Chapter Seventeen
Tank
“When we arrive at the estate, we have three hours to finalize the plan,” Maverick says from across the limo, voice calm and measured.
The city lights of New York flash across the tinted windows, reflecting off the sharp lines of his suit. He looks different here. Not the rugged outlaw we’re used to.
Here?
He’s every inch the Don.
“Reminder,” he continues, steepling his fingers the way he does when he’s thinking five moves ahead, “this estate is… considerably larger than Palm Springs. This is home base in America. When I leave Palm Springs for extended periods, this is typically where I reside.”
He glances between us.
“Security here is doubled. Perimeter teams, interior teams, rooftop coverage. You will notice more movement. That is intentional.”
Bones smirks slightly.
“Good,” he mutters.
“Most of the people you see on the grounds,” Maverick adds, “are guards or staff. Not family. My family in America is in Palm Springs. The rest are in Italy.”
Skip shifts in his seat. “So basically, if we screw up here, we’re embarrassing ourselves on your own turf.”
Maverick’s lips twitch faintly. “If you screw up here, Skip, you will not live long enough to be embarrassed.”
Spike exhales through his nose, amused but not.
“What’s the layout?” Foster asks.
“Outer gate. Inner gate. Main house. Two guest wings. A secondary operations building to the east. Underground access points you will not see unless I allow it,” Maverick says smoothly.
Of course, there are underground access points.
“It’s layered,” he continues. “Anyone approaching tonight’s meeting will be screened before they reach the primary structure. We will allow them to feel comfortable. Not welcomed.”
I glance out the window as the limo slows.
Iron gates much taller than ours rise ahead of us. Stone walls. Cameras positioned so discreetly they’d be invisible to anyone not trained to see them.
“You’ll play your part,” Maverick says, looking directly at Spike.
“Only you and Tank in the room at first. No cuts. No obvious weapons. We don’t reveal who you are too early.
We get as many answers out of them the civil way before we release them to Bones and my cousins.
Then they can extract the actual truth.”
Spike nods once.
“Stefano will be observing with the others behind the two-way glass in the library,” Maverick continues. “It is not a secret that I’m a twin. But most men are lazy. They see what they expect to see.”
A faint smile curves his mouth.
“We would prefer to keep it that way.”
Skip leans forward slightly. “So New York thinks there’s only one of you walking around at any given time?”
“New York believes I am omnipresent,” Maverick replies smoothly. “That belief is useful.”
Bones huffs quietly. “Confusion keeps enemies slow.”
“Exactly,” Maverick says. “If my enemies believe I’m always physically here, they hesitate. They miscalculate. They question their own information.”
His gaze sharpens.
“It works in our favor if they don’t know which brother is standing in front of them.”
“Does it matter, though?” Foster asks. “Wouldn’t Stefano make the tough calls in your place if something were to happen?”
Maverick smiles softly.
“Stefano had an equal claim to the throne,” he says evenly. “He could have taken it since he’s a few minutes older than I am. He did not.”
“Why?” Bones asks, genuinely curious.
“Because my brother’s heart is… softer than mine,” Maverick replies. “He does what must be done. But he does not enjoy it. He hesitates. And hesitation, in our world, is blood.”
The limo glides through another checkpoint.
“He would struggle to order torture,” Maverick continues calmly. “To threaten what must be threatened. No matter how much they beg. No matter who they are. No matter if they have a family.”
His eyes don’t waver.
“You do not cross the Italian Mafia and walk away unscathed.”
Silence.
“Stefano,” he adds, “would release a man or woman begging for their life if children were involved.”
“And you wouldn’t?” I ask before I can stop myself. “If it were a woman begging for mercy for the sake of her family?”
His gaze shifts to me.
Steady.
Dead serious.
“If that woman harmed someone under my protection,” he says quietly, “there would be no mercy to show.”
No anger.
Just fact.
“She would be given the opportunity to explain,” he continues. “If her reasoning were just…if she acted in defense, desperation, survival…I would weigh that.”
“And if she just stole from you?” I ask, curious to get into the Outlaw’s head.
“Then she would work,” Maverick replies. “Debt can be repaid. I’m not a monster.”
A faint pause.
“All the time.”
Bones smirks.
Fucker loves the darkness he sees in our friend.
“And if it were a man who stole from you?” Skip presses, grin stretching too wide for this conversation.
Maverick’s lips curve slightly.
“I have a particular fondness for women and children,” he says. “Not so much for men.”
His eyes flick to Skip.
“Unless they are soft-hearted and loyal. Like your Eli.”
Skip straightens in his seat immediately, smile replaced by a frown.
