Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Iadjust my cufflinks as I study my reflection in the mirror. The tailored black suit fits perfectly, projecting the image I've cultivated for over a decade—powerful, untouchable, in control.
"Are we really entertaining this bullshit meeting?" Alessio's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn to find my right-hand man leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. Alessio Gallo has been by my side for fifteen years—from street soldier to my most trusted confidant. His dark eyes miss nothing, his mind constantly calculating threats and advantages.
"Byron Easton wouldn't reach out without a reason," I reply, straightening my tie. "I want to know what game he's playing."
Alessio's mouth twists with distaste. "Easton's a fucking snake. Always has been."
That's what makes Alessio invaluable—he voices the concerns I can't afford to acknowledge.
Where I project calculated diplomacy, he radiates barely contained violence.
The stubble along his jaw gives him a perpetually dangerous appearance, matching the lethal grace in every movement.
He's saved my life more times than I can count.
"That's why you're coming with me," I say, reaching for my watch. "I need those eyes of yours. See what I might miss."
Alessio pushes off the doorframe, his imposing frame filling the space. "You never miss anything, bro."
"Twelve years ago, I missed something," I mutter, the familiar weight of that failure settling on my shoulders. "It cost me everything."
A shadow passes over Alessio's face. He was there that night—found me unconscious in a pool of Bianca's blood. He's the only one who knows how completely that night destroyed me.
"What's your gut telling you about this meeting?" he asks, changing the subject.
I slide my Beretta into its holster, the weight familiar against my ribs. "That Easton wants something he shouldn't have."
"Then let's go disappoint him." Alessio's dark eyes gleam with anticipation as he steps aside to let me pass.
I head down to the garage with Alessio following close behind. The soft tap of our Italian leather shoes echoes against the marble stairs as we descend into the underground level of the mansion.
The garage always calms me—seeing my collection of vehicles lined up perfectly, each one maintained to perfection. I run my fingers along the smooth hood of my matte black Maserati as I pass it, finally stopping at the Aston Martin DB11.
"Taking the fancy one today?" Alessio raises an eyebrow.
"Power meeting requires a power car," I answer, pressing the key fob.
As we slide into the leather seats, I notice Enzo's Ferrari is missing.
My younger brother must have gone out early—probably chasing some new woman or causing the kind of trouble that I'll have to clean up later.
That's Enzo—brilliant but volatile, loyal but unpredictable.
Where I'm calculated, he's impulsive. Where I plan, he reacts.
Still, there's no one else I'd rather have watching my back in this business.
Well, except for the man sitting beside me.
I turn the ignition, and the engine purrs to life. The vibration travels through my hands on the wheel, and I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. Driving has always been my escape—the one place where I'm completely in control.
"Enzo's not missing this," Alessio says as the garage door rises.
"He'll survive. Better to have him making deals with the Russians than antagonizing Easton," I reply, shifting into gear.
As we pull out onto the private driveway of the estate, I press down on the accelerator.
The car responds instantly, hugging each curve of the long driveway as we head toward the gates.
This is what I need—the focus driving requires pushes away the nightmares, the memories, even the weight of running an empire built on blood and loyalty.
"So what's the play with Easton?" Alessio asks as we approach the gate.
"Easton will expect us to come in hard," I say, glancing at Alessio. "He'll be prepared for threats, intimidation—the usual approach."
"So we flip it. Come in reasonable, open to negotiation."
"Exactly." I tap my fingers against the leather steering wheel. "We need those distribution channels in Queens. His territory borders exactly where we need to expand."
"It's a fucking trap," Alessio counters, his voice dropping with suspicion. "Why reach out now after years of cold war?"
I consider this as I navigate around a taxi that cuts me off. "Maybe his business is hurting. Maybe he's finally realized cooperation is more profitable than conflict."
"Or maybe he's setting us up." Alessio's expression darkens. "We go in soft, we look weak."
"There's a difference between weakness and strategy," I reply, pulling onto the street that will take us to Easton's territory. "We need to focus on securing more sales. The Russians are pushing product through his neighborhoods at half our price."
"So we eliminate the competition."
