12. Lucrezia
Chapter 12
Lucrezia
T he faint hum of jazz wraps around me like a silk scarf as I descend the narrow staircase into 324 Speakeasy, an underground bar off Poyntz. It smells like aged bourbon and metal, a blend that whispers secrets and sins.
As I walk through the hidden door, the bar opens up before me. Dim, amber lights hang above each booth, illuminating well-dressed patrons murmuring over perfectly made craft cocktails. A saxophonist plays softly in the corner, his melancholy notes drifting through the cigar smoke that hangs in the air. The bartender, sleeve garters gleaming, polishes a coupe glass, his eyes barely registering my presence.
I glide past a couple tucked into a velvet booth, their laughter tinkling like broken glass, their faces flushed from expensive cocktails. My stiletto heels click against the polished stone floor, each step measured and purposeful, a rhythm that matches the slow pulse of the jazz. The dress I’m wearing—midnight blue satin that clings in all the right places—is both an armor and a weapon, its shimmer catching the amber light like liquid stars. Let them look. Let them wonder. In a place like this, attention is currency, and tonight, I’m worth a fortune.
In the far corner, Matteo Silvestri sits hunched over a tumbler of whiskey, his fingers tapping against the glass. His suit is impeccable—Italian cut, charcoal gray that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent—but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that speaks of sleepless nights and too many lies.
I slide into the seat across from him, the leather cool enough to send a shiver down my spine. The booth’s high walls create an illusion of privacy, though we both know better. “Matt,” I purr, letting a slow smile curve my lips, watching how he flinches at the familiar nickname. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
He startles, nearly spilling his drink. The liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim, and his manicured fingers clutch the glass like a lifeline. “Lucrezia,” he hisses, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal searching for escape routes. “You shouldn’t be here.” The words come out rough as if dragged across gravel.
I arch a brow, leaning back casually, letting the shadows play across my face. “And yet, here I am.” My voice carries just enough edge to make him swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his crisp collar. In another lifetime, I found him attractive. In this one, he looks like a rat.
He runs a hand through his thinning hair, glancing over his shoulder as if the shadows themselves might be listening. Sweat beads at his temples despite the cool evening air. “It’s not safe.”
I chuckle softly, the sound like velvet wrapped around steel. “Safety is an illusion, darling. A comfort we tell ourselves to sleep at night. Now tell me about Saverio.”
Matteo exhales, the sound heavy with resignation and decades of poor choices. His shoulders slump beneath his expensive suit jacket. “You’re going to get us both killed,” he says with a warning.
“Only if you keep stalling.” I reach forward to grab his glass, dragging it to my lips and taking a sip. As I set it down in front of me, I watch him with the same predatory interest as a cat might watch a wounded bird. The ice in his drink clinks softly, a delicate counterpoint to the tension crackling between us. “Tell me about Saverio.”
He rubs his temples with trembling fingers, his manicured nails catching the dim light. “He brought in muscle from St. Louis a month ago. The Mercier family.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper, as if speaking their name too loudly might summon them. “They’re ruthless, Lucrezia—the kind of men who’d slit your throat as soon as look at you. The kind who make problems disappear and never lose sleep over it. I’ve seen what they leave behind—it’s not pretty, and there’s never enough left to identify the body.”
“Charming.” I take another slow, deliberate sip of Matteo’s drink—smoky, with a hint of bitterness that lingers on my tongue like a dark promise. “What else?”
“He’s paranoid. He thinks someone’s plotting against him.” Matteo’s gaze flickers to me with a hint of accusation mixed with something that might be fear, resignation, or both. “He’s not wrong, is he?”
I smile coyly, letting the expression play across my face like a cat toying with its prey. The ice in the glass shifts, diluting the bourbon. “Paranoia implies fear without cause. Saverio knows exactly what he’s done.”
“There’s more.” Matteo lowers his voice, leaning in close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne mingling with bourbon. He smells cheap. “One of his capos, Franco Moretti—he’s disgruntled. Feels undervalued. Been complaining to anyone who’ll listen about how Saverio’s been treating him lately. You might be able to turn him.”
I file the name away, nodding slowly as I process this delicious morsel of intelligence. “Useful. Very useful indeed.” A discontented capo could be exactly the leverage I need.
