Chapter 6 Enemy Territory
Matteo hated galas the way he hated anything designed to make violence wear a bow tie and pretend it was civilized.
"Remind me why we still do this every year," he said, adjusting his cufflink in the car window's reflection as the driver pulled up to the Fontaine Grand's valet line, a parade of black town cars disgorging Miami's entire underworld dressed as legitimate business owners for one night.
"Because the district association's the only room in this city where everyone who matters agrees not to shoot each other for four hours," Ronan said, checking his own tie in the mirror on the opposite side of the seat.
"It's tradition. Also, you're on the host committee, so technically you don't get a choice. "
"I could not be on the host committee."
"You could. You won't, because you like having your name on the program more than you like admitting you enjoy control over who gets invited.
" Ronan opened the door before Matteo could argue the point, stepping out into the warm Miami night and the flash of a photographer contracted specifically to keep this event out of any real newspaper.
"Try not to look like you'd rather be anywhere else. Optics matter tonight."
Matteo followed him inside with exactly the composed disinterest that had built his reputation over two decades, moving through the Fontaine's marble lobby and into a ballroom lit gold and low, round tables draped in white linen scattered beneath a ceiling of hanging lights that made the whole room look like something out of a magazine spread nobody would ever publish the truth about.
Champagne circulated on silver trays. String quartet in the corner played something that would have sounded innocent in any other room in the city.
Here, it sounded like a countdown.
"Seating chart's up front," Ronan said, already scanning the room for their table with the particular focus of a man calculating threat assessment disguised as small talk. "You're at table four. I checked."
"Why does that sound like a warning?"
"Because table four's also got Castellano's name on it."
Matteo stopped walking. "Who arranged that?"
"District committee does seating by revenue tier this year, not by relationship.
You and her both got bumped into the top bracket after this month's numbers.
" Ronan's mouth twitched, not quite a smile, the specific expression he wore when he already knew something was going to be entertaining and had no intention of warning his brother further in advance. "Should be an interesting dinner."
Matteo found table four through sheer force of habit rather than any real search, because his eyes had already located her the second he'd cleared the ballroom entrance, the way his attention seemed increasingly incapable of not doing lately no matter how much discipline he applied to the problem.
Del stood near the table in dark green, the kind of deep, saturated color that made everyone standing near her look slightly washed out by comparison, hair loose for once instead of pinned back into the controlled style she wore at Marea, and something in Matteo's chest tightened in a way he'd stopped bothering to pretend was unfamiliar.
She saw him a half second later. Her expression didn't change, exactly, but something behind her eyes sharpened, recognition and wariness both arriving at once.
"Cristea." She said it the same way she always said his name, flat and formal, though the flatness felt more performed than it had two weeks ago. "I see the committee's sense of humor is intact this year."
"I'll speak to them about improving it."
"Please don't. This is the most entertaining seating chart I've seen in years.
" Del's mouth curved, not quite a smile, careful and controlled the same way his own expression stayed careful, both of them performing for a room that had already noticed exactly how long they'd been standing three feet apart without either of them sitting down.
They took their seats across from each other, close enough that Matteo caught the same citrus and floral note from the office two weeks ago, and the dinner unfolded exactly as badly as Ronan had clearly hoped it would.
"So," said the woman to Matteo's left, an older club owner named Beatriz who'd run the district's oldest lounge for thirty years and had opinions about everyone in it, "you two are the talk of the association this quarter.
Word is the district's had its most competitive month in years, courtesy of a supplier war between table four and table four. "
"Business is business," Matteo said.
"Sure it is." Beatriz's eyes flicked between him and Del with open amusement, the kind of read that came from decades of watching men in this business lie to themselves about exactly this kind of thing.
"You know, in my day, when two operators fought this hard over territory, it usually meant one of two things.
Either somebody was about to lose everything, or somebody was about to fall in love with the person trying to take it from them. "
"Neither applies here," Del said, too fast.