I shake my head. "Too messy. Too public. The feds are watching us closer since that business with the commissioner's nephew."
Alessio nods reluctantly. "So we negotiate. But I don't like it."
"Neither do I," I admit. "But sometimes you have to dance with the devil to get what you want."
"And sometimes the devil steps on your fucking toes," Alessio mutters.
I can't help but smile at that. "That's why you're there. To make sure no one gets too close."
The tension in the car shifts slightly as Alessio settles into his role. This is how we've always worked—I negotiate, he intimidates. I make the deals, he enforces them. Two sides of the same coin.
"So the play is cooperation," I say, laying it out clearly. "We offer distribution rights through our channels in the Bronx. In exchange, we get access to Queens."
"And if he wants more?" Alessio asks, eyes narrowed.
"Then we listen." I turn onto the street leading to Easton's compound. "But we give nothing else away."
We pull up to Easton's mansion, the car's engine purring to a stop outside the wrought iron gates. Two guards approach, their bulky frames barely contained in cheap suits, hands hovering near concealed weapons.
"ID," one grunts through my window.
I give him a look that would make most men step back, but I comply. No need to start trouble before we're even inside.
After verification, the gates open, and I guide the Aston Martin up the curved driveway. Byron's property is impressive—old money displayed through manicured gardens and colonial architecture. Different from my more modern estate, but wealth recognizes wealth.
"Cameras everywhere," Alessio mutters, his eyes tracking security measures. "At least four armed men visible."
I nod, parking near the front entrance. "Stay sharp."
As we exit the car, the summer heat hits immediately, humidity making the air thick. My suit suddenly feels constrictive, but I don't loosen my tie. Image is everything in these meetings.
We approach the front door, gravel crunching beneath our shoes, when movement catches my eye—a flash of golden skin and blonde hair by the pool area to our right.
I turn my head and freeze.
A woman lounges on a chaise, one slender arm draped above her head, the other holding a book.
Her bikini is barely there—white fabric against sun-kissed skin creating a contrast that draws the eye to every curve.
Long blonde hair cascades over her shoulders, catching sunlight like liquid gold.
Even from this distance, her profile is striking—high cheekbones, full lips, a graceful neck.
My pulse quickens as she shifts position, the movement causing water droplets to trail down her flat stomach. She's in perfect shape—toned without being muscular, curves in all the right places, legs that seem endless.
"Damiano," Alessio murmurs, but I can't look away.
She hasn't noticed us yet, completely absorbed in her book. There's something captivating about her focus—this isn't a woman posing for attention but someone genuinely unaware of her effect.
When she finally glances up, she notices our presence and quickly sits upright.
Who the fuck is she?
I stare at the woman by the pool for another long moment before Alessio clears his throat, breaking the spell.
"Damiano," he says, nodding toward the entrance.
A man in a suit appears at the door. Square jaw, military haircut, eyes constantly scanning. Everything about him screams ex-military turned private security.
"Mr. Feretti," he says with a practiced smile. "I'm Carson, Mr. Easton's head of security. He's expecting you in his office."
I give one last glance toward the pool, but the blonde has already disappeared.
"Lead the way," I tell Carson.
We follow him into Easton's mansion. The interior doesn't disappoint—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, expensive artwork.
Old paintings of stern-faced men I assume are Easton ancestors line the hallway.
A grand staircase curves up to the second level, its polished wooden banister gleaming under recessed lighting.
Unlike my place, which screams new money with its modern architecture and technology, Easton's mansion whispers old wealth. Generations of it. There's a certain smell to these kinds of homes—furniture polish, aged wood, and the faint scent of preservation.
The ceilings are coffered, detailed with gold leaf that catches the light. Persian rugs stretch across hardwood floors. Everything is meticulously arranged, not a single item out of place.
"Mr. Easton is waiting for you in his office," Carson repeats.
I keep my expression neutral as we enter Easton's office—a meticulous display of power designed to impress. Dark wood paneling lines the walls, antique maps mark what I assume are his territories, and a massive desk dominates the space.
