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17

ROMIRO

I step onto the cobblestone street of Little Italy, the scent of fresh dough and garlic filling the air, mingling with the smell of strong coffee and the faint traces of last night’s rain. The narrow lane is alive with the chatter of locals, the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of conversation, and laughter. I weave my way through the clusters of tables that spill out onto the sidewalk, shaded by red-and-white striped awnings, vines creeping up the walls beside them. It’s early, just before the lunch rush, and the streets still have that calm-before-the-storm feel.

My destination looms ahead—a small, family-run pizzeria tucked at the corner, with its classic sign reading Ristorante Pizzeria in faded letters, the kind of place that looks unassuming but has been here longer than I’ve been alive. It’s a known hideout for the Camorra, one of the few places in the city that’s truly ours. Safe. Or as safe as anywhere can be.

I push open the door, and the smell of freshly baked pizza hits me, warm and inviting. Inside, the red-checkered tablecloths and low lighting create a cozy, almost intimate atmosphere, with framed photographs of old Italian families lining the walls. A few men I recognize from our circle are scattered at the tables, some nodding as I pass, but most keep to themselves. It’s the kind of place where no one asks questions, and where you can talk freely without fear of being overheard.

Emiliano is already here, sitting in the back corner, his posture rigid, his expression hard as stone. He’s nursing a black coffee, his dark eyes scanning the room like he’s expecting trouble any minute. He doesn’t see me at first, but when he does, his face doesn’t change. Just a nod, acknowledging me, but his eyes tell me he’s not in the mood for bullshit today.

Next to him is Dom, leaning back in his chair, looking too relaxed for the kind of meeting this is. His face is unreadable, like always, a cool mask that doesn’t give anything away. He raises his hand in greeting, a lazy wave, like we’re just here for a friendly chat. But I know better.

I slide into the seat across from them, and the waiter, an old man who’s worked here longer than anyone can remember, brings me an espresso without asking. I take a sip, the bitter liquid burning down my throat, and set the cup down with a soft clink.

I’m the first to speak. “Helen’s alive. And she’s here to stir shit up.”

Both Eli and Dom let my words sink in, Dom curses under his breath, and Eli asks, “What the hell do we know about her? Do we even know what the hell she wants?”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Not much,” I admit. “She’s been dead for over a decade. At least we thought she was. I have no idea why she’s back now, or what she wants. But we can’t ignore this. She’s too much trouble, Eli.”

Emiliano nods, his jaw tightening. “I know,” he mutters, his voice clipped. “And that’s what worries me. If she’s back, she’s here for a reason. We just don’t know what it is yet.”

Dominico leans forward, his chair creaking under his weight, and sets his glass of bourbon down on the table. “The question isn’t just why she’s back,” he says, his tone casual but sharp. “It’s where she’s been all this time. What she’s been doing. Who she’s been working with.”

I nod, agreeing. “Exactly. She didn’t just disappear into thin air. She had help. Connections. Someone’s been keeping her hidden, and now they’ve let her out. Or maybe she’s cut loose from whoever’s been holding her. Either way, it means trouble for us.”

Emiliano’s eyes flick to me, then back to Dom. “And that’s what we need to find out,” he says. “We can’t have her running around, stirring shit up. Last thing we need is another problem, especially now with the Outfit getting bolder.”

I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of their stares. “So where do we start?” I ask, looking between them.

Dominico shrugs, a slight smile playing on his lips. “We start where all problems start—with the people who know her best. Her old contacts, anyone who might still be loyal to her. She had a network, once. We just need to find out if it’s still intact.”

Eli nods, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a frustration that’s been building for weeks. “And what if they’re all dead?” he asks, his tone almost mocking. “What then?”

I smile, but it’s tight, strained. “Then we dig deeper. We ask questions. We shake the trees and see what falls out. She can’t hide forever.”

There’s a pause, a silence filled with the sounds of the restaurant around us—the clinking of cutlery, the soft murmur of conversations. It’s almost peaceful, a stark contrast to the tension at our table.

Dominico takes a slow sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving mine. “You think she’s here to settle old scores?” he asks.

I shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just here to cause chaos. Either way, we need to find her before she gets to us.”

Emiliano leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “And what if she’s already got us?” he asks.

I meet his gaze, unflinching. “Then we make sure she regrets it.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Eli nods, a small, tight smile forming on his lips. “Alright,” he says. “I’ll keep looking. I’ll reach out to our contacts in Europe, see if they’ve heard anything. Dom, you do the same. We need to know where she’s been, who she’s been with, and why the hell she’s back now.”

Dominico raises his glass in a mock salute. “You got it,” he says. “But don’t expect miracles. She’s a slippery one—always has been.”

I nod, finishing my espresso in one gulp. “I’m not expecting miracles,” I say. “Just results.”

Dom nods, and for a moment, there’s a sense of camaraderie between us, a shared purpose. “We’ll find her, Romiro,” he says, his voice firm. “And when we do… we’ll make sure she doesn’t cause us any more trouble.”

I nod, my mind already spinning with possibilities and plans. “Let’s just hope we’re not too late,” I mutter.

Dom chuckles, a dark, humorless sound. “In our line of work, we’re always too late,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t fix things.”

Emiliano leans back, his face hard, determined. “We’ll find her,” he says like he’s making a promise. “And we’ll end this.”

I nod, feeling a strange mix of dread and determination settle in my gut. Helen is out there, somewhere, and she’s not done with us yet. But we’ll find her. And when we do, we’ll be ready.

We finish our drinks in silence, the weight of what’s to come hanging heavy in the air. But I know one thing for sure—we won’t let her slip through our fingers again.

Not this time.

The conversation hangs heavy in the air, settling over us like a thick fog. The clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from another table feel like distant echoes in the background, their normalcy a stark contrast to the tension crackling between the three of us. I glance at Emiliano and Dominico, and I can see it in their eyes—they’re just as on edge as I am, but they’re trying to mask it with that cold, calculated calm that comes with our world.

Eli drums his fingers on the table, his face a mask of concentration, but I know him too well. I know the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches when he’s frustrated. It’s the same look he’s had since we were kids, whenever he felt like the world was moving against him. But this isn’t about some childhood grudge or friendly rivalry. This is Helen we’re dealing with—a woman who’s always been two steps ahead, always had a plan, even when it seemed like she was flying by the seat of her pants.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out under the table, feeling the strain in my muscles from the tension of the past few days. “You know,” I start, my voice low, “there was a time when I truly thought she was dead.”

Eli’s eyes flick to mine, sharp and searching. “You and me both,” he mutters, his voice dark. “But we’re not that lucky, are we?”

Dominico smirks, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “No one ever stays dead in our world, boys. You should know that by now. If you want someone gone, you make damn sure they’re gone.”