Chapter 52
ABOUT A WEEK LATER
The penthouse buzzes with conversation and the clinking of silverware against plates as the four of us enjoy dinner.
Eavan’s smile lights up the room, her eyes sparkling as she teases Cillian about his inability to cook anything that doesn’t come from a takeout box or a tin can.
Cillian, ever the good sport, throws a playful jab back, and the room erupts in genuine laughter.
As the evening unfolds, and the liquor continues to flow, the conversation is effortless.
We talk about everything and nothing—plans for the future, the absurdity of some of our past escapades, and the simple joys of being together without looking over our shoulders.
It’s a rare moment of peace, a fleeting glimpse into a life that almost feels normal.
An unexpected knock at the door shatters the calm.
Gunnar’s voice follows, muffled by the wall separating us.
He’s the last of the watchful eyes we hired to keep an eye on my princess.
Jagger, Hawk, and Damon each left over the last couple of weeks, their presence no longer needed.
Gunnar is tidying up the last of their work and ensuring our security is in good standing before returning to his own life.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt. I ran into a guy in the lobby looking to speak with Cillian,” he apologizes, stepping into the kitchen.
Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he continues, “I frisked him in the elevator.”
I exchange glances with Eavan, a flicker of concern passing between us. Cillian looks equally puzzled, his brow furrowing. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
I set my glass of wine down and wave Cillian off when he starts to rise from the table. “Eat,” I insist—and gesture the same to Gunnar, inviting him to join us. “I’ll take care of it.”
Rising from the table, I adjust the cuff of my shirt as I make my way to the door.
When I open it, I find a man standing there—mid-forties, cheap haircut, dressed in an off-the-rack, poorly fitted, and wrinkled suit.
His posture is rigid and his expression serious.
“Mr. Roseti?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge of confusion.
I nod, stepping aside to let him in since Gunnar confirmed he isn’t carrying. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
The man hesitates for a moment, checking the number on the door. “I was looking for Mr. O’Brien.”
I glance back toward the entry to the kitchen, where my family is still seated. “He’s in here,” I say, leading the way.
As we walk down the foyer, the man’s gaze shifts, and his eyes widen slightly upon seeing Nikolai sitting at the table. “Mr. Romanov.” His voice is tinged with surprise.
Nikolai looks up, his expression unreadable. “And you are?”
The man pulls out a wallet, flashing an FBI badge. “Special Agent Frankford,” he announces. “With RICO.”
The room falls silent. The air thickens with tension as the implications of his words settle in.
RICO—Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations—a section of the FBI created to dismantle organized crime syndicates.
Eavan stops mid-reach for her wine. Cillian puts his fork down slowly, eyes narrowing.
Nikolai leans back in his chair—one hand resting near the edge of the island, calm but balled into a light fist. Gunnar’s hand sits on the gun tucked at the rear of his pants—and I suddenly wish I hadn’t left mine in my nightstand downstairs.
Agent Frankford’s eyes dart between Cillian, Nikolai, and me.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he continues, his voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of disbelief.
“I wasn’t expecting to find the heads of three rival families laughing and sharing dinner.
Bonding over the untimely passing of your fathers? ”
This fucker has some balls, I’ll give him that .
The mention of our late fathers sends a ripple through the room. This is either one hell of a coincidence or the FBI is connecting the dots. They’re drawing lines between our families, our actions, and the chaos that ensued.
I meet Agent Frankford’s gaze, my expression hardening. “What do you want?” I ask, my voice low and controlled.
He doesn’t falter. “Truth be told, I have a few questions about Rian O’Brien.”
“Rian O’Brien?” I steer the conversation, my hand curling into a fist at my side. “Is that the reason you’re standing in my apartment, Agent Frankford?”
He smiles faintly. “Among others.”
Nikolai stands, folding his napkin with deliberate care. “Want to tell us why you’re really here? Because I don’t think you showed up to compliment Enzo’s risotto.”
Frankford lets out a dry chuckle. “You’re right. I didn’t come for the food. Though the company…” He gestures lazily between the three of us. “Now, that’s interesting.”
He takes a step further into the room, his shoes tapping softly on the hardwood floor.
“Your fathers bled this city for decades, carving it into pieces like a pie none of them wanted to share,” he discloses, his voice calm but deliberate.
“And now—suddenly—it’s quiet. Almost like someone turned down the volume. ”
“You got a problem with peace, Agent?” Cillian asks .
“What I have a problem with is the unknown. O’Brien, Romanov, Roseti—each of you inherited an empire built on violence. Now you’re having dinner together? It doesn’t make sense, unless you figured out that together, you’re untouchable.”
We stay quiet, none of us taking the bait.
Frankford inhales slowly, his gaze wandering between the three of us again, his jaw tightening, like he’s contemplating what to say next.
“Here’s what I think,” he shares. “I think you’re planning something big.
Bigger than territory, bigger than protection rackets or drugs. I think you’ve already started it.”
“And what would that be?” Nikolai asks quietly.
Frankford smiles. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”
And that’s when I know—when we all know—he’s not here with evidence. He’s here with questions he thinks he knows the answers to, just waiting for one of us to accidentally confirm his suspicions.
He’s hunting.
The FBI doesn’t show up at the family dinner table unless they already have something—or they want you to think they do.
He didn’t flash that badge to introduce himself. He did it to rattle us.
Cillian played it cool.
Nik barely blinked .
And I’ve been waiting for this since the day we left our fathers in that warehouse.
It wasn’t a question of whether the FBI would be knocking on our doors. It was a matter of when.
The FBI knocks when they’re close enough to smell blood, of which the three of us have spilled plenty. When they’re ready to arrest, they barrel through the front door. If that day arrives, they better come with a lot more than a fucking leather flap concealing a cheap badge.
Because I’m not going down easy.
And neither are my brothers.