Chapter 13 #2
"It's a trap." Flat. Certain. Like he was reading from a script he'd already written. "He's luring you somewhere to put a bullet in your skull and call it a business dispute."
"He doesn't want me dead, Santino."
"You don't know what he wants."
"I know what he doesn't want. He doesn't want a war he hasn't prepared for.
Killing me brings Santo and every soldier we have down on his operation within twenty-four hours, and he loses the leverage he's spent twenty years building.
" I leaned against our father's desk. Felt the weight of the wood at my back, solid and scarred and old.
"He wants something. This is an opening move, not an endgame. "
Santo's eyes were dark. Furious. The knuckles of his right hand were white where he gripped the back of a chair.
"And if you're wrong?"
"Then you do what you do best."
The words landed between us.
"I don't like it," Santo said. But the protest had already lost its heat.
Marco pulled out his phone. Already working. "Neutral territory. Somewhere public enough that violence is impractical. Somewhere quiet enough for a real conversation." His thumbs moved across the screen. "I know a place in Lincoln Park. White tablecloth. Good wine list. The owner owes me a favor."
"Wire me," I said. "Both ears. I want you hearing everything in real time."
"Obviously." Marco's voice carried a thread of offense, as if I'd insulted his professionalism by stating the obvious.
"And I want Santo within visual range of the entrance. Not inside—close. Close enough to move if the situation changes."
Santo straightened. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, but it redirected—from frustration to purpose. He had a job now. A role. Something to protect, someone to watch over. That was always what Santo needed: a clear target for the ferocity that otherwise turned inward.
"When?" Marco asked.
"Tonight." I picked up my phone. Typed a response to the burner number with the same measured courtesy Enzo had used.
Two predators, exchanging pleasantries, circling the kill.
"No point in letting him set the tempo. We meet on my schedule, at our location, under our conditions.
He wants to talk, he'll accept the terms."
The response came within minutes. A single word: Agreed.
I stared at the screen. The patience of that word. The confidence. A man who didn't need to negotiate the details because he believed he held every card that mattered.
We'd see about that.
I pocketed the phone. Looked at my brothers—Santo by the door with his scarred fists and his barely leashed violence, Marco at the desk with his espresso and his ruthless intelligence. My family. My soldiers. The men who would burn the city to the ground before they let me fall.
I could still feel the warmth of Gemma's skin against mine. Still hear her laugh. Still taste the corner of her mouth where I'd pressed my lips an hour ago, in a sunlit bedroom, in a life that felt almost normal.
I was going to protect that life.
Whatever it cost.
The restaurant existed in that particular register of expensive anonymity where fortunes were traded and wars were declared between courses. White tablecloths. Muted lighting. The murmur of conversations.
I felt the wire against my skin—the small receiver taped beneath my collar, the microphone no larger than a shirt button.
Marco's voice had been in my ear during the drive: Testing, one-two.
If he mentions Gemma, scratch your left eyebrow.
If he threatens you directly, touch your watch. If you need extraction—
I won't need extraction.
If you need extraction, the word is curator.
I didn’t reply.
Santo was outside. I'd spotted his car on the way in—parked across the street with a sightline to the entrance, engine running, looking like exactly what he was: a wolf in a leather jacket, waiting for permission to bite.
Enzo Valenti was already seated.
Of course he was. The patient man, arriving early, claiming the territory of the table the way he claimed everything—quietly, with the appearance of courtesy, establishing dominance through the simple act of being there first.
Coal-black suit. Perfect tailoring. A silk tie the color of steel, knotted with the precision of a man who understood that details were weapons.
His silver-templed hair was immaculate. His posture was relaxed.
He looked like what he was: old money, legitimate power, a respected businessman enjoying a Tuesday evening at a fine restaurant.
His eyes told a different story. Pale grey and cold as lake water in December, they tracked me across the dining room with the flat assessment of a predator measuring distance.
"Don Caruso. Dante." He rose. Extended a hand. His grip was firm, measured—neither aggressive nor weak, calibrated to communicate nothing except civility. "Thank you for coming."