“Lucrezia,” he pleads, desperation seeping into his tone, his dark eyes widening with genuine concern. “You need to be careful. Saverio has eyes everywhere. He’s heard whispers... He might already know you’re back.”
“I hope he does,” I say lightly, swirling the liquid in my glass nonchalantly. My cavalier attitude only seems to heighten Matteo’s distress, but I can’t bring myself to care. After everything that’s happened, fear is a luxury I can no longer afford.
Matteo drags a trembling hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that beads on his brow. “This isn’t a game, Lucrezia. He’ll kill you.” His voice cracks on the last word, betraying just how much the thought disturbs him. But Matteo’s delicate sensibilities do not sway me.
I fix him with a steady gaze, the corner of my mouth lifting into something that’s not quite a smile but more of a predator’s assessment. “He can try.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he looks away first, unable to maintain eye contact with the steel in my expression. “I don’t want your death on my conscience.” His fingers drum an anxious rhythm against the polished wood of the table.
He should be nervous, terrified, even. Matteo was one of my father’s men, one of the ones that raped me while my father watched. Matteo is lucky to be alive, and that luck lies entirely in my doing. The only reason he still draws breath is because I allow it. If I didn’t need him, I’d cut him from stern to bowel and let him bleed out slowly on my brother’s doorstep so Saverio knows for sure that his biggest nightmare is back in town, and she remembers everything.
I lean forward, the table pressing into my ribs, letting the discomfort fuel my intensity. “Then make sure I don’t die, Matt. Keep feeding me information.”
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in rough waters. “Alright.” His voice cracks on the word.
“Good man.” I reach out, patting his hand with deliberate gentleness, a mockery of comfort. His skin is clammy and damp with sweat, like touching a fish left too long in the sun.
Matteo pulls back abruptly as if burned, glancing toward the hallway leading to the restrooms, panic flashing in his eyes. “I need a moment.” The words tumble out in a rush.
“Of course.” I watch as he stands, adjusting his jacket with a shaky hand, the expensive fabric betraying his tremors. His feet shuffle against the stone floor before he practically bolts, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor like a frightened rabbit seeking shelter.
Left alone, I let my gaze wander over the patrons, studying their faces in the glow of vintage sconces. Laughter rises and falls, glasses clink in toasts to secrets I’ll never know, and the saxophonist transitions to a melancholic tune that seeps into the marrow of my bones. The air is heavy with unspoken desires and hidden agendas, thick enough to taste on the back of my tongue like bitter wine.
I drum my fingers against the tabletop in an erratic rhythm, a restless energy humming beneath my skin that makes it impossible to sit still. Matteo’s warnings echo in my mind like funeral bells, but fear is a luxury I discarded long ago and buried in a grave of necessary sacrifices. Let Saverio send his dogs—I’ve seen their kind before, watched them bare their teeth and snap at shadows. I’ve been hunted before, and each time, I’m the one who walks away while others bleed.
A subtle shift in the atmosphere prickles at the back of my neck, raising gooseflesh along my arms. The muted conversations hush ever so slightly, heads turning like iron filings drawn to a magnet. I follow their gazes toward the entrance, my fingers stilling their restless dance against the wood.
As if summoned from the pit of my own thoughts, Saverio strides into the room. His tailored suit is a shade darker than sin; his hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his eyes—cold, calculating—scan the crowd like a predator assessing his hunting grounds. The prodigal brother, basking in his own self-importance, commanding attention with each measured step across the stone floor. Even the air seems to part before him, full of whispered rumors and half-formed fears.
My heart beats a fraction faster, adrenaline sharpening my senses until every whispered conversation, every clink of glass against wood, rings with crystal clarity. I remain still, a serene smile painted on my lips as he zeroes in on me like a shark scenting blood in the water.
Saverio approaches with the confidence of a man who believes the world bends to his will, each footstep a silent declaration of ownership. Sliding into the seat Matteo vacated, he unbuttons his jacket with deliberate slowness, a gesture that speaks of practiced refinement and calculated control. “Well,” he drawls, his voice as smooth as velvet over steel. “If it isn’t my dear sister, back from her banishment.”