Byron Easton rises from behind it, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly styled, steel-gray eyes calculating beneath heavy brows. At sixty, he carries himself with the confidence of a man who's survived in our world for decades.
"Damiano," he says, extending his hand. "It's been too long."
His handshake is firm— the assured pressure of a man who knows his worth.
"Byron." I match his tone. "Appreciate the invitation."
Alessio remains a step behind me, silent but watchful. I can feel the tension rolling off him—he doesn't trust Easton. Neither do I, but business is business.
Easton gestures to a seating area with leather chairs around a low table. "Please, sit. Drink?"
"Whiskey, neat."
He pours three glasses from a crystal decanter. The amber liquid catches the light as he hands them out. I take a small sip—excellent quality, as expected.
"Let's not waste time," I say. "You want Queens. I want to know what you're offering."
Easton smiles, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Direct. I've always appreciated that about you, Damiano."
He sets his glass down and leans forward. "I have distribution networks in Queens that would benefit from your supply lines. You want to expand there; I have the infrastructure already in place."
"And in exchange?"
"Access to the Bronx. My product, your protection. A mutually beneficial arrangement."
I swirl the whiskey in my glass. "Your sudden interest in cooperation is... unexpected."
"Markets change. Adaptability is survival." Easton spreads his hands. "There's money to be made working together instead of against each other."
"Details," I prompt.
Easton pulls out a folder, laying out maps and diagrams of distribution routes in Queens. "I propose a 60/40 split on profits in Queens—in your favor, of course. For the Bronx, I'd expect the same terms in reverse."
The deal makes sense on paper. Too much sense.
"And security?" I ask.
"Each family handles their own people, but coordinates. No surprises, full transparency."
I lean back in the chair, studying Easton across the table. The deal he's proposing makes perfect financial sense—almost too perfect. There's something else at play here. My instincts prickle with suspicion.
"The terms sound reasonable," I say carefully. "But I'm curious what guarantees we'd have beyond signatures on paper."
Easton's lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "In our world, Damiano, we both know contracts are only as good as the bonds behind them."
He takes a slow sip of whiskey before setting his glass down with purpose. "I propose something more... traditional. Something that would ensure both our families remain committed to this arrangement long-term."
I can feel Alessio tense beside me.
"A marriage," Easton states, like he's suggesting nothing more significant than a business lunch. "My daughter, Zoe, and you. A union to bind our families and our business interests permanently."
I nearly choke on my whiskey. "A marriage? What is this, the fucking Middle Ages?"
Easton remains unruffled. "It's practical. It's how families like ours have solidified alliances for generations."
I force out a laugh. "I'm well aware of our traditions, Byron. But arranged marriages? That's something even my grandfather left behind."
"Is it?" His eyes narrow slightly. "Look at the Calabrese merger with the Rossis in Chicago last year. Or the Barone-Vitelli alliance in Boston. The old ways persist because they work."
I set my glass down harder than intended. "I don't need to marry someone to honor a business agreement."
"Not need, perhaps." Easton shrugs, appearing unconcerned. "But it would demonstrate commitment from both sides. My daughter is beautiful, educated, moves in the right social circles. The optics alone would benefit your legitimate businesses."
I lean back in the chair, jaw tightening as anger ripples through me. The audacity of this man to think I'd agree to an arranged marriage like I'm some medieval prince.
"No." The word comes out hard and final.
Byron raises an eyebrow. "You haven't even—"
"I don't give a fuck who she is," I cut him off, my voice dropping to that deadly quiet my enemies fear. "I don't care how beautiful she is. I don't care how educated or connected she might be. She could be fucking Helen of Troy reincarnated, and my answer would still be the same. No."
The temperature in the room seems to drop. Beside me, I sense Alessio's silent approval, his body relaxed but ready should things escalate.
Byron's face hardens for a split second before he controls it, forcing his features into an expression of diplomatic disappointment. "That's... regrettable. I thought you'd see the strategic value."
"There are other ways to build trust." I say, setting my whiskey glass down.
"And yet," Byron persists, "the old ways still hold power. You know this. The families respect tradition."
"Then they can join a historical reenactment society. Are we done here?"