His Ruthless Claim (Devils in Armani Suits #2)

11. Luca

11

LUCA

T he private dining room's dark wood panels absorb what little light filters through the stained glass windows. I study Enzo across the table, tracking each minute shift in his expression. His tattoos peek out from beneath his rolled sleeves as he drums his fingers against the white tablecloth.

"They are watching her close, Luca." Enzo leans back, a practiced casualness that doesn't match the calculated look in his gray eyes. "The Cappallettis don't typically let people walk away."

I take a measured sip of water - not whiskey, not like my father. "Maria's not 'people.' She's a Mantione."

"That might make it worse." He tilts his head. "Your family's been pushing boundaries lately. And with the change in power… The Don's looking jumpy."

The crystal tumbler meets the table with a soft clink. "I knew it was a possibility. That's why I have you."

A hint of amusement crosses his face. "The old guard doesn't like change."

"The old guard can fuck themselves. What's your angle here, Enzo?"

"Always straight to business." He spreads his hands. "I've been thinking about it, and I might be able to create an opening. Get her somewhere safe before things escalate." He levels me with a look. "As long as you can guarantee you make it worth my while."

I catalogue his posture, the slight tension in his shoulders betraying his stake in this conversation. He's been saying that, but I haven't found the right offer. This time, I go more direct. "And what would that cost me?"

"Protection for me and a few who will help me."

I knew that one was coming. "Done."

"And I want what I deserve for this level of loyalty. I want to be a capo. With my own crew and my own territory."

My face remains impassive as I consider his words. Maria's safety is the most important but to let someone whose loyalty can be bought get that close to me…It's dangerous. Then again, I can't blame him for turning on a don that doesn't have his back. "I'll see what I can do."

"Don't take too long." Enzo stands, adjusting his cuffs. "Clock's ticking, and your cousin's got a target on her back."

I watch him leave, mind already mapping out the consequences. Maria's always been too soft for this life - a trait that reminded me of my mother. Perhaps that's why I can't let her share the same fate.

I sigh as I head back to the office, finding it already full of made men who are waiting to see me fail. The meeting room's mahogany table stretches before me, each seat filled with men who've killed their way to power. Cigarette smoke coils through stale air as I spread the territory map across the polished surface.

Everyone watches me silently as I take my father's seat where I belong. And then I brace myself as I get ready to finally fix our operation.

"South Side operations will shift." I tap a section of the map. "Effective immediately."

Mario Russo's jaw tightens. His weathered face, scarred from decades of violence, betrays his displeasure. "Your father-"

"Isn't here." The words fall like ice. "The Cappalletti proposition offers better returns than our current arrangement."

"It's disrespectful," Vincent Caruso mutters, exchanging glances with the others. "We can't just-"

I cut through his words. "The numbers." My finger traces down the projection sheet. "Three million in the first quarter. Five in the second. That's double our current revenue."

The room falls silent. I note each reaction - Mario's white-knuckled grip on his armrest, Vincent's nervous swallow, Paolo's careful stillness. Their loyalty to the old ways will get them killed. I've already arranged their replacements.

"Distribution routes change next week." I continue outlining the plan, my voice steady and cold. "Mickey takes the warehouse district. Bas handles dock operations."

"Those are my men," Paolo interrupts, face flushing red.

I meet his gaze, holding it until he looks away. "Were your men. The transition starts tomorrow."

The meeting continues, numbers and territories reassigned with surgical precision. I watch Paolo text under the table - probably warning his crew. It won't matter. By morning, his body will be cooling in the Chicago River.

I won't tolerate any resistance to my switch in command.

"Any questions?" I close the ledger, my mother's watch catching the light. No one speaks. "Then we're done."

They file out, tension crackling between shoulder blades. Three deaths to ensure compliance. An acceptable cost for progress.

The next morning, the disposal sites form a neat triangle across the city. Paolo's body slides beneath the murky river water without a splash - his weighted ankles ensuring a direct path to the bottom. Mario's "car accident" off Lower Wacker Drive creates a spectacular scene that will keep the media occupied. Vincent's overdose in his penthouse bathroom reads like poetry - a fitting end for a man who spent decades pushing poison.

Each death serves its purpose. Clean. Efficient. The proper way to handle business.

I check my watch as I read over the reports - 7:47 AM. The silver band catches moonlight as I adjust my cuffs, mother's timepiece a steady weight against my pulse. My mind automatically calculates the most efficient route between disposal sites, then betrays me by noting each location's proximity to Skye's boutique.

