Chapter 16
Raze
A bottle of good wine sat open on the table beside a plate of fresh bread when I took my seat. It was early afternoon, the lunch crowd long gone, the restaurant settling into that lull between services—private enough for the kind of conversation we intended to have.
Navarro arrived with two men.
I had two of my own.
He looked older than the last time I’d seen him. Not weaker—just… changed. His suit was still expensive, his eyes still sharp, but there was something domestic in the lines around his mouth. Like he’d learned to sleep occasionally.
He took his seat without ceremony, skipping any pretense of a greeting. “Tell me why I’m here.”
I didn’t waste time. “Nathan Azzopardi runs product for you.”
Navarro’s expression didn’t change. “He ran product,” he corrected. “Past tense.”
My eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
“I cut him months ago,” Navarro informed me, leaning back in his chair. “He was sloppy. Greedy. Thought he could siphon off the top and nobody would notice. I noticed. I don’t keep liabilities.”
I watched him for the lie. I didn’t see it.
“And yet men came to my girl’s apartment asking for product he stole.”
Navarro’s gaze sharpened. “Your girl?”
I ignored his question and responded with mine. “Who are they?”
A faint smile appeared—without warmth. “Not mine.”
I held his stare. “You want me to believe your people didn’t rough her up as a message?”
Navarro’s jaw tightened. Just a small, controlled crack beneath the skin. A man restraining reaction instead of indulging it.
“I told you,” he shot back. “I cut him. That was the extent of it. And I’m not in the habit of assaulting women.”
A beat passed. His molars clicked together, the sound faint but sharp, as he struggled to retain his composure. He turned his head slightly, fixing me with a look that was cold, measured, and unmistakably offended.
“I may be many things,” he spoke slowly, each word measured, “but I don’t hurt women.”
There was no bravado in his words, delivered with the kind of conviction that suggested it wasn’t up for debate. Which, of course, made me doubt it more.
I gave him a long, skeptical look. My eyes dragged over his expression, searching for cracks. For tells. For the slight twitch of a liar masking his sins.
Men like Navarro didn’t earn reputations for being gentle. They earned them through bloodshed and fear. Through the certain understanding that violence lived just beneath the surface of their restraint.
“You expect me to believe that?”
His gaze hardened, but he didn’t raise his voice.
“Believe whatever you like.”
He leaned back a fraction, shoulders loose, posture commanding. I tilted my head slightly, still studying him, unconvinced.
“Convenient boundary,” I murmured.
His jaw ticked again, sharper this time.
“Principle,” he corrected.
Silence stretched between us, his stare unwavering, mine openly doubtful.
I didn’t bother hiding the skepticism in my expression.
“Not that it will make any difference, but I’m done with that business.”
I let a beat pass. This was news to me. “Since when?”
He glanced toward the window, not at the view, but at the distance. “Since I had children.”
I didn’t react, but I filed away this new information.
Navarro’s voice remained calm, but there was something harder beneath it. “Karma is real. Mistakes have a way of circling back. I don’t want my children paying for my misdeeds. Not in ten years. Not in thirty. I’ve seen too many sons inherit debts they didn’t create.”
I stared at him. “So you’re retiring.”
He gave a small nod. “I’ve moved clean. Wine’s been… exceptionally profitable.” His mouth twitched like he hated disclosing he enjoyed it. “I bought land. I’m building a clean empire for my children.”
“A saint.”
Navarro’s eyes flashed. “Don’t insult me. I’m still who I am. I’m just choosing my sins more carefully.”
That was as close to honesty as men in our world ever got.
I leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me who’s pushing product in Siena.”
Navarro’s gaze cooled. He looked at me for a long moment, measuring whether this information would bite him later.
Then he spoke. “Russians.”
My body went still.
“New blood,” Navarro continued. “They’re trying to muscle in. They’re hungry and don’t understand how things work here. They don’t care how things work here.”
“And Azzopardi?” I demanded.
Navarro’s mouth curled with contempt. “I know that he’s been sniffing around them. He thinks they’re his ticket to the big leagues. He thinks everyone is as stupid as he is.”
A tentative truce settled between us, unspoken but present. Not because we liked each other. But because we hated chaos more.
Navarro didn’t speak straight away.
Instead, he slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket with the same unhurried precision he did everything else.
He pulled out a plain card. Blank. Unmarked. Then came the pen. It sat in his grip momentarily before he clicked it once and leaned forward over the table. The scratch of ink against cardstock was the only sounded like he was carving something permanent rather than simply writing.
His head dipped slightly as he finished the last letter, jaw set, expression unreadable. Then he capped the pen with a soft click and set it aside.
For a moment, he just looked at the card.
Like he was weighing the consequence of what he’d written.
Then he slid it across the table toward me. Slowly. The card glided over the polished surface and came to a stop just within my reach.
“A name.” His voice was low, even, but there was an edge to it now. “A place.” Something quieter. More destructive than before. “You didn’t get it from me.”
I didn’t touch the card straight away.
My eyes flicked from it to him instead.
Navarro leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the side, posture deceptively relaxed. But his gaze stayed locked on mine, sharp and assessing, like he was watching not just to see if I’d take it—but how.
Information from a man like him was never free.
“You’re feeling generous,” I said coolly.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
“I’m feeling efficient.”
The card sat there between us. Small. Ordinary. Laced with implication.
A name. A place.
I didn’t touch it yet. “If you’re truly out, stay out.”
Navarro stood. “I intend to.”
He paused before leaving. “And Cavalho—I’m sorry about what happened to your girl. A word of advice-keep her away from Azzopardi. He’s a leech.”
Then he walked out like he hadn’t just handed me a map to bloodshed.
I picked up the card and read it.
A Russian name. An address. And one big massive problem.
By the time I returned home, the sun was down again, and my house felt different—steadier.
Tone met me in the hallway. She looked tired. Angry. Guilty.
“She’s asleep.”
I nodded once. “Good.”
Tone studied my face. “You’re going to do something stupid.”
“I’m going to do something necessary,” I corrected.
Tone stepped closer, voice low. “Just don’t make it about your guilt.”
I stared at her. “It is about her.”
Tone didn’t smile. “Then bring her peace. Not more chaos.”
She walked away before I could answer.
I stood there alone for a moment, listening to the house breathe.
Then I moved down the hall and stopped outside Izzy’s door.
I didn’t go in.
I could picture her exactly—bruised, exhausted, still trying to convince herself she wasn’t a fool for trusting someone who didn’t deserve it.
The house was silent, but it wasn’t peaceful. It felt like something had flipped—like a line had been crossed that couldn’t be uncrossed.