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“We’ve explored every angle to find Marco,” Fabio continues. “But we need someone who can move without triggering federal attention. We’re walking on glass, and the room for error is zero.”
I take another drag, letting them sweat. “And you’re sure you want me?”
“That depends on you,” Fabio breathes.
“Meaning?”
“We think it’s time for you to become one of us. Full assets, equal shares, every decision goes through you.”
Vince leans forward, whiskey forgotten. “If you handle this RICO case clean, you’ll be made.”
“Consider it your loyalty test,” Paolo adds. “Fail, and you can kiss that dream goodbye.”
My vision narrows to a single point, like looking down a gun barrel. Sincethey put my father in the ground, this has been my only goal. I’ll solve their RICO problem if I have to burn down half of New York.
“What’s the play?”
“We found a pressure point. Something—someone—who might flush him out.” Fabio refills his glass. Three fingers high, like measuring out poison.
“Marco has a daughter,” Paolo says. “My grandniece. She’s removed herself from our world, refuses our protection. A disgrace like her father, saved only by Isabella’s blood.”
Walking away from Cosa Nostra is a death sentence waiting to happen. You’re born in or married in, but you never walk out. The ones who try end up teaching that lesson to others. Who’d want to leave anyway? The money washes away conscience, and the killing becomes meditation if you’re built right.
“She’s made a name for herself at The New York Times. Investigative journalist.” Paolo’s tone suggests this offends him personally. “Rising star, all on her own merit.”
I straighten, interest piqued. “Working with daddy on the RICO case?”
“Unlikely. My sources say they haven’t spoken in ten months. Family drama.” A father-daughter fallout. If Marco were my father, I’d‘ve put him down myself. “We think you might convince her to help locate him.”
“She’s out of the life, not talking to her father. Why would she help?”
Paolo’s grin turns predatory. “She doesn’t have to agree, Dominic.”
“We want her questioned,” Fabio states flatly. “No father watches their child suffer when they can prevent it.”
My pulse quickens. I’ve left a trail of bodies and broken spirits across New York. Torture, intimidation, execution—they’re tools in my box, and I use them well. This assignment with a made man ceremony as the prize? Christmas came early.
Vince slides a thick folder across the polished wood. I stop it with my palm as he changes the projection. The room dims, and my world shifts on its axis.
Alessandra Colette Russo.
“This is Alessandra Russo,” he begins. “she’ll be twenty-seven in a few months. Journalist. Red hair like her mother...”
His voice fades as I flip through her file, and my cheeks heat as the photograph catches my eye. It’s a passport shot, unsmiling but fierce. Those spring-green eyes burning with defiance.
Red hair. The same hair I gripped while fucking her at the Crimson Gala four years ago.
Alessa.
My hands flex around her file as memories flood back. Sixteen years ago, blood dripping from my brass knuckles in that wine cellar, my mom’s most trusted friend, Isabella Russo, watching me with those piercing green predator’s eyes as I worked over her would-be captors. I tracked them through the Crimson Gala’s maze of corridors, each broken bone a message about touching what wasn’t theirs.
She didn’t flinch when I snapped the last man’s neck. Just watched, still zip-tied to that chair, head tilted like she was seeing straight through my skin to something deeper. Not many people had looked at me like that—like I was more than just another soldier with bloody hands.
After that night, Isabella saw something in me worth betting on. The way she pressed her silver piece into my hands before a job, that fleur-de-lis glinting like a promise. ‘Your mother would’ve wanted you to have this,’ she said, smoke curling from her lips. ‘You’re wasted as just another soldier—you’ve got killer instincts, Dominic. Use them.’ A couple of weeks of her showing me realpowermoves, the threats you slip under their skin, and the ones you drive like a knife. I was barely twenty-two—and now her daughter has what’s mine.
I stare at the photo, my mind struggling to process the connection. Alessa. The woman who challenged me at theCrimson, who felt so fucking perfect when she finally gave in. The same green eyes as Isabella. The same gun.
Fate’s a cruel fucking bitch.