5. Luca
5
LUCA
I flip through the dossier, studying each meticulously gathered detail about Skye Calloway. The leather chair in my father's office creaks as I lean back, eyes scanning surveillance photos spread across the mahogany desk. Her boutique's financial records paint a picture of shrewd business acumen - something I can appreciate.
"Your coffee, sir." My father's secretary places a steaming cup beside me.
I don't acknowledge her presence. She leaves quickly, the click of her heels fading down the hall.
The photos capture Skye's graceful movements, her amber eyes sharp as she manages her shop. Her sleek black hair catches the sunlight through the boutique's windows. The tight dresses she favors highlight curves that shouldn't distract me.
But everything about her distracts me.
I tap my grandfather's Rolex against the desk, a habit I've developed when processing information. The boutique's location is prime real estate - directly between Bueti and Mantione territory. Not too far from the Cappallettis, since we all have a slice of downtown.
As it turns out, it's not too far from the Vault. Not too coincidental when I find that she is close friends with Nerio's girl. She could be useful to me then. The only reason I'm still even looking into her.
That's what I tell myself as I remember how I couldn't stop myself last night - not when I saw Skye entering The Vault in a dress that clings like a second skin. I followed her there under the pretense of business. Watched how she commanded attention without trying, how her calculated movements suggested she saw more than most would assume.
The intelligence in those amber eyes reminds me she's not just another pretty face to be used and discarded. She's built her business from nothing, maintains connections with Chicago's elite while staying clean of their darker dealings. Almost clean.
But something about the way she carries herself, the perfect blend of sophistication and street smarts, keeps drawing my attention back to her photos. It's a puzzle I need to solve. For business reasons. Only business.
My phone buzzes. A new message from one of my surveillance teams. The photo loads and my carefully maintained control slips for a fraction of a second.
Maria. Enzo Rossi has his arm wrapped around her, easily identifiable by his tattoos, as he ushers her to a car. She looks okay, though, in clean clothes and like she's eating. At least she's not being abused - but we're no closer to getting her out because of my stubborn father.
" You shouldn't have killed Giovanni's nephew ." The memory of my father's drunken words from last night echo. " Now look what they've done ."
My jaw clenches. The nephew deserved it - he'd been stealing from our operations for months. The fact that he was stupid enough to get caught was his own fault. But my father never liked when I took matters into my own hands.
I still have bruises to pay for drawing Nerio's attention. Not that I was the one that kidnapped his fiance.
I trace the antique watch face, remembering Maria at eight years old, her warm brown eyes fierce as she stood between me and my father. "Uncle Tony, stop! He's just a kid!" Even then, she'd been the only one brave enough to face his rage.
The leather arm of my chair groans under my grip. Maria is the last connection I have to my mother. The only person who remembers how she used to sing us both to sleep, how her perfume smelled like jasmine.
Nerio's intel better be accurate. My father is supposed to be negotiating her release right now, trading information the Buetis gathered about Cappalletti operations in exchange for Maria's safe return.
But looking I should know better than to leave anything in his hands.
I shut down the emotion threatening to surface. Sentiment is weakness. Maria is a liability I can't afford, but one I'll protect nonetheless. For my mother's memory, if nothing else.
Thankfully, a few days ago, I managed to arrange a meeting with Enzo at an abandoned warehouse on neutral territory - and no one else knows. I told him it was a chance to discuss opportunities. No threats, no demands. Those will come later if needed.
He arrives exactly on time, which I note with approval. The tattoos on his arms shift as he moves through patches of dusty sunlight filtering through broken windows. His gray eyes scan the space, cataloging exits. Smart man.
"Unusual place for a meeting." Enzo's voice echoes slightly.
I remain seated at the metal table I'd placed in the center of the room. "I find privacy allows for more honest conversation."
He takes the chair across from me, his posture relaxed but ready. I recognize the stance of someone who's survived by reading situations correctly.
"How's my cousin?" I keep my voice neutral, watching his micro-expressions.
A slight tightening around his eyes. Interesting. "Following orders isn't personal."
"Of course not. Though I wonder whose orders you're following these days." I tap my watch, noting how his gaze tracks the movement. "Giovanni seems to be losing his grip lately. All those missed shipments, territory disputes..."
Enzo's jaw clenches. There it is - the tension I was looking for. "The family is strong."
"The old guard, perhaps." I lean forward slightly. "But the future belongs to those who recognize shifting power dynamics. Who position themselves accordingly."
