Chapter 9 Alessio
CHAPTER NINE
ALESSIO
The phone is still warm against my face, the black glass smudged with my fingerprints and cheek.
Lucy's click of disconnection, that final tiny sound like a bone breaking, still buzzes in my ear.
The feeling spreads through me, a poison working its way until the whole room tastes of copper and ash.
The crystal tumbler in my hand catches the amber light, throwing broken shadows across the mahogany bar where I've been standing for the last hour, waiting for her to say something, anything, that wasn't goodbye.
I set the glass down gently, then sweep my palm across the bar and knock it off.
Enzo, lurking near the window and pretending not to listen, jumps at the sound of breaking glass, but his eyes stay on my face.
He starts to make a joke, something sharp about heartbreak and old fools, but stops himself before saying it.
I get up, walk to the window, and look out at the city.
It glimmers like a jewelry case, each light a story I could have had with her.
The wind is cold tonight. The glass pushes the chill onto my skin, sharp and sobering.
I picture Lucy somewhere below, walking with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering not from the cold but from the deep Stuyvesant fear she inherited with the apartment and the family name.
It might almost be beautiful, if it weren’t so unbearable.
Enzo lingers on the other side of the bar. “You want a mop for that,” he says, jerking a thumb at the broken glass, “or should we just torch the building and collect the insurance?”
It's the wrong thing to say, but also perfect. My laughter is ugly, scraping along the inside of my teeth. “Tell me something, Enz. You think people like us ever get the luxury of walking away?”
He considers. “Luxury, no. But we fucking specialize in making people regret it if they try.”
I nod, watching headlights crawl like fireflies along the avenue below. My rage spins inside me like a turbine, strong enough to tear me apart if I don't control it. It's time to put that energy to use.
"Open the Rolodex," I say, my voice flat. I watch headlights crawl like fireflies along the avenue below. My rage spins inside me like a turbine, strong enough to tear me apart if I don't control it. It's time to put that energy to use. "And wring the motherfuckers dry."
Enzo’s lips thin, satisfaction and hunger in the same line. “Anyone in particular, or—?”
“Every Stuyvesant. Every friend, every in-law, every coked-up nephew on the family payroll. I want their world shrunk to the size of a coffin. Start with the father—he’s the only part of the machine that still works.”
Enzo is already on his phone, fingers tapping like a Morse code death sentence.
“And the mother. She runs the foundation, right? Hit the endowments. If they so much as fund a bake sale, I want the tax fraud flagged.”
He gives me a slow nod, already planning his next move. Enzo lives for this. He can sense a weakness in a family tree the way a dog smells cancer.
“And Lucy?” he asks, after a beat.
That’s the catch. “Leave her alone. Nothing that looks like a threat, nothing in her personal account, nothing that makes her feel like prey. I want her untouched except for the knowledge that the rest of her family is falling apart.”
Enzo’s eyes flick up—a question, a challenge, but not quite a warning. “This is about the old man, then.”
"It's about all of them. They think bloodlines are destiny." I feel my face twist, not bothering to hide the sneer. "Let's make that a prophecy."
Enzo pockets his phone. “I’ll call you at midnight.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Handle it.”
He takes the stairs two at a time, eager to get to work. I stand there a moment longer, feeling the wind push through the cracks in the window. I picture Lucy’s shoulders, thin and tense and perfect, and I want to be the only thing that ever troubles her.
It should be enough. It isn’t.
Enzo delivers before midnight, like he always does; I suppose that’s why I keep him near, despite how often he grates my nerves. This time, he brings cigars fresh from the Dominican, a bottle of Macallan, and a folder as thick as a wedding cake.
“Two hours,” he says, holding up the folder, “and I already have a baker’s dozen of walking ulcers ready to bleed for us.”
I open the folder. The first sheet is a printout of John Stuyvesant’s calendar—meetings with city council members, visits to some of my criminal colleagues, fundraisers at the club, half a dozen lunches with women who aren’t his wife.
“Start with the councilman,” I say. “Pay him a visit. Let him know, unless he wants his little education kickback program splashed all over the tabloids, he needs to withdraw support from Stuyvesant’s businesses. ”
Enzo grins. “You want a leak, or you want a flood?”
“I want a tsunami. Give them a reason to call me. To beg.”
He flips to the second tab, marked FOUNDATION. Quick work—already, three donors are ready to rescind their endowments. “The ex-mayor’s wife is on the board, you want her?”
“Only if it’ll make Lucy’s mother twitch,” I say. “Otherwise, save it for leverage.”
The next sheet—family scandal. A cousin who likes the slots too much.
An uncle with a taste for junior interns.
A list of shell LLCs and blackmail-ready emails.
“Send warnings, then send threats,” I say.
“And if anyone calls with an offer to settle, tell them I want it in escrow and then double the number.”
Enzo pauses, watching my face for a tell. “None of this brings her back, Ale.”
“It brings her family to their fucking knees. I’ll get her back on my own.” I say, sharp enough to taste metal.
He sets the rest of the dossier on the table, lighting a cigar. He’s right, of course. But it doesn’t matter. “When do you want to move on the grandmother?” Enzo asks lightly, though he knows what it means.
“Not yet. If we go for her too soon, we risk isolating Lucy completely.”
I lean back in the armchair. The room smells of tobacco, velvet, and chemical war. “Wait until the old bitch makes a play, then we answer in kind.”
Nothing to do now but wait.
Days blur into hours, and hours stretch into long, restless periods where I pace my offices, checking feeds and numbers, waiting for any sign of her.
The city shifts from night to day, glass walls reflecting my face at strange angles.
I sleep in short bursts, always waking with a start, sure I missed a call or a knock at the door.
What there is is fallout. I get half a dozen calls from mutuals who want to play both sides: Don’t you think you’re being a bit extreme, Ale?
Is this about the girl, or is this about your pride?
I listen, I mark the names, and I hang up.
Every time I do, I think of Lucy’s voice, the little hitch when she said, “I can’t,” and of my own rage, an animal pacing behind my ribs.
Enzo works nonstop, barely sleeping, sometimes passing out on my office couch with his phone still pressed to his cheek.
He digs up old debts, calls in favors with the NYPD, and even gets a bishop from his seminary days to spread a rumor about the Stuyvesant charity.
"You’d be amazed what priests will do for a bottle of Lagavulin," he tells me, his voice hoarse and proud.
Three days later, the Stuyvesants finally respond.
The envelope on my desk screams old money: cream-colored cardstock so thick it could stop a bullet, my name written in calligraphy that probably cost more than most people's rent.
I slide my letter opener under the blood-red wax seal, feeling like I'm cutting into the past itself.
Inside, a single sheet—no signature, but it doesn’t need one.
To Whom It May Concern: If your campaign continues, we will take steps to ensure you are never allowed within a thousand yards of Lucinda.
She is not a toy for the broken sons of criminals.
Find another hobby. Also: you are being watched, and not just by us.
My first instinct is to laugh. The second is to burn the letter and scatter the ashes over the East River. Instead, I fold it, tuck it into my breast pocket, and pour myself a fresh whiskey.
“Enzo,” I call, and he appears within seconds.
He scans the letter, lips moving silently. “You want a bodyguard on her?” he says, voice thin.
“No. I want them to know that every move they make, every play, every phone call, is already mine. Get me details. I want the grandmother’s house watched, the aunt’s therapist bugged, the cousin’s credit card statements flagged.”
Enzo hesitates. “If we go that far, there’s no going back, Ale. Even if you win, you lose her for good.”
I drink the whiskey neat, no chaser. “The mistake is thinking I ever lost her. I’m simply giving her space.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The silence that follows is complete. I stare at the skyline, picturing Lucy somewhere on the other side, close enough to walk to in twenty minutes, but so far away she might as well be on another planet.
The thought is intolerable.
I finish the drink, stare at the letter again, then pick up my phone and dial a number I haven’t called in a decade.
The man on the other end answers after one ring. “Alessio. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Gianni,” I say, “you still have those friends in the City Marshal’s office?”
“I have friends everywhere,” he says, the smug bastard. “What do you need?”
“I need a message delivered to a family who thinks they’re still running New York. Discreet, but not invisible. Scare, but don’t ruin. Not yet.”
Gianni sniffs. “You want it personal or professional?”
“You know which.”
He laughs. “You’re really in love, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. “One hour,” I say, and hang up.
I think about sending Lucy a message, just a word or a sign. But I know her grandmother, her father, and a dozen cousins are already watching her. Every word would be seen, picked apart, and used against her. It's better to wait until the city is on my side, and only then reach out to her openly.
The night after Gianni’s intervention, Enzo knocks on my office door holding a laptop and wearing the same suit three days running.
“Got something for you,” he says, sliding the laptop onto my desk. He pulls up a video feed—it’s from a parlor room, Fifth Avenue. I recognize the Stuyvesant decor: all inherited wealth and Chinoiserie vases. There are five people in the frame. Lucy is not among them.
He fast-forwards, showing me a heated conversation: the father, Lionel, stands with his hands in fists, shouting at a woman who must be the grandmother.
She stays calm, almost unreadable, and drinks her sherry straight.
A third person, her mother, sits wiping tears from her face, while a man I recognize from the dossier—Derek, the cousin with the gambling problem—paces in the background.
Enzo freezes on a moment where John slams his fist on the table, shouting, “It’s not just the donors, mother, it’s the feds.
They’re coming for us, and if we don’t play it right, we’re on the evening news.
” The grandmother doesn’t flinch. She takes a sip, crosses her arms, leans back like a Roman emperor deciding whether to extend mercy.
Enzo plays the next segment. It’s the matriarch, speaking low and cold: “We hold. We cut the girl off. If she comes crawling, we may reconsider, but until then, let the wolves have her.”
She’s daring me to make a move.
Enzo stops the feed. “You want to go nuclear?”
“Yes,” I say. “But with elegance.”
Enzo clears his throat. "There's also the matter with Carina. She's—"
I cut him off with a wave. "Handle it. My daughter knows her own mind. Let her be for now." My fingers tap against the desk. "It's not enough to destroy them. Any animal can do that. The real pleasure is making them come to me."