Michael
“Boss?” Luca says from the driver’s seat. His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror as the SUV idles in Katie’s driveway.
“Yeah?”
“You think this is a good idea?”
Katie’s house is lit when I look up. She’s checking if we’re still here. Good girl.
“Did I ask you?”
Silence fills the car. I pull out my phone, typing in the number she gave me.
Me: Lock your doors.
I hit send, slide the phone back into my jacket, and lean back against the seat.
“Drive.”
The estate is quiet as the SUV pulls through the gates. When I reach the front door, it’s already open. Marco is waiting inside.
“Boss.”
Stepping through the entryway, I shrug off my jacket as I walk. Maria is already there to take it off my shoulders, and Marco falls in beside me.
“Perimeter’s clear tonight. There are two men rotating outside. Cameras are up and running. Luca had the new system checked earlier.”
We move through the hall toward the kitchen.
“The shipment from Oakland came in around ten,” he continues. “Adam signed off on everything.”
I grab a glass from the counter and fill it with water when Bella steps into the doorway.
“Mr. Amato?”
I glance over.
“Miss Rosalia called earlier this evening,” she says. “She wanted to confirm brunch for tomorrow.”
It’s nearly three in the morning.
“Call her at eight. Tell her it’s fine.”
She nods and disappears. I finish the water and head for the staircase. Marco stops at the bottom.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“No, Boss.”
Upstairs, my bedroom is dark and quiet. I reach to my side, pull the pistol from its holster, and drop it into the drawer of my bedside table.
The drawer slides shut with a quiet click, and for a moment I stand there beside the bed, rolling the tension out of my shoulders.
Most nights by the time I reach this room my mind is already shutting down, the noise of the day fading into the quiet that settles over the house after midnight.
Tonight it doesn’t. Tonight my mind keeps circling back to a bartender with blue eyes and a mouth that doesn’t know when to quit.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial.
“Boss.”
“I need a car picked up,” I say, loosening the cuff of my shirt as I cross the room. “It’s in the alley behind Jefferson’s downtown, off 23rd Street. Blue Honda.”
“Understood.”
“Take it to the shop and go through the whole thing. Engine, brakes, tires—everything. I don’t care what it costs.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When it’s finished, put it in the owner’s driveway.” I give him Katie’s address.
“It’ll be there by morning.”
The call disconnects. I drop the phone onto the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand down my face.
A woman with absolutely no sense of self-preservation gave me her number tonight.
Most women in this city spend their time trying to get my attention. She acted like I was a serial killer.
A laugh escapes me. Tomorrow morning she’s going to walk outside and find her car running perfectly. I can already imagine the message I’m going to get, and for some reason, I’m looking forward to it.
My alarm rings at six a.m. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. My head pounds from one too many whiskeys the night before and not nearly enough sleep. There’s a knock at my door.
“Mr. Amato, may I enter?”
“Come in, Beatrice.”
The door opens, and Beatrice, my senior housemaid, steps inside.
She’s in her sixties now, but she’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.
She was my nanny when I was a boy, the one who made sure I ate, slept, and stayed out of trouble.
When I grew too old for that, my parents moved her to the kitchen.
When they returned to Sicily, and I took over the house, I gave her this position.
“Beatrice, why do you insist on calling me that?” I sit up on my elbows. “You’ve known me for thirty-six years.”
“Sir, you are the master of this house. It is a sign of respect.” She’s lived in the States for forty years, but her Italian accent still clings to every word. “Now get up. You have a lot to do before brunch with that fiancée of yours.”
She narrows her eyes when she says it, as if the word itself leaves a nasty taste in her mouth. I chuckle and push myself out of bed.
“I’ve already set out a suitable suit for you.”
I grin. “Beatrice, did you come in here while I was asleep?”
“You sleep like the dead, boy.”
She’s already stripping the bed without waiting for permission. As I walk past, I lean down and kiss her temple. She acts unappreciative, but a smile escapes anyway.
I step into the hallway, buttoning the cuff of my shirt.
The house is already awake. Somewhere downstairs I hear dishes in the kitchen and the low murmur of voices.
By the time I reach the staircase, the smell of coffee is drifting up from below.
The moment my foot hits the bottom step, Luca and Marco fall in step beside me.
“Morning, Boss,” Marco says.
Luca hands me a cup of coffee without breaking stride as we move toward the front door.
“You look like hell,” he adds.
Marco snorts.
I take the coffee. “Good morning to you too.”
“Shipment from Oakland hit the warehouse around midnight,” Marco says. “Everything cleared the port, but customs held one crate for inspection.”
“Which crate?”
“Gallery shipment. Two pieces from Florence.”
I take a sip of the coffee.
“Problem?”
Marco shakes his head. “Adam handled it. Inspector suddenly remembered he had somewhere else to be.”
