Chapter 11 - Alex
ALEX
The voices of my reluctant associates in crime—they weren’t close enough to be partners, considering they had no idea whose side I was really on—faded into the background too easily.
My mind, usually focused and honed to a knife’s sharp edge, had dulled today.
My concentration was shot, hands twitching. It wasn’t a safe state to be in around some of the worst figures from my past.
But I had enough practice with this, at least, that I could convincingly fake that I was tuned into the negotiations taking place in the back room of a pawn shop owned by the mafia family I’d been born into—the Antonovs.
Unlike with Frankie. I had no practice there, no idea how to even lie to myself enough to play it cool where that woman was involved.
The conversation largely swirled around me, leaving polite gaps for me to fill these men in on noncrucial intel from the Buteras.
Being a double agent wasn’t something I’d envisioned for myself when I was roped into the Antonov’s dealings as a teenager, thanks to my high-ranking uncle.
But after years of disrespect and dealing with the kinds of criminals who didn’t have as many scruples as Jonathan, Devin, and even Anthony, I’d had enough.
When I met Jonathan, when we became friends, it was only a matter of time until he offered me a spot amongst the Butera’s prestigious ranks.
It’s been many long years now. And I was still valuable to the Buteras because of my ability to maintain contact with the Antonovs. To play both sides, ostensibly, and maintain a cool enough facade that no one suspected a thing.
I tuned back into the chatter around me as soon as the conversation shifted to the most dangerous man in the tri-state area—maybe the country.
Robert Ferrara’s name came up, and the Frankie connection had me paying attention, sitting up straighter, clenching a fist at my side. Knowing the bastard was her deadbeat father only made me hate him more.
The room had gone quieter than usual. It wasn’t often that these men—the Antonovs’ soldiers, hustlers, smugglers—showed real unease. They were bred for blood, not nerves.
But Robert Ferrara’s name had that effect on everyone. It crawled through the room like a ghost, something that couldn’t be shot or buried.
“I’m telling you,” Mikhail said, his voice low, raspy from too many expensive cigars. “Ferrara’s losing it. He’s not just unpredictable anymore—he’s gone. Doing the kind of shit that gets everyone around him killed.”
The others grumbled their various agreements. Someone laughed under his breath, that dark kind of laugh men used when they were pretending not to be afraid.
I personally knew better than to have such an obvious tell. Especially around these men.
“Word is,” another said, “he put a hit on one of his own lieutenants last week. Claimed the guy looked at him funny. Next thing we know, he ended up missing.”
That earned a few grim nods. Paranoia spread like wildfire in our circles. A don who stopped trusting his own shadow was a liability to everyone who stood too close.
“Hell,” Mikhail went on, shaking his head, “the man auctioned off his own daughter’s virginity like it was a bottle of wine. Tell me that’s not insanity.”
That stopped me cold. The clinking of glasses, the scrape of a chair leg—every sound around me sharpened to a razor’s edge. My heartbeat felt too loud in my ears. Of course it all came back to Frankie.
I forced myself to take a slow breath, to keep my expression blank, a picture of mild disgust rather than the rage that clawed at my chest.
They didn’t know what that meant. They couldn’t.
But it was an opportunity. A dangerous one.
I tilted my head, careful, casual. “You finally heard about that.”
Mikhail smirked. “Everyone heard. Ferrara’s name’s poison in the streets. No one wants to deal with a man that unhinged, but he’s too goddamn powerful to avoid now. Whole situation’s a fucking powder keg.”
I swirled the drink in my hand, pretending to think. Pretending, when in truth every word was deliberate, calculated. “Well,” I said finally, “I can confirm the rumors weren’t exaggerated. The auction was real. And it didn’t go the way Ferrara planned.”
A few pairs of eyes lifted toward me.
Perfect.
I gave them just enough to keep them listening, not enough to tie it back to me.
“Three of the Butera men took the prize,” I said, voice even.
“On the don’s orders, I hear. They paid handsomely for her, won her out from underneath Ernie Simmons.
And more, she’s still under their control.