His eyes narrow, catching my meaning. "And what position would that be?"
"One with more autonomy. Better compensation." I pause deliberately. "Protection when needed."
"Pretty words." But I see the calculation in his expression. "What's the price?"
"Maria walks free." I slide a burner phone across the table. "Consider it a gesture of good faith. A down payment on future arrangements."
The warehouse falls silent as he weighs his options. I wait patiently, knowing I've given him exactly what he needs - an excuse to do what he already wants to do.
"I'll consider it." He pockets the phone.
I nod once, standing. Everything is proceeding as planned. I just needed to see if he was open to it, and I can already tell that with the right motivation, Enzo can be bought.
The warehouse door crashes open, the metal groaning in protest. My father walks in, his face a mask of fury. His eyes are a little too red, and I know he's drunk. I only wonder how he found me.
I suppress a groan. I guess I have a list of people to kill tomorrow.
"What the fuck is this?" He gestures wildly between Enzo and me. "Going behind my back? Making deals?"
I don't move, one hand pressed to the table. To his credit, Enzo doesn't seem affected by my father either, but I don't break eye contact with my father.
"You weak piece of shit." Violence flashes in his eyes, and I wonder what lie he'll tell himself when he wakes in the morning. He hasn't actually laid hands on me in years. I always knock him unconscious and he thinks it's the alcohol - or so he says. "Think you can run things better than me? That what your mother would've wanted?"
My expression doesn't change. He always brings her up when he's like this.
He brings out a gun, flicking off the safety. Only, he doesn't point it at Enzo. No, he points it at me. I don't flinch. Don't blink. Don't even tense.
"For fuck's sake, react!" He slams his fists on the table. "Show something, anything! You're not human, you know that? Just like when she died - sitting there, watching, doing nothing-"
I cut him off with a look. The same empty stare that makes others wonder what's wrong with me. He stumbles back a step.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Enzo's expression - disgust warring with pity as he watches Chicago's most feared crime boss reduced to this. The calculation in his gaze tells me everything. No one wants to follow a drunk who can't control himself.
"We're done here." My voice remains steady, controlled. "The meeting was concluded before this interruption."
My father spits on the ground. "Concluded? You don't conclude shit without my say-"
"Actually," I stand smoothly, straightening my suit jacket, "I do. Enzo knows where to reach me when he's made his decision."
I walk past my father without acknowledging him further. His rage-filled shouts echo behind me, but I don't rush my steps. Control is everything in this world. And everyone in this room just witnessed who really has it.
I leave my father behind as I head into the city. I should be heading to my office where files are waiting for me. I have so many more steps of my plans to take care of. But instead, I'm driving toward the boutique - to check up on the new crew I have my guys looking into. That's the only reason.
Yet even I don't believe the lie as I park. The boutique sits in that sweet spot between territories - close enough to both families to matter, far enough from either to maintain independence. Like Skye herself.
The bell chimes softly as I enter. My eyes zero in on her, stunned to see her this close. Photos do not do her justice.
She is helping another customer, but I catch the slight stiffening of her shoulders. She knows I'm here - or at least that I'm dangerous enough to note. Interesting.
I browse casually, noting security camera placement, the layout, potential exits - habits ingrained since childhood. But my attention keeps drifting to her movements, the confident way she handles demanding clients, how her dress highlights curves that would make lesser men lose focus.
"Can I help you find something?" Her voice carries that perfect blend of professional courtesy and underlying steel. She must know at least who I am in some manner.
"Just exploring new territory." I meet her gaze directly, watching for any sign of fear. There isn't any. Instead, she's almost sizing me up, her eyes looking along my body.
"Of…fashion?" She cocks her eyebrow, entirely unbelieving. Damn, she is even more beautiful in person. And with the way her eyes keep darting down, she has some attraction to me.
"Of the city." I shift closer, out of instinct, and she doesn't move back. "I find this area... intriguing."
"The boutique isn't for sale." Sharp, direct. No artifice.
"Not everything is about acquisition." My fingers trace the watch face again. "Sometimes it's about... personal interest."
Something flashes in those amber eyes - recognition of the game we're playing, perhaps. Or appreciation for the predator in her midst. Either way, it sends an unfamiliar thrill through my carefully maintained control.
I shouldn't be here. This serves no tactical purpose. Yet I find myself wanting to stay, to unravel the mystery behind her calculated confidence. For the first time since watching my mother die, I'm acting on desire rather than strategy.
It should terrify me. Instead, I feel something dangerously close to anticipation.