I tilt my head, feigning surprise. “Saverio. Fancy meeting you here.” The words drip with honeyed insincerity.
His gaze is piercing, dissecting every micro-expression that crosses my face. “You’ve been busy.” The statement hangs between us like a silk-wrapped blade he wants to drop on my neck.
I shrug. “Idle hands, you know how it is.” My fingers trace the rim of my nearly empty glass, a subtle reminder that I’m perfectly at ease in his presence. Saverio has never scared me, not even when he had the power to have me killed without a second thought.
My brother chuckles, but the sound is devoid of warmth, more threat than mirth. “You always were the witty one.” His eyes flick to my glass. “May I?” Without waiting for permission, Saverio signals to the bartender with an imperious lift of his hand. “Another round for the lady.” The order carries the weight of someone accustomed to immediate obedience.
“How thoughtful,” I reply, fingers lacing together as I rest my hands on the table. “To what do I owe this pleasure, brother?”
Saverio leans back, studying me with a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His expensive suit rustles softly against the leather booth. “Word travels fast. Whispers of your return reached me just the other night, and I couldn’t resist seeing for myself if you’d really escaped the convent walls and come back to Manhattan.” The way he says it makes it clear he has eyes and ears everywhere in the city. But I couldn’t care less.
“Curiosity has always been your weakness,” I say, letting a hint of mockery color my words. The familiar dance of our verbal sparring feels both comforting and dangerous.
He smirks. “And arrogance has been yours.”
The waiter arrives a moment later, placing two fresh glasses of bourbon before us without a word. Saverio lifts his glass in a mock toast, the liquid catching the light as he tilts it toward me. “To family reunions,” he purrs, his voice dripping with calculated warmth.
I raise mine, the fine crystal catching and fragmenting the low light from the bar’s vintage chandeliers. “And to unexpected encounters,” I counter smoothly, matching his artificial civility with my own.
We sip in unison, the tension between us coiling tighter with every passing second. Saverio sets his glass down with a deliberate thud. “Tell me, Lucrezia, what brings you back to our humble city after all this time?”
I meet his gaze evenly, refusing to be the first to look away. “Oh, you know. I missed the skyline. The culture. The... people .”
“Is that so?” His fingers tap a slow rhythm against the table. “No other motives? No unfinished business?” The corner of his mouth twitches upward, almost imperceptibly.
I smile sweetly, letting a hint of teeth show as I lean forward slightly. “If I had unfinished business, you’d be the first to know.” The ice in my glass clinks softly as I set it down, punctuating my point.
“Consider me informed.” Saverio’s eyes harden, the facade of pleasantry slipping just enough to reveal the menace beneath, like cracks appearing in polished marble. The temperature between us drops several degrees. “I’d hate for any misunderstandings to arise.” He spreads his hands flat on the table, the gesture both casual and vaguely threatening.
“Misunderstandings are such a hassle,” I agree lightly, swirling what remains of my drink. My head swims with alcohol, and I counsel myself to remain in control. “Best to avoid them altogether. They tend to get messy.”
“Indeed.” Saverio leans forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, each word precise and measured like a knife being sharpened. “Whatever game you’re playing, little sister, remember who holds the cards. Who’s always held the cards.”
I arch a brow, maintaining my composure despite the familiar curl of anger in my gut. “Is that a warning? How thoughtful of you to care.” His threat sharpens the alcohol right out of me.
“Consider it a reminder.” His gaze flickers past me briefly, and I catch a glimpse of movement—his bodyguard hovers near the exit, his hands conspicuously close to his jacket. The message couldn’t be clearer if he’d spelled it out.
“Always so dramatic,” I chide, refusing to give him the satisfaction of turning to look. “Can’t we just enjoy a drink without the theatrics? Or is the tough-guy routine so deeply ingrained now that you can’t turn it off?”
Saverio chuckles darkly, the sound devoid of any real humor. “With you, there’s always a performance. We both know that’s how you prefer it.”
I lean in, matching his intensity. “Maybe you’re just not appreciating the show. Some people can’t recognize quality entertainment when it’s right in front of them.”
“Careful,” he warns, a sharp edge to his tone. His knuckles whiten around his glass. “You’re treading on dangerous ground, and you know exactly why.”