“Don’t be thinking about my Eli, you double-sided, man-stealing Italian fucker.”
Foster snorts.
Maverick actually laughs.
“I assure you,” he says smoothly, “your Eli is safe from my affections. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“Good,” Skip mutters. “Because I will fight you.”
“You would lose,” Bones says mildly.
“Probably,” Skip shrugs. “But I’d die trying.”
The limo slows as the estate comes fully into view.
Massive…Imposing.
A fortress dressed in old-world elegance.
“Damn,” Skip says. “Compensating for something, brother?”
“Just my massive ego,” Maverick chuckles before his expression shifts back into something colder.
“Tonight is not about mercy,” he says quietly. “Tonight is about clarity.”
The gates open.
“And clarity,” he finishes as the driver opens his door, “is rarely gentle.”
“Welcome home, brother,” Stefano greets as Maverick steps out of the limo.
We follow behind.
The estate is even more intimidating up close. Old stone. Tall windows. Quiet wealth. It feels much like his estate back home, just larger.
He left Italy, but he made sure to bring some of it with him.
“Dinner is being prepared,” Stefano continues smoothly. “It’ll be ready as soon as our guest leaves.”
“He’s already here?” Maverick asks.
“In the library,” Stefano says. “Browsing.”
Maverick exhales slowly.
“If he leaves alive,” he says calmly, “have him searched. There are several first-edition collections in that room worth more than most homes.”
“For a book?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Stefano laughs lightly.
Maverick glances back at me and nods.
“We have a first edition Ulysses by James Joyce,” he says. “Original 1922 Paris printing. One of the limited copies. In excellent condition, it can bring between four and five hundred thousand at auction.”
“For a book?” I repeat.
“Yes,” Stefano replies. “And that’s not the most expensive piece in the room.”
Skip straightens. “Oh, now I’m interested.”
“We also own a first edition of The Great Gatsby,” Maverick says. “Original 1925 printing with the dust jacket intact. Near pristine.”
“That’s worth what?” I ask.
“Depending on condition,” Stefano answers, “four to six hundred thousand. The dust jacket is what makes it rare.”
Skip whistles low.
“Is it even good?” he asks.
Maverick gives him a look.
“It’s Fitzgerald,” he says flatly.
Stefano gestures casually toward the house. “There’s also a first edition of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone from the original 1997 print run. One of the first 500 copies printed for libraries.”
“That one I know,” Skip says, nodding. “Forty bucks, right?”
“Close,” Stefano laughs. “This one is closer to one hundred thousand now. Some have sold for more depending on condition.”
“You got ripped off,” Skip sighs dramatically. “I could have saved you thousands of dollars and taken you to Walmart, where I got mine.”
“Yours,” Maverick says dryly, “is not a first-state printing with the ‘Philosopher’s’ typo.”
“Rude,” Skip mutters.
“And,” Stefano adds mildly, “we have a first edition of The Birds of America by John James Audubon.”
I look at him blankly.
“That,” Maverick says calmly, “is worth several million dollars.”
I stop walking.
“Several million?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a book about birds.”
“It is a hand-colored, double-elephant folio collection from the 1800s,” Stefano corrects. “There are fewer than 120 complete copies known to exist. One sold for over ten million dollars.”
“For a book,” I can’t help but repeat.
“For art,” Maverick says. “For history. For rarity.”
Skip shakes his head slowly. “You could buy a small country.”
Maverick adjusts his cuffs. “Some men collect cars. Some collect watches. I collect pieces of civilization.”
Bones glances toward the house.
“I’d like to visit your library,” he says.
Foster snorts softly. “Bones reads more than anyone I know. Before Sunny, he didn’t even own a television. Said it was noise. He’d sit in silence and tear through history books like they owed him money.”
“Patch likes books, too,” Spike mutters.
Skip laughs as we step through the massive double doors of Maverick’s New York estate.
“I love that man,” he says dramatically. “I’m writing a book for his future lover. If he ever leaves his cave long enough to find one.”
The foyer alone is larger than most houses I’ve set foot in.
Marble floors…not polished white, but warm cream veined with gold. A sweeping staircase curves upward, iron railing hand-forged with old-world detail. Oil paintings line the walls. Real ones. Not prints.
And the smell…Garlic. Fresh basil. Olive oil warming in a pan. Slow-roasted meat. Bread baking.
It hits like a memory you didn’t know you had.
A man in a crisp black suit steps forward, posture perfect.
“Don, welcome home,” he says smoothly. “The kitchen is preparing dinner. Which wine would you prefer this evening? The Barolo from Piedmont? Or the Brunello?”
Maverick doesn’t hesitate.