Alive. Unharmed, as far as I know. Though that’s more mercy than Ferrara would’ve shown anyone. ”
It was all true, but the spirit of the words felt wrong. She wasn’t a trophy or a hostage or some object to discuss without her having a say in the conversation. She was Frankie—sunlight in a world that had always been dark before she invented it.
But they didn’t need to know that.
The information was bait, pure and simple. The Antonovs would pass it up the chain, and quickly it would find its way to Ferrara’s ears.
That was exactly what Anthony wanted from us.
This whole clusterfuck of a situation was an indirect message, a reminder that Ferrara’s weakness had already been exploited.
I’d just served my purpose as the delivery mechanism, solidifying my standing with the Buteras for years to come. The real irony was I hated myself for it.
“Christ,” one of the men muttered. “That’s one way to send a message. Ferrara’ll be fucking nuclear when he knows the truth. The way that man sees women…”
“And no way they haven’t touched her,” another piped up.
“I said unharmed,” I cut in. “Not untouched.”
I took a slow sip from my glass as the men laughed, pretending not to care about the disgusting lecherous way they viewed the girl’s sexual debut.
An unusual mixture of guilt and unease twisted tight around each other like barbed wire in my chest and my throat.
Frankie didn’t know. She was smart, sure, and she could tell she wasn’t exactly free to leave Jonathan, Devin, and me whenever she wanted.
But she didn’t know what she was to the Butera family.
That she was the most powerful leverage we had against her scumbag father. That she was, in technical terms, a hostage.
And if she ever looked at me and saw the truth, the way I’d kept her in the dark and used her all the while, I didn’t know if I’d survive it.
“She’s insurance,” I said finally, feigning detachment. “Nothing more. Ferrara doesn’t need to know the details. Just the message. The girl’s not his to bargain with anymore.”
It came out smoother, steadier than I felt.
Mikhail studied me for a long second, like he could peel back my skin and read what was underneath.
I didn’t flinch.
That was the trick of survival in this business—you never let them see the heartbeat. The twitch of the eye. The tiniest sign of humanity.
He grunted, leaning back. “Insurance, huh? Poor girl. Born into the wrong bloodline.”
That, at least, was true.
The conversation shifted again, away from Ferrara and toward distribution routes, the docks, and talk of a new shipment. I let them drone on while my mind drifted.
I shouldn’t have said anything. Even if it was strategy. Even if Anthony wanted the message out, the idea of Ferrara even thinking about Frankie made my stomach turn.
The man was a monster, and I’d just put her back at the top of his mind.
Put all of us back at the top of his list. I kept my expression neutral, fingers tracing the rim of my glass. My pulse had settled, but the guilt remained—a low hum I couldn’t silence.
Maybe there was a way to fix it. To keep her safe while still playing my part in this game. I had contacts still loyal to me in both families, threads I could pull without drawing attention.
If I maneuvered it right, I could redirect the blowback when Ferrara came sniffing around. Find some way to get Frankie to slip, still blessedly unharmed, through the cracks.
I was halfway through planning how to make that happen when my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled the device free and glanced at it, intending to ignore it after my curiosity had been satisfied. Then I read the message.
Devin: Frankie emergency. Get back. Now.
My blood turned cold.
Everything in me went still, then too fast all at once. A roaring in my ears I’d never heard before. A chill of panic constricting my veins.
The chair scraped back before I even realized I was standing. My hand tightened around the phone like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
“Something wrong?” Mikhail squinted at me through a haze of smoke.
“Business,” I said, voice flat. “Butera business.”
Before anyone could press, I turned and walked out. Not hurriedly, not yet—but fast enough that they’d know not to stop me. Out through the back door, into the chill night air of the alley behind the shop.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and started for the car, boots pounding against cracked pavement.
Every instinct I had screamed that something was wrong, that whatever was waiting for me back at the penthouse wasn’t something I could control with words or weapons or strategy.
For the first time in years, I didn’t give a damn about the business.
The Antonovs, the Buteras, the whole web of deceit and blood and power fell away.
My mind only filled with visions of a sweet, innocent face I wanted, needed to protect.
And I’d burn the world down if I couldn’t succeed.