who refuses to bend.
On his left stands Giuseppe, his consigliere and Capo of Chicago. The man has grown plump with age, yet his mind is still sharp, his loyalty absolute. Next to him is Tommaso, Giuseppe’s personal guard. The man is a mute. His presence alone is a warning.
To Lorenzo’s right sits Leonardo, his heir and underboss. The fucker stares at me with the smugness of a man who thinks he’s untouchable. Because he’s a Rizzotto, without his father’s name, Leonardo wouldn’t be worth the spunk it took to create him. The feeling in the office is different today, no handshakes, no offer of a whiskey. My gaze shifts past them to the far end of the room, where four of Lorenzo’s soldiers stand, their hands hovering close to their weapons. They’re guarding something as I close the distance, and the sight that greets me makes my stomach tighten.
A man, beaten and bloody, lies sprawled on a sheet of plastic, his breath ragged, his body barely holding on. Who the fuck is he? Uncertainty flickers in my gut. Did Lorenzo find out about my plans? I shoot a careful glance at Tommaso, but his expression is unreadable.
“I had some unfinished business in my city.” I gesture toward the beaten man. “Looks like you have the same issue.”
Lorenzo laughs dryly. He enjoys having power, control, and knowing more than he reveals. “Cyan, my boy,” he stands with a slow, calculated ease. “Tell me... what do you know about the Bréaga?”
“They run the underworld in Ireland.” Ireland is a ghost I don’t want to face. I haven’t been back since living there with my family.
“They’re trying to move into my territory.” Lorenzo’s gaze darkens. “And you know I don’t let disrespect go unanswered. I won’t let them gain an inch.” He gestures toward the half-dead man. “This piece of shit was feeding them intel. Now he’s feeding the floor his blood.” Lorenzo didn’t remain at the top by being a pacifist. He sniffs out weakness like a predator, and once he smells it, he doesn’t just bite, he tears. He turns to me, his expression unreadable. “Since you’ve already settled your business before coming here, I’ll trust this matter to you.”
Silence falls. It’s another one of his loyalty tests. Lorenzo’s words are unspoken. He’s about to send his half-Irish, loyal dog to return under an Italian Don’s command? Would I spill Irish blood on his orders? The irony almost makes me laugh. How deep into the abyss of darkness am I willing to go for revenge? I nod once. “Consider it done.”
Lorenzo’s sharp gaze holds mine, assessing, searching. Then he smiles victoriously. “Before you go... take care of the trash.” Leonardo steps forward, extending a knife, his morbidly eager grin twisting his face. I take the blade, approaching the man on the plastic. His swollen eyes barely register. He knows what’s coming. I crouch beside him, close enough to hear the labored rasp of his breath. There’s no fight left in him. I grip his hair, exposing his throat. His lips tremble, whether in prayer or a curse, I don’t hear. The knife glides clean, slicing flesh and severing arteries. Warm blood spills over my hand. He gasps, gurgles, and twitches. Then, nothing. Death isn’t loud. It doesn’t come with screams or dramatics. It comes with silence.
I wipe the blade on the man’s ruined shirt, stand, and shove it back into Leonardo’s waiting hand. The bastard grins like a child given a treat. He licks the blade. “Soon,” Leonardo taunts, “I’ll be your rider, Púca. I’ll tame the Irish beast.”
The name they gave me when I started leaving bodies without witnesses. I’ve earned it. Turning my back on him, I make my dismissal a deliberate insult. I know that if his father allowed it, he’d pounce. But Lorenzo values my cunning. I walk out, stopping only to wash the nameless man’s blood from my hands. When I step into the hall, Trent and Liam fall into step beside me.
The moment we step out onto the vibrant streets of New York, its usual chaos swirls around us, indifferent to the blood still cooling in Lorenzo’s office.
Halfway to the car, Trent mutters, “We’ve got punks on our tail.”
“What’s the play, C?” Liam asks under his breath.
“Let’s find out why.”
I cut left, veering away from the waiting car. The brim of my Kerry cap shades my eyes as I scan the crowd. A sea of suits and briefcases, horns blaring in rhythm with the city’s heartbeat. Trent and Liam follow, their strides even, matching my pace. “Mercer’s Alley… we’ll lead them in, then end them.”
We slip between bodies and turn down the narrow lane, a perfect corner of death. A dumpster hides our silhouettes as the footsteps close in. They take the bait.
“Ya sure they went this way?” The Irish brogue is thick.
