Chapter 6
RAFFAELE
Things have been careful since that day in my office. Professional. Measured.
She brings coffee at nine, and I nod without looking up. She files briefs, and I watch when she’s not looking. Neither of us mentions what happened. The chin. The almost something.
But it’s there. A current running beneath the surface of every interaction, every exchanged glance, every moment when our hands almost touch over a document.
I’ve been keeping my distance. On purpose.
Whatever this is, it needs to be controlled. Analyzed. Understood before I act on it again.
The problem is, I’m not sure I understand it at all.
Marcy stands in front of my desk, clipboard pressed against her chest, running through the morning’s agenda with the efficiency I hired her for. She’s been with the firm for six years and knows when to speak, when to stay silent, when to pretend she didn’t hear something she shouldn’t have.
Castellano’s office has essentially become hers at this point. Not that he seems especially attached to it, but that’s a problem for another day.
It’s been a strange week. I’ve become painfully aware of how the rest of the floor sits empty. There are too many vacant offices for an executive suite. Hard to justify the square footage when most of it collects dust.
Another, slightly bigger, problem for another, hopefully better, day.
“—and the Hartwell depositions need signatures before noon. Also, the quarterly reports from the offshore accounts came in. Nothing flagged, but you’ll want to review them personally.”
“Fine. What else?”
“Mr. Castellano.” She hesitates. “He’s been absent for two weeks now. Longer than usual.”
I knew that already. Lorenzo Castellano runs his own small crew—technically independent, but everyone knows he operates under Vincenzo’s umbrella and, by extension, mine.
He handles the jobs that require a certain lack of subtlety.
Warehouse work. Collections. The occasional problem that needs to disappear without paperwork.
Sending him to Vegas was my mistake. The man has the self-control of a teenager with a stolen credit card. Two weeks of radio silence mean he’s found a blackjack table, a strip club, or both.
“When was the last check-in?”
“Twelve days ago. Brief call, said the job was almost wrapped. Nothing since.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Marcy nods, makes a note on her clipboard. