Caterina
At the site of the failed ambush, I hopscotch through blood and bodies, shaking my head while Nino rants in a corner, convinced a mole outed the plan to blindside the Gallaghers.
I’m pretty sure I’m the mole in this situation. I didn’t say a thing, but my abysmal poker face earlier probably revealed Connor’s hand. I want to shout that this is what Nino gets for reaching a gentleman’s agreement and then reneging.
And for leaving me out of the loop entirely.
They met Connor Gallagher. My father must have sensed what the man was capable of, but he still let Nino convince him to do things Nino’s Way.
I love my little brother. Even as a kid, he sometimes failed to listen to me, but I don’t recall him acting this stubborn and headstrong all the time.
Nino frequently makes selfish decisions for which the rest of us suffer. Five men in this room—loyal men who’ve worked for my father for years, in some cases—lost their lives because of his foolishness.
Meanwhile, Tony Di Norelli, my brother’s best friend, tries to calm Nino down. Tony’s been a family friend since our childhood, and he’s the only man I’d really call an ex. We had a fling that lasted the summer between high school and college, and he’s never let it go.
Though I’ve never given him this impression, he thinks he’s still got a chance. In reality, I tolerate him because he’s friends with Nino.
His eyes spend way too much studying me every time we encounter each other, which, thankfully, isn’t too often lately.
Tony used to be all right—we were friendly after we split—but he’s been taking lessons in etiquette from Nino, and I’m losing all respect.
Our eyes meet from across the carnage, and Tony comes closer, his blond hair slicked back off his face. “See, Cat? This is what happens when you crack open the door for those fucking Micks. They take a mile.”
I don’t need the mansplaining when he’s not even remotely correct. “This was our trap, Tony. I know you know that. It’s not the Kings’ fault our men didn’t perform.”
“Trap or not, look at this bloodbath. This is war.” He steps over to the man sprawled out dead center in the laundry room. The one with the bare chest.
I follow.
Despite the extensive damage to his face, I recognize him as Sal Padovesi.
Sal’s been hitting on me since my sixteenth birthday. I turned a blind eye because he was one of the best bagmen in the business, and because my father insisted on keeping the peace. At fifty, Sal was elderly by mafia standards, and I can’t say I’m brokenhearted by his passing.
“Graffiti. Did you see this shit, Nino?” Tony tosses up his hands in disgust, his rings glittering in the fluorescent lights. “Can you believe this, Cat? Desecrating the dead…those motherfuckers!”
I should correct him. Motherfucker, singular. I guarantee Connor worked alone, but I don’t say anything.
Tony stomps back to my brother as I bend over Sal’s chest and tilt my head to read whatever message the liar left.
At first, it resembles scribbles, or maybe those rudimentary birds that little kids add to their drawings. When I kneel for a better view, an electric jolt shocks my body.
It’s an autograph.
Dane Ryder.
Just like the note he left in my hotel suite.
My hands tremble. I’m impressed by how cleanly Connor handled this. No broken windows. No blood on the street. I’m also scared shitless because he did this alone.
I straighten, my lungs stuttering in my chest.
I’m screwed.
He read the ambush in my involuntary facial expression. After just one date at a jazz bar, Connor Gallagher does know me.
He knows what I find interesting, knows what I like to drink. He knows where my strengths lie in business, and he knows my weaknesses and tells.
I can hear Nino rattling off a plan to Tony and the other guys, claiming that a Gallagher alliance is off. My brother’s planning some outrageous retribution with the Roguilins.
The worst-case scenario is coming to life.
As I get close, Nino’s already on his phone, lying about what happened and setting up an urgent meeting with Belinski.
Tony stretches out an arm like he’s protecting Nino’s space.
Ass. Who does he think he is?
He may be Nino’s best friend, but I’m his older sister. And Eduardo’s eldest.
I duck under Tony’s arm so I’m right in front of my brother. “I’m going with you.”
Nino ignores me, hanging up his phone and stomping toward the back of the building.
“Nino, wait up!” If I can just get into the car with him, I know I can talk him down. We’ll call Father and map out our retaliation when our emotions aren’t sky-high.
I weave through the enforcers in the hallway.
As Nino reaches the door, he spins around, and I nearly barrel into him. He rests his hand on my shoulder. “Cat. This is dangerous, so you’re not coming. Go check on our father. That’s how you can help.”
I detest when my little brother patronizes me in front of our men. He’s the one making misguided, reckless choices, yet I’m the one chastised like a child.
“Nino, listen to me—”
Nino opens the door. “Call Danny to take you home.”
He hustles toward his ruby red Porsche before screeching away. Tony holds me back until Nino’s gone.
I free myself, not bothering to mask my disgust.
I can’t believe this bullshit.
“Where you going?” Tony’s voice grates on my ears.
“Away from macho idiots!” Flipping him off over my shoulder, I exit the laundromat and round the corner.
Once I’m out of their eyeline, I hail a cab. “I need you to follow the red Porsche heading west down Front.” I slide a one-hundred-dollar bill through the opening in the driver’s Plexiglass partition.
He frowns at me, his sunglasses glinting in the winter sun.
I don’t have time for this. “If he goes more than two miles, I’ll double it.”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
Just under a mile away, Nino pulls into a salvage yard, and the cabbie drops me off outside the open gates. “You know, it’s not safe around—”
I throw another hundred at him, shut the door on his words of caution, and stride through the gates.
Crouching behind the front passenger tire of a beat-up blue Mustang, I watch as Nino meets up with Oleg Belinski in an old shed-like building used as the salvage yard’s office.
I can’t hear them, but Nino hasn’t cooled down one bit, his hands waving and his face puce as he rants. Belinski goads him on, coaxing my brother toward the hub of the Bratva’s intricately woven web.
My brother’s not dense. The old Nino could have led the Riccis into a golden age, if only he’d gotten out of his own way and heeded his own people’s warnings. Where did that man go?
I press my hands to my mouth and chew on my bottom lip. How am I going to—
“You want one of my guns?” Connor whisper-shouts from the other end of the car. “Because I don’t think praying’s going to do much.”