Eight blocks from the river.

Twelve from Lower Wacker.

Five from Vincent's building.

My jaw clenches. These thoughts serve no purpose. They're an irritating deviation from carefully laid plans. And yet...I find myself picturing her there, arranging displays with those perfectly manicured hands, amber eyes bright as she trades barbs with customers.

The watch feels tighter against my wrist. I loosen it a notch, irked by this unwanted distraction. Sentiment is weakness. Emotion is liability. I learned that lesson watching blood pool beneath my mother's head while sirens wailed in the distance.

Instead, I try to pour myself into work.

The surveillance photos fan across my desk, a strategic map of our territory's weak points. My fingers pause over an image showing the entrance to Skye's boutique. The morning light catches the gold lettering on her window, the same rich tone as her eyes.

"Boss?" Bas shifts his weight, drawing my attention. "Something interesting about that sector?"

I force my gaze to move methodically across the other photos. "How's the new crew there?"

"Turning good numbers." He leans forward, pointing to the markers. "The guys have proven their worth and loyalty."

My jaw tightens as I note the gap in surveillance directly outside her shop. "I think we need more security - to watch them. Install another camera here." I tap the location.

Bas's eyebrows lift slightly. "That's... unusually heavy coverage for a retail area. I could send Ace to crash into their crew."

"No, I need him elsewhere. Besides, the Cappallettis have been testing boundaries." The excuse falls easily from my lips, practiced and cold. "I won't have weak points in our security."

He studies me for a moment too long, his dark eyes calculating. I meet his gaze with empty stillness until he looks away.

"There's something else." Bas slides another photo across the desk. "Our guys spotted Don Cappalletti at that boutique yesterday. Talking to the owner like they are friends."

My fingers press harder against the desk, but my voice remains steady. "You think they work together?"

"Looked like it. But I've seen Mantiones and Buetis in her shop, too. Not sure if she's neutral ground or a front for him."

The muscle in my jaw flexes. I don't like the Cappallettis anywhere near her. I don't like any made men near her.

"Look into it. Figure out if she's got secret meetings on the side where she could be passing off information." The words come out sharper than intended.

Bas pauses, hand hovering over his tablet. "Boss... is there a particular reason we're interested in a clothing store owner?"

I let the silence stretch until he shifts uncomfortably. "Are you questioning my orders?"

"No, boss." He quickly pulls up the files, but I catch the knowing look he tries to hide. In truth, I shouldn't care when it's not our territory, not our girl. She's no one to us.

But I know that's not true to me.

I turn back to the surveillance photos, ignoring how my eyes keep finding her storefront in each frame. This is about territory. Security. Nothing more.

The silver watch feels like it's burning against my skin.

Bas's questioning gaze lingers, catching the involuntary movement of my fingers against the silver band. The room temperature seems to drop as I level my stare at him.

"You seem distracted today." I keep my voice flat, devoid of inflection. "Perhaps you need a reminder about the importance of focus."

He straightens, shoulders tensing. Smart man. "No reminder needed, boss."

"Then I suggest you concentrate on the security upgrades rather than analyzing my interests." The words cut through the air with surgical precision. "Unless you'd prefer a more permanent position change."

Bas swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath his collar. He knows what happened to the last person who overstepped. "The cameras will be installed by morning. I'll coordinate with Rodriguez about the increased patrols."

I dismiss him with a slight nod, turning back to the surveillance photos. His footsteps retreat quickly, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence settles like a shroud.

My fingers trace the edge of the photo showing Skye's boutique, following the clean lines of her storefront. The movement catches my attention - another unwanted tell. I force my hand flat against the desk, but the watch seems to pulse against my wrist, a reminder of weakness I can't afford.

Control. Everything is about control.

Yet here I am, increasing security because a woman with amber eyes and sharp wit has somehow burrowed under my skin. The thought makes my jaw clench.

The photo crumples slightly beneath my fingertips before I catch myself. This momentary lapse in composure - however slight - is unacceptable. I smooth the image with methodical precision, erasing evidence of the slip.

But Bas noticed. The knowledge sits like lead in my stomach. He's too observant, too quick to connect dots that should remain separate. His questioning glance spoke volumes about the conclusions he's already drawing.

My mother's watch feels heavier than usual, its steady tick marking each second I waste on these distracting thoughts.