I flash a grin, all teeth, and calculated bravado. “Danger and I are old friends. We have coffee every Sunday.”
The silence stretches between us, taut as a drawn bowstring. The muted sounds of the speakeasy fade into the background, the air thick with unspoken threats and years of complicated history. Ice clinks in abandoned glasses, and a distant jazz tune wafts through the smoke-filled room, but neither of us breaks first.
Finally, Saverio stands, smoothing the front of his jacket. A heavy signet ring catches the low light as his hands move. “It was wonderful to see you, sister. Let’s not wait so long for our next family gathering. Perhaps we can catch up at the next one.”
I remain seated, gazing up at him with feigned nonchalance. “I’ll check my calendar.”
He offers a cold smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You do that, Lucrezia.” With a final, lingering look that carries all the weight of an unspoken warning, he turns on his heel and strides toward the exit, his bodyguard falling into step behind him like a well-trained dog.
As my brother disappears up the narrow staircase, the ambient noise of the bar gradually resumes, as if someone has turned the volume dial back up. Whispered conversations, and the clink of glasses swell to fill the void he left behind. I exhale slowly, the adrenaline thrumming through my veins like a live wire, making my fingertips tingle and my heart race against my ribs.
Matteo slips back into the seat across from me, eyes wide with panic, his usually composed demeanor completely shattered. The color hasn’t returned to his face. “I came out of the bathroom and saw Raffaele by the door. What happened?”
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” I finish my drink in one smooth motion, savoring the warmth that spreads through me, letting the aged whiskey burn away the last traces of adrenaline. The empty glass makes a hollow sound as I set it down.
“I told you he knew you were here,” Matteo whispers urgently, leaning forward across the table until his face is inches from mine. “This complicates everything.”
I fix him with a steady gaze, refusing to let his anxiety rattle me. “It was always complicated.” Ever since he branded me a threat to his empire, ever since he chose the Family over his family.
“Lucrezia, you need to leave town. Lay low until things settle down.” His voice takes on a protective tone. He glances over his shoulder at the door as if expecting Raffaele to materialize again.
I laugh softly, the sound carrying more confidence than I actually feel. “Run and hide? That’s not my style.” I trace the rim of my empty glass with one finger.
“You’re being reckless.” The words come out sharp, tinged with genuine fear for my safety.
“Reckless would be not finishing what I started.” I rise from my seat, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in my dress. “Thank you for your concern, Matt, but I have work to do.” My voice carries the same steel-edged determination that’s gotten me this far.
Without another word, I make my way toward the exit, Matteo’s gaze still lingering like a phantom touch on my skin. The clicking of my heels echoes off the walls as I ascend the staircase. The cool night air embraces me when I emerge, stars glinting coldly overhead in a velvet sky that seems to mirror my own dark intentions.
A sleek black car idles across the street, its chrome details catching the streetlight’s glow, headlights piercing through the darkness like predatory eyes. I recognize it instantly—Saverio’s signature vehicle, a Mercedes that’s as much a warning as it is a status symbol. A silent message, crystal clear in its meaning: I’m being watched.
I smile to myself, a thrill coursing through me like electricity through a live wire. The game is on, and I’ve always been an excellent player.
Pulling my phone from my sequined clutch, I dial a number I know by heart and hold it to my ear. After two rings, a familiar voice answers, rough with sleep or whiskey—maybe both.
“Raiden,” I say, my tone light but edged with intent. “Change of plans. We’re moving up the timeline. Operation Ashes takes place this Friday. Do you hear me?”
“Everything okay?” he asks, suspicion coloring his words. I can practically see him straightening his spine, fully alert now.
“Never better.” I glance back at the speakeasy’s entrance, a shadow shifting in the doorway, too deliberate to be casual. “I’ll fill you in later.” He benefits from Saverio dying as much as I do.
Ending the call, I walk back to my car and climb inside. Saverio has no idea what kind of fire he’s playing with—or how long I’ve been stoking these flames.
Tonight was a warning, but not the one he intended. He thinks he holds the cards, but I stacked the deck long before he even sat down at the table. My fingers brush against the cold metal tucked into my clutch—insurance of a different kind.
Let the games begin. And may the devil take the hindmost.