Claimed By The Capo (Second Kings #3)

1. Federica

FEDERICA

The florist had cancelled at three and the caterer had sent a vegan event a tray of pancetta tarts at four.

At five forty-six on a Tuesday, I am standing on a loading dock in Tribeca in a cocktail dress and heels, slamming the button on the outer service elevator, which appears to be stuck.

This is, somehow, still not the worst Tuesday I have had this month.

Event planning is a thankless job. Unfortunately, it’s also the one thing I’m great at. Which means I get paid well for it. That also means another month of not ruining my credit despite my brother’s constant requests for bailout money.

I immediately feel bad for the direction of my thoughts.

Camillo is a good person. His investments are risky, but I believe in him.

It’s why I keep accepting the most atrociously disorganized jobs, spend my nights trading instead of sleeping, and foot the bill in secret for our parents.

They already have one daughter they think is a failure.

They should get to have, at least, one kid to brag about at parties.

Camillo’s investments will pay off one day. I just have to grit my teeth until then.

My phone buzzes.

ROSE: Tulips on the way!!!

I close my eyes and exhale in relief.

Rose is not, technically, our florist. Our florist cancelled last-minute. Rose stepped in because she owed Savannah a favor and Savannah, sainted creature, called me at eleven and said Rose can do it, you’re saved, you owe me a martini.

I type back one-handed.

FEDERICA: You’re a lifesaver.

Three minutes later, the elevator deigns to answer my call.

I throw myself inside before some asshole can call it back up without me.

As the evil machine of heights takes me to my event’s floor, I find myself pulling out my phone to vent. The contact my fingers scroll to automatically is one I haven’t texted in six months.

Valerio Greco.

My heart clenches. I tell myself it’s just stress. Definitely not my emotions leaking out the second I’m too overwhelmed to keep them locked down tight.

He’d know what to say. Rio always knew what to say.

But he’s not Rio anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time. He’s “boss” and “sir” and “capo” and a million other titles that have eaten away at my best friend. Technically, my brother’s best friend, but he was always first in my heart.

It hurt to discover I was nowhere near the top in his.

I pocket my phone, swallow the knot in my throat, and go back to work.

I wasn’t expected here until seven, but this is what happens when your vendors all collectively decide to fuck up at the same time: you improvise.

I throw myself into the first door I see. It swings hard. The handle on the other side is a metal bar. I hear it click behind me, but don’t pay attention, too busy running against the clock.

Except this place feels wrong.

It takes me two seconds to realize why.

This corridor has a runner. An actual runner: long, dark, laid down so footsteps would be muffled. The walls are paneled. There is art on the walls. Real, expensive art that should be hanging in a museum.

Two men in suits stand at the far end.

“Hi.” I lift my clipboard, which contains exactly zero relevant information for this room. “Wrong floor. Sorry. I’ll just?—”

I turn back to the fire door. I push the bar multiple times before realizing suddenly it pushes from the other side. From this side, it is decorative.

I look over my shoulder. The two men in suits are walking toward me now. I realize they must be security.

The reality of the situation dawns on me.

I am in a building I do not belong in, on a floor I cannot leave, in a corridor full of art that costs more than my education. Which is a low bar because my education was returned to the manufacturer halfway through.

Behind me, in the room these men in black came from, I hear a low hum of conversation. It sounds like a private dinner. In Tribeca. On a Tuesday.

Similar to what Camillo mentioned to me, in passing, last week. Rio’s at that thing in Tribeca on Tuesday. Words I filed in the small careful drawer in my head, without plans of opening.

“Miss.” Fifty, maybe. Military gait. Not very reassuring. “I don’t believe you’re on tonight’s list.”

“Actually, I?—”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

I can tell instantly he’s not going to believe my explanations.

Which leaves me with three options. One, be walk-of-shamed out of my own venue. Two, crying. That sounds tempting but also counterproductive.

Three—

“Valerio Greco,” my lips call out before my brain could process.

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“I’m with Valerio Greco.” I keep my voice calm. “I should have led with that. I came up through the service corridor so I wouldn’t draw attention. Could you tell him Federica’s here?”

The gorilla looks at me for the length of time it takes to find my name in a database in his head. Seconds after that, when he doesn’t find it, he looks like he’s trying to decide whether it’s more dangerous to be wrong or to be right.

Soon, he decides. “Of course. This way,” he tells me.

He leads the way and I follow. The dining room is what would happen if a restaurant had unprotected sex with a ballroom. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, the whole shebang of opulence.

There is a long table. Eighteen people. I count, fast. I need to know how many of them are about to remember my face.

A chair is being pulled out for me before I can decide what to do about chairs.

It is being pulled out by the man seated to its left, who has stood up to do it. And they say chivalry is dead.

“And who might you be?” he asks. He seems about Valerio’s age, just slightly better socialized.

“Federica,” I say. “Valerio’s plus one.”

“Tito,” he says. “I work with Valerio. He didn’t mention you.”

Work with is code for mafia.

Tito reaches under the table. I see his elbow shift, and his phone screen lights briefly against his thumb.

“He’ll be glad you made it,” he says.

My phone buzzes in my purse. But I am not nearly as slick as this Tito guy.

If I try to pull it out, it will be noticed.

And this is not the kind of place you play fast and loose with table manners.

I send up a silent prayer that Rose and Savannah will be able to handle things without me for the next hours or so.

Because it’s clear I am not getting out of this anytime soon.

I’m about to attempt small talk with this Tito guy when I feel the air shift.

I look up and Valerio is standing in the far doorway. He is dressed for this dinner. Charcoal suit. No tie. He hasn’t changed since the last time I saw him. Six months ago.

I notice him go very still, the second his eyes meets mine. He starts toward the table and stops beside my chair. He puts his hand, lightly, on the back of it. Not on me. On the chair.

He says, for the benefit of the room: “I’m glad you came.”

I don’t know what I was expecting him to say, but his words fills me with surprise. Glad I came?