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My grip tightens on my glass. “Don’t play dumb with me, Alessandro. Leo. My wife’s nephew. The child you had kidnapped from his school.”

“Ah, yes. The cop’s nephew. Shame about that.” He takes another sip, savoring it. “Interesting choice of bride, by the way. Though I suppose desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“The boy,” I repeat, my voice dropping dangerously low. “Where is he?”

Alessandro spreads his hands in a gesture of innocence that makes my trigger finger itch. “Why would I know anything about that? Perhaps you should ask your old friend Nicolo. He seems to have taken quite an interest in your domestic situation.”

The mention of Nicolo sets my teeth on edge. “Nicolo claims he’s not involved.”

“Does he now?” Alessandro’s smile is shark-like. “And you believe him? The great Nicolo Moretti, who never lets a slight go unpunished? Who spent years grooming you as his successor only to have you turn your back on the family?”

I maintain my neutral expression, but inside my blood is boiling. Alessandro may be an amateur at mafia games but he’s an excellent listener and gatherer of information. He knows my history with Nicolo well.

“You’re working with him,” I say. It’s not a question.

Alessandro shrugs elegantly. “We all work with someone, don’t we?”

My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text. I don’t react, don’t let my expression change, but Alessandro’s eyes track the movement anyway.

“Expecting someone?” he asks, false concern dripping from his voice.

“Just business,” I reply smoothly, using the motion of setting down my glass to check the message from Micah.

Micah

Found him. Warehouse district. Heavily guarded but alive.

Relief floods through me, quickly followed by cold rage. They’ve had him this whole time, probably less than a mile from the club. Playing games while a child suffers.

Time to end this.

I stand and move to the bar cart where both bottles of Macallan wait. “Another drink? Since we’re being so honest with each other.”

“Please.” Alessandro tosses back the rest of his whiskey then holds out his glass. “It would be a shame to waste such fine whiskey.”

With my body blocking his view, I pour him a generous measure from the second bottle—the one treated with a particularly nasty cocktail of chemicals that will make it look like natural causes. Quick, mostly painless, and virtually untraceable.

“You know,” I say conversationally as I hand him the glass, “I’ve been wondering something. What exactly did you hope to achieve here? Taking Leo, threatening Eve. Did you really think I would just stand by and let you hurt my family?”

He accepts the drink with a predatory smile. “Family? Is that what you’re calling them now? The cop and her orphan nephew?” He chuckles. “Nicolo’s right. You’ve gone soft, Ezekiel. The man he described would never have tied himself down like this. Never would have let a woman make him weak.”

I retake my seat, watching as he brings the glass to his lips. “Love isn’t weakness, Alessandro. But you wouldn’t understand that, would you? Too busy trying to prove yourself worthy of Nicolo’s attention.”

His hand stills. “Careful, King. You’re not the only one with powerful friends.”

“Friends?” I can’t help but laugh. “Is that what you think you have? Tell me, how many of your ‘friends’ would die for you? How many would take a bullet or go to prison to protect your interests?”

He scoffs, but I see uncertainty flicker in his eyes. “I don’t need their loyalty. I have their fear.”

“Fear only works until someone stronger comes along.” I lean forward, dropping all pretense of civility. “Now, one last time—what do you want in exchange for Leo’s safe return?”

Alessandro takes a long drink, draining half the glass in one go.Perfect.

“You want to negotiate? Fine. I want the cop’s head on a platter. Kill her, publicly, messily. Show everyone what happens when they cross the Costa family.”

Even though I knew something like this was coming. The sheer audacity of it—demanding I murder my own wife—makes me want to reach across the table and end him right here.

He finishes his drink and already the first signs emerge: A slight sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the way his breathing catches just a little.