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Chapter one

Dominic

“ T hat fucker could never be trusted,” Vincenzo Cappone growls, crushing his cigarette with the same force I used on that bankrupt sack of shit an hour ago. The ruby inlays catch the morning light, reminding me of another red stain I plan to make soon. Some people just don’t understand what ‘final notice’ really means.

The boss of the Cappone clan is already on his fifth whiskey. Nine in the fucking morning, and the bottle’s half empty.

“I knew Issy shouldn’t have married that piece of shit.” Vincenzo tosses back another whiskey. “He had more excuses than cash, and not enough of either.”

I light my second cigarillo, watching the smoke curl against the backdrop of the Hudson River. The cathedral ceilings and panoramic views remind me how far I still have to climb. Every family represented today means this isn’t just another monthly brunch. This is power shifting, alliances being tested.

The projector casts its harsh light on the wall, illuminating a face I’ve memorized from a dozen surveillance photos. Marco Russo—mid-forties, distinguished silver threading through his dark hair, NYPD badge gleaming on his chest like a fuck you to everything we stand for.

“Careful,” Paolo Russo interjects, adjusting his light blue button-down with practiced casualness. The boss of the Russo clan runs his legitimate car dealerships with the same precision he uses to launder our money. “That’s my niece you’re talking about, Vince.”

“ Ha Ragione, Paolo .“ Fabio Giovani’s massive belly shifts as he leans back, fingers interlaced like a bishop at confession. “He’s right, Paolo.” The old bastard hates me, but his network of restaurant fronts and bootleg liquor operations makes him untouchable. His youngest daughter’s rejection of the family business is an open wound he covers with violence.

They’re the big three of the four Cosa Nostra families in New York—the Commission. I’m the first, the oldest not yet made but already running the Gianelli family. My protection comes from these men, their assets extended to me like a leash they can yank any time. The money’s decent, but nothing compared to what awaits once I’m officially part of the hierarchy.

I stare at the three men who hold New York’s underworld in their palms, wondering which seat I’ll claim when my time comes. Not today, not tomorrow—but it will fucking come. My father’s voice echoes in my head: “Patience is just delayed violence, figlio. When you strike, make it count.” He taught me to play the long game, to earn my button first, then set my sights higher. A man without vision ends up with a bullet in his skull or taking orders until he dies. I’m not built for either fate.

“Issy was a smart girl,” Paolo continues, his tone carrying that reverence we all use for the dead. “And we do not speak ill of Isabella Russo.”

Isabella Russo. La Falciante. The Slicer. Even sixteen years after her “car accident,” her legend echoes through our world. Every weapon they handed her became an extension of her will, every target a guaranteed mark. The mundane nature of her death never sat right with any of us. People like her don’t just die in accidents—they’re removed.

“She should’ve married someone from the family,” Vince spits, pouring another whiskey. “The thought of that outsider taking our name.” Even his disapproval carries respect for La Falciante. “Marrying that Marco—a fucking nobody—was a mistake. I should’ve put him down back then.”

I take a slow drag, let the smoke fill my lungs as I calculate my next move. “Why is he backing this RICO case?” The ash falls precisely into the crystal tray, a small display of control. “Seems like a man with a death wish.”

“He’s never been one of us, Dominic,” Fabio explains, but his eyes say there’s more. There’s always more. “It was only a matter of time before he showed his true colors.”

I let out a cold laugh. “Since when did Marco Russo become a threat?” The words carry the right amount of dismissal, but my mind’s already mapping out kill scenarios. My father taught me to solve problems before they’re problems.

The story of Marco and Isabella reads like a bad romance novel. The princess who fell for a commoner, the family who tried to civilize him by giving him the Russo name and making him Chief of Police. All that work for a mole in the NYPD, and now he’s trying to bury us all.

“He has no loyal bone in his body,” Vince declares. As Isabella’s uncle and Marco’s technical boss, his word carries weight. A RICO case against the families is unprecedented. That a nobody might bring us down burns worse than my cigarillo.

I flex my fingers, feeling the phantom weight of my brass knuckles. “Then let’s go find him. I’ll make him wish he never learned to write his own name.” The thought of introducing him to my particular brand of persuasion sends a pleasant chill down my spine.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Dominic.” Vince’s grin is all teeth. “But after word got out about his little project, he vanished into a safe house. We can’t track him. Yet.”

The three bosses exchange looks that say they’ve already had this conversation without me. My jaw tightens, but I keep my face neutral. Not their equal—not yet. But my patience has limits, and they’re testing them.

“Time is of the essence,” Fabio states, his gaze boring into me. His children—the senators, lawyers, and doctors who make our complications disappear—are his pride. “We need to find him before he can cause more damage.”

“I get it. You need me to fix this?” The words come out measured, controlled. Inside, my blood sings with anticipation.

“ Uomo intelligente ,“ Paolo murmurs. Intelligent man.

“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. Since the y 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 real power moves, 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 the Crimson, 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.

But sentiment doesn’t pay debts. Marco Russo’s RICO case threatens everything—my shot at being made, at having real power. And his daughter is the key to breaking him.

My grip leaves sweat marks on Alessa’s photo. Isabella might’ve seen something in me worth cultivating, but she also taught me that power only respects power. Her blood running through Alessa’s veins just means I know exactly which buttons to push, which threats will land.

My blood pounds thinking about having her at my mercy. This time there’ll be no masks, no pretending. Just pure, raw dominance. I’ll use her to destroy her father, claim my seat at the table, and maybe—if she’s as smart as her mother—she’ll understand that sometimes brutality is a gift.

My fingers trace the edge of her photo, already mapping out exactly how this will play. One clean grab. One terrified daughter. One broken father. My ticket to the table Isabella always said I deserved.

That gun, though—the weight of it a reminder of everything I earned that night—Alessa had no fucking right. Four years I’ve been tracking that piece, following dead-end whispers and cold leads. Now fate drops her in my fucking lap like a gift.

I light another cigarillo, letting the smoke curl around my tongue before I exhale, as I imagine Alessa’s face when she realizes who’s coming for her—worth it.

By the time I’m done, she’ll learn exactly what it means to steal from a Gianelli.

I flick the ash into the crystal tray, my polished shoes planted firm on the marble floor. This table, this room, all this bullshit—they think it’s theirs. They think I’m just here to listen, to take orders, to nod along.

Let them think.

When Marco’s done bleeding out, they’ll understand. La Falciante knew what she saw in me. Hunger. Ruthlessness. A future they’re too blind to stop.

One day, this whole damn table will be mine.

And they’ll be lucky if I leave them a seat.