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“Marco—”

“I’ll call you later,” I say, ending the call before he can respond.

I continue deeper into the labyrinth of back alleys, where the city’s refuse collects like silt in forgotten corners. A group of men huddle around a barrel fire up ahead, passing a bottle wrapped in brown paper. Their heads swivel in my direction as I approach, faces hard and suspicious.

“Looking for something, suit?” one of them calls out, straightening to his full height—still several inches shorter than me.

“Information,” I reply, not slowing my stride. “About a woman. Blonde, beautiful. Might be with her identical twin.”

They exchange glances, silent communication passing between them.

“Haven’t seen no twins,” the apparent leader says, scratching his unkempt beard. “But The Watering Hole might have what you’re looking for. All kinds of talk flowing through there these days.”

I pull out a thick fold of bills, peeling off several hundreds and holding them out. The man’s eyes widen slightly before he can control his expression.

“For your trouble,” I say.

He hesitates, then snatches the money. “Back entrance is through the loading dock on Saint Claire. Tell ’em Marty sent you.”

I nod once and continue on my way, following the maze of alleys until I find myself facing the grimy loading dock of what was once a textile factory. A single red bulb illuminates a metal door, its surface dented and scarred. I knock, three sharp raps.

A small viewport slides open, revealing bloodshot eyes.

“Marty sent me,” I say, holding another hundred where it can be seen.

The viewport closes. Locks click, and the door swings open, revealing a burly man with tattoos climbing up his neck like ivy.

“Weapons stay at the door,” he grunts.

I remove my gun and hand it over. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the custom Beretta, recognition flickering across his face. He knows who I am. I keep my expression neutral, daring him to say something. He doesn’t.

The Watering Hole is a misleading name for what is essentially a fight club with overpriced drinks. The basement space thrums with testosterone and desperation. In the center, a makeshift ring holds two men circling each other, fists raised. Blood already paints the concrete floor.

I slide up to the bar, ignoring the stares that follow me. A woman with more metal in her face than a hardware store approaches.

“What’ll it be?” she asks, eyeing my disheveled but clearly expensive clothes.

“Information,” I reply, sliding another hundred across the sticky bar top. “I’m looking for a woman. Blonde, beautiful,probably with her twin sister. They might be reaching out to old family connections. DeLuca connections.”

Her eyes narrow at the name, and I know I’ve struck something. “Don’t know nothing about that,” she says, a little too quickly. “But Joey over there—” she nods toward a thin man in the corner, “—he’s got his ear to the ground these days.”

I take my drink and make my way toward Joey. Before I can reach him, a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I turn to find myself face to face with Vittorio Canzano, one of my father’s former associates who broke away to start his own operation two years ago.

“Well, well,” he sneers, alcohol strong on his breath. “If it isn’t the prodigal son himself. Word is you’ve gone off the reservation, Bianchi. Daddy must be so disappointed.”

I shrug his hand off, every muscle in my body tensing for a fight. “I’m not here for a reunion, Vittorio. Walk away while you still can.”

He laughs, loud enough to draw attention from the surrounding tables. “Heard you’re chasing tail that doesn’t want to be caught. Some little blonde thing got you by the balls, huh? Poor Marco, so whipped he can’t see straight.”

My fist connects with his jaw before I consciously decide to throw the punch. He staggers backward, shock registering on his face for a split second before it morphs into rage. He lunges at me, bringing us both crashing to the floor.

The bar erupts around us. Bottles shatter. Chairs scrape across concrete. Men shout encouragement or curses, depending on their loyalties. I barely register any of it, focusing only on the satisfying crunch as my knuckles connect with Vittorio’s nose.

He fights dirty, jabbing a thumb toward my eye, but I’ve been trained since childhood. I roll, using his momentum againsthim, and slam his head into the floor. Once. Twice. Blood sprays from his broken nose, spattering across my shirt.

The rage that’s been building inside me for seven days finally has an outlet. I hit him again. And again. Until hands grab me from behind, pulling me off his unconscious form.

“Enough!” someone shouts in my ear. “You want to kill him? Do it somewhere else!”