"Enzo." I took the seat across from him. Positioned myself with my back to the wall, sightlines to both exits. Old habits. "I appreciate the invitation."
We ordered drinks. He chose a Brunello. I chose sparkling water. He noticed—I saw the fractional lift of one eyebrow, the assessment logged and filed. A man who wanted his mind sharp. A man who didn't trust the company enough to drink.
"Your restaurants continue to impress," he offered. "I had dinner at Caruso's last month. The osso buco was remarkable."
"I'll pass your compliments to Sal."
"Please do. And your wife? She's settling in well, I hope? Chicago can be overwhelming for newcomers."
The mention of Gemma landed. I scratched my left eyebrow. He watched for the reaction with those grey eyes, patient, measuring.
"She's well. Thank you for asking."
The pleasantries continued through the first course.
Appetizers arrived—something artful with burrata and prosciutto—and Enzo ate with the meticulous attention of a man who treated food the way he treated people: consumed with precision, enjoyed without haste.
He asked about Nero, about the construction business, about the family's philanthropic efforts.
Each question innocuous. Each one a probe, testing the walls for weakness.
I answered carefully. Gave nothing. Took nothing. We circled each other with the studied courtesy of predators at a shared watering hole, each waiting for the other to show his teeth.
Then Enzo set down his wine glass.
The gesture was small—a deliberate placement, the base of the glass finding the tablecloth with a soft sound that somehow silenced everything else.
His fingers released the stem. He straightened in his chair.
And something in his face changed. The warmth—manufactured though it was—drained away, leaving the architecture of his features exposed.
Sharp cheekbones. Thin lips. Those pale eyes, no longer pretending to be friendly.
"Your father owed my family a debt," he said quietly. "You know this now. I can see it in your face. Four million dollars over twenty years, and you are wondering what it bought."
I said nothing. Let the silence do the work. Let him talk.
His finger found his wedding ring. Turned it slowly. The gesture I'd read about in Marco's intelligence files—the tell of a man who was thinking, calculating, choosing his words with the precision of a surgeon selecting instruments.
"In the autumn of 2003," Enzo continued, "at the height of the war between our families, your father authorized an operation against my family's blood.
Not a soldier. Not an associate. My father's nephew.
Antonio Valenti." A pause. "Twenty-two years old.
Third-year medical student at Northwestern.
He wanted to be a surgeon. He had no involvement in the family business. None whatsoever."
The words fell into the space between us like stones into deep water. Each one sending ripples outward, disturbing the surface of everything I'd believed about my father, my family, our code.
No civilians. Women and children are off-limits.
Vito's rule. The first commandment of the Caruso family, drilled into me since I was old enough to understand what our family was.
"The operation went wrong," Enzo said. His voice hadn't risen. If anything, it had dropped—softer, quieter, the way truly dangerous statements were always delivered. "Your father's men were sloppy. Rushed. They found Antonio at a restaurant in Wicker Park. A Saturday evening. Crowded."
He paused. Let me see what was coming.
"A sixteen-year-old girl named Maria Flores was seated at the next table.
She was celebrating her quinceanera with her family.
Three cousins, her mother, her grandmother.
" Another turn of the ring. "Maria took a bullet meant for Antonio.
She died at the scene. Antonio died in surgery three hours later. "
The dining room continued around us. Silverware clinked. A woman laughed at a nearby table. The world kept turning, indifferent to the fact that mine had just tilted on its axis.
Maria Flores. Sixteen years old. Celebrating her birthday.
My father killed her.
I kept my face still. Kept my hands flat on my thighs beneath the tablecloth, where the tremor wouldn't show. The don's mask held—it had to hold, because the wire was live and my brothers were listening and Enzo Valenti was watching me the way a cat watches a mouse it hasn't decided to kill yet.
But beneath the mask, something was crumbling.
The foundation I'd built my life on—the belief that my father was a hard man but a principled one, that the Caruso family operated with a code that separated us from the animals, that we were the good criminals, if such a thing existed—all of it fracturing under the weight of a dead girl's name.