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Rocco blocks our way with his massive arm. “Hold it. Protocol. Only Gabi’s chosen walk through without clearance.”

Vito smirks, his lips curling into a smug smile. “Boss says everyone checks in tonight. Even you, Ricci.”

The urge to snap the boy’s neck crackles in my spine. The itch for violence is a familiar friend whispering in my ear. But spilling blood in these halls tonight means war rather than victory.

The sharp slam of Izzy’s heel against the marble slices the air. “Scooch aside.” Her poison-laced voice carries the full weight of pure Benedetti authority. “Enzo doesn’t wait for clearance. He is clearance.”

They hesitate, their eyes darting between her and me as they retreat.

My jaw tightens, and heat crawls up the back of my neck. I hate that she speaks for me, but still I let her. She’s one of the few who can talk to or about me like this and walk away unscathed. Benedetti blood and her position as Gabi’s right hand give her that privilege, along with the fact that we used to share a bed.

“Didn’t need your protection.”

“You needed peace,” she fires back. “Learn to pick your battles.”

Inside the villa, the great hall, shrouded with old-world wealth, stretches vast. Under our feet, black marble floors glisten, veined with gold that catches the light.

Heavy velvet drapes frame tall windows, blocking out the afternoon sun. The air smells of cigar smoke, aged leather, and furniture polish. Antique side tables hold crystal decanters and bronze sculptures. The villa’s living room chandelier—a massive thing of Murano glass and brass—gleams over the most senior member of the Benedetti family.

Nonna Rosa.

She hovers near the hearth, draped in black silk, her silver hair coiled high. Her presence commands silence more than any soldier with a gun. It’s tradition for all important dons attending this meeting to walk past her. She grasps my face with wrinkled hands, pulling me down as soon as I reach her.

I inhale her calming lavender scent. “Nonna.”

“Welcome, Enzo.” She kisses each cheek. “You should visit the villa more often,” she scolds. “Your place is right at the table.” A smile cracks across her weathered lips. Her affection, rare and real, cuts deeper than knives.

“I’ve been busy, Nonna.” I brush a kiss onto her forehead.

“Always busy.” She swats my chest with brittle strength. “No one is too busy to eat with family. Bah.”

Across the hall, Gabi Jr. stands still and regards me with cold eyes, his fisted hands resting by his sides.

I’ve known Gabi Jr. Benedetti since my brother and I sat at his father’s table. At thirteen years old, I couldn’t meet the Padrino’s eyes as he promised us protection in the wake of our parents’ deaths.

Gabi Jr. was also at that table, and he harbored none of the sympathy the rest of the family gave Dante and me. Though we grew up together, we barely spoke, even before his father shipped him to Sicily as a liaison after he nearly started a civil war.

Gabi returned two years ago—just after his father and my brother’s death—to claim the throne. Apparently, he considers me a threat to his reign. Nonna Rosa’s the only reason he’s yet to come after me.

My respect for Rosa runs deep. While men in the old country hid from falling bombs, she stood tall and built this empire. Her approval carries a weight that feeds Gabi’s paranoia.

We enter the meeting chamber. A long table stretches out like a battlefield. Twelve dons, men carved from scars and greed, are seated in leather chairs. Cigar smoke permeates the air, and whiskey glasses sweat rings onto polished wood.

Izzy slides into a seat near Gabi. I stand because standing is safer for me. That decision also gives me clear sight lines and helps me keep my options open if things become violent.

Wolves don’t sit among sheep.

We move through alliances with key politicians, outstanding debts in Jersey, and getting shipments through the docks. I listen to the dons drone on while reading their faces, noticing every lip twitch, every eye flicker. In our world, body language showcases shifts in loyalties.

It’s akin to the way wind sways tall grass. One wrong breeze can burn down the whole field.

“Enough.” Gabi rises, his voice sharp. “Business is routine. Tonight is about justice.”

Cigars pause mid-air. Whiskey glasses freeze.

“My father,” Gabi spits. “Betrayed. Shot down like an animal. You know why? Because Vincent Martinelli whispered his route to the FBI. Because the man we trusted became a rat. Because that filth ran and hid and left us bleeding.”

Murmurs ripple. Vincent’s name always poisons the air.