Good. We step into the front hall as one of the security guards opens the door.
“What about the Harbor Street development?” I ask.
“That’s the other thing,” Luca says. “City inspector flagged the foundation permit yesterday. Says the soil report needs another review.”
I stop halfway through pulling on my jacket.
“And?”
Marco smirks slightly. “The inspector suddenly bought a lake house last year. Mortgage is a little…ambitious for a city salary.”
I slide my arms into the jacket.
“Fix it.”
Luca nods.
“Yes, Boss.”
Outside, the SUV is already waiting. The morning air is already humid when I step out onto the drive, and the sky is beginning to lighten beyond the trees that line the property. The house behind me is awake now, but the front of the estate is quiet.
Luca pulls open the rear passenger door as I approach.
I slide inside, still holding the coffee he handed me on the stairs.
Marco climbs into the front passenger seat while Luca circles the hood and gets behind the wheel.
The engine turns over with a quiet hum. The gates slide open, and the SUV rolls out onto the road, the estate disappearing behind us as the city wakes up.
Streetlights blink off one by one. A few early commuters move through intersections. Delivery trucks idle outside bakeries and cafes opening for the morning rush.
Marco shifts slightly in his seat.
“Adam moved the Florence pieces into the private room,” he says. “Only four people have access right now.”
“Warehouse cameras?” I ask.
“Already pulled the footage,” Luca says from the driver’s seat, eyes flicking briefly to mine in the rearview mirror. “Nothing unusual from the port to the dock.”
Which means the crate stayed sealed the entire trip. I take another sip of the coffee.
“And Donnelly?” I ask.
Marco glances down at his phone.
“I’ve got someone pulling his financials now,” he says. “Mortgage, bank records, anything that tells us who’s leaning on him.”
Because inspectors don’t suddenly grow a conscience overnight. Someone pushed him.
The SUV merges onto the freeway. Traffic is still thin this early. The road stretches open ahead of us.
“If someone’s trying to stall Harbor Street,” Marco continues, “they picked the wrong project.”
I look out the window, watching the skyline rise in the distance. Harbor Street isn’t just another development. It’s the largest construction contract the company has signed in three years. Which means if someone thinks they can slow it down, they’re either very stupid or very confident.
“Find out who’s talking to him,” I say.
Marco nods.
“Already on it.”
My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance down.
Katie: What the hell, dude?
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Gio dropped the car off already.
I type back.
Me: You’re welcome.
Three dots appear immediately.
Katie: I didn’t ask, creeper.
The laugh that leaves me is quiet, but it still fills the SUV. Marco turns halfway around in his seat.
“Boss?”
I lift my eyes. Luca’s staring at me through the rearview mirror. He says nothing, but I know that look. He knows exactly who’s on the other end of that phone.
“Yeah?”
“We’re here.”
The buildings here are lower, older—rows of warehouses stretching block after block along the docks where container ships unload cargo at all hours of the night.
Amato Operations takes up nearly half the street.
Tall fencing surrounds the property. Security cameras sit mounted every twenty feet along the perimeter. Razor wire lines the top of the fence.
Inside, the yard is already alive. Forklifts move between rows of shipping containers stacked three high. Workers in reflective vests guide trucks toward loading bays while security stands posted along the fence line and outside the warehouse doors.
The SUV rolls to a stop near the main building. Adam is waiting. He stands outside the warehouse entrance with two guards nearby, hands resting casually in the pockets of his jeans. When I step out of the vehicle, he straightens slightly.
“Boss.”
I hand the empty coffee cup back to Luca as I walk toward him.
“You move the Florence shipment?”
Adam nods toward the open warehouse doors behind him.
“Private room. Seals were intact when we opened the crate.”
Inside the warehouse, workers move around us with practiced efficiency, forklifts carrying pallets toward the far loading bays. Adam leads us toward a secured door near the back wall. He punches a code into the keypad. The lock clicks.
Inside, the room is quiet. A single wooden crate sits in the center of the floor under bright overhead lights.
Adam crosses the room and pries the lid loose with a crowbar.
The wood creaks before giving way. Inside, wrapped carefully in layers of cloth, is a painting.
Even before the cloth is fully pulled back, I recognize the color palette—deep reds and golds from a Renaissance piece that hasn’t been publicly displayed in decades.
Marco whistles quietly. I study the painting before straightening.
“Second piece?”
Adam gestures to the crate beside it.
“Still sealed.”
I glance toward Luca.
“Have Donnelly paid by this afternoon,” I say. “But I want to know who convinced him to start asking questions.”
Marco nods once.
“I’ll find out.”
I check the time on my watch. It’s still early. There’s still plenty of time before I have to go sit politely across a table from Rosalia’s parents and pretend any of this engagement nonsense has something to do with love.