"Of course not, dear." Beatriz's smile suggested she believed the opposite entirely, and turned her attention to the wine list instead, leaving the silence at the table considerably heavier than it had been thirty seconds ago.
Del picked up her fork with more precision than the appetizer strictly required.
Matteo drank his wine and said nothing, because anything he said right now risked confirming exactly what Beatriz had just implied, and confirming it out loud in a room full of people whose entire business model relied on exploiting weakness felt like handing over a weapon he had no intention of surrendering.
"You didn't deny it very fast," he said quietly, once Beatriz had turned to her other neighbor and the table's attention had scattered elsewhere.
"Neither did you."
"I don't dignify absurd claims with denials. It only makes them more interesting."
"Convenient excuse."
"It's not an excuse. It's strategy."
Del's eyes cut to his, sharp and assessing, and something in the set of her mouth told him she wasn't buying the explanation any more than he was. "Everything's strategy with you."
"Most things."
"Not everything?"
The question hung there longer than either of them clearly intended it to, and Matteo found himself unwilling to answer it honestly and unable to deflect it entirely, caught in the specific paralysis that had been ambushing him with increasing frequency every time she looked at him like she actually wanted the truth instead of the performance.
"Excuse me," he said instead, standing, "I need to speak with someone."
He didn't need to speak with anyone. He crossed the ballroom anyway, putting distance between himself and a conversation that had gotten more dangerous than any business negotiation he'd conducted in years, and found Ronan near the bar watching the whole retreat with an expression that promised no mercy later.
"That bad?" Ronan asked.
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything." Ronan handed him a fresh drink, unasked, the universal gesture of a brother who already knew exactly what kind of night this was turning into. "You walked away from your own table like it was on fire."
"Beatriz implied something absurd."
"Beatriz implied the thing everyone in this room's been saying since you two walked in wearing the exact same expression.
" Ronan's voice dropped, quieter, more serious than his usual teasing register.
"Matteo. I've watched you run this district for a decade.
I've never once seen you leave a table because a conversation got uncomfortable.
You don't do uncomfortable. You dismantle it. "
"This is different."
"I know it's different. That's my entire point.
" Ronan studied him for a long moment, something unusually careful in his expression.
"You've spent three weeks systematically trying to destroy this woman's business, and every single time it works, you look less satisfied instead of more.
That's not how you usually run a takeover. "
"The takeover's still on track."
"Is it? Or is it just the excuse you're using to keep finding reasons to be in the same room as her?"
Matteo didn't answer, because there wasn't an honest answer he was willing to give his own brother in the middle of a ballroom full of people who'd use any crack in his composure against him the second they smelled it.
Ronan didn't push further. He never did, once he'd landed a point he knew Matteo needed to sit with rather than argue away.
A voice cut through his thoughts before he could retreat further into them.
"You're Matteo Cristea."
He turned to find a young woman he recognized immediately from the district reports Ronan had pulled weeks ago, Sienna Castellano, in a red dress that commanded exactly as much attention as she clearly intended it to, arms crossed, studying him with an openness that had nothing to do with intimidation and everything to do with genuine curiosity.
"I am."
"I'm Del's niece. Sienna." She didn't offer a hand, just kept studying him with the particular directness of someone who'd decided ahead of time not to be impressed by his reputation. "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about in person."
"And what's your verdict?"
"Still deciding." Sienna's mouth curved, sharp and unbothered.
"You've spent three weeks trying to destroy my aunt's business.
Poached her DJ, tried to gut her license, sent a fake inspector to ruin her launch night.
That's a lot of effort for a man who supposedly doesn't care about her beyond wanting her real estate. "
"Business is business."
"That's what she said too, actually, word for word." Sienna's eyes flicked toward the table where Del sat, still watching them from across the room with an expression she was clearly trying very hard to keep neutral. "You know what I think, though?"
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me regardless."