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“She’s good at what she does.”

“Then the two of you should be able to track down that fuck. And Brioni cannot find out about this. Make sure Cora understands⁠—”

“She does. She also suggested that in the meantime, you make sure that Brioni can protect herself.”

I want to snap at my younger brother for being so pussy-whipped. Letting his wife boss him—and now me—around like that. But she’s got a point.

“Brioni carries protection, right?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Pepper spray. Which hardly counts.

My brother reassures me about the Harrison situation. Then he updates me on our recruiting efforts—slow but progressing—and our mole problem. Still no leads.

After we hang up, I scrub my hands over my face. There’s so much on my shoulders, and I haven’t even taken over yet. Despite the clamor of all the priorities vying for my attention, there’s a clear winner. Keeping Brioni safe.

She’ll need a gun.

Because I don’t want to leave my position outside her shop, I dispatch Brady to get the weapon. An hour later, he brings me a gift-wrapped box, explaining it’s the same pistol Cora has. A Beretta 92X Compact, lightweight with a red dot optic for Brioni to practice her aim. Brady hands it to me through the car window, then hovers like he’s expecting praise. Or at least a thank-you.

“Call me when you’ve found Harrison,” I order. My brother grimaces before leaving.

I watch the flow of customers in and out of the shop. It’s a good thing most of them are women. I recognize a few familiar South Side faces. But with tinted windows, I don’t have to wave or make small talk.

A few minutes before the shop closes, a thirtysomething woman approaches. The late autumn sun has already set, and beneath the streetlights, her whole body looks tired. She’s got her kid in tow, holding his hand as they walk down the sidewalk. Shit. I recognize her by the handkerchief in her hair. And by the fatherless kid at her side. My chest goes cold.

When she opens the door to Brioni’s shop, I take a deep breath. Then I pull an envelope of ready cash from the glovebox and force myself to get out of the car.

Brioni looks confused as I enter, the shop bell dinging overhead. Doreen Kearney glances over her shoulder at me. She stiffens.

“Mrs. Kearney.” I give her a solemn nod. “I’m glad to see you and Little Seamus doing well.” I don’t miss the fact that she pushes her boy behind her. Away from me.

“As well as he can be.” No thanks to you, her pursed lips add.

If she’d said it out loud, I would’ve deserved it. I’m the reason her husband, Seamus senior, was killed a few weeks ago. Him and seven other good O’Sullivan men. All dead, because of my miscalculation.

As the boss-to-be, I hold literal lives in my hand. Today I coordinated some of our activity from the car, but I need to be on the ground. I owe it to my men. To their families.

I don’t say anything more to Mrs. Kearney. I just hold out the envelope. I’ve already handled all of the funeral expenses and set up a college fund for the boy. Same as I did for all the other loyal men’s families. But more money always helps.

As soon as Doreen accepts the envelope from me, she ushers her fatherless son out of the shop. Brioni’s expression tells me they hadn’t concluded their business yet.

My fiancée doesn’t ask any questions about the envelope. She’s astute enough to have pieced it together. In the past, she’s avoided asking questions about the mafia side of my life. She didn’t want to be involved, and I didn’t want to involve her.

That’s no longer an option. Not with Brioni’s safety at risk.

She asks me to give her a couple minutes, then retreats to her workstation to tidy up. The inside of this shop gives me a headache. It’s too colorful. The floor’s covered with a series of overlapping rugs, all different patterns that somehow cohere, but it’s not to my liking.

It’s so different from my darker world, my true workplace in our pub’s basement. The only patterns there are rust-colored spatter stains on the concrete. By comparison, Brioni’s world is all light and bright and sparkling.

Across the patchwork sea, the shop’s owner, Antoine, strides over to me. He’s tall, Black, and bald, and always in a perfectly tailored suit. Today it’s bright pink, paired with a teal paisley tie that makes me dizzy.

“O’Sullivan.” He greets me with a firm handshake. I don’t like the fact that he’s Brioni’s boss, because no one should be able to boss my fiancée around. No matter how kind he is to her as a friend. I especially don’t like that he’s taller than me, although it’s a scrawny sort of tall. I could still take him in a fight. Easily.

But it’ll never come to that. As a business owner on the South Side, he has an understanding with our family. He stayed out of the way during my brief exchange with Doreen, though I saw him watch the whole thing.

While Brioni packs up her tote bag, Antoine congratulates me on our engagement. My guarded attitude toward the man doesn’t soften, but I let my pride show through before escorting my fiancée out into the dark.

As we walk the few steps to the Nav, I take the opportunity to relish the delicate scent of her shampoo. I’ll never stop loving it. This enveloping reminder that she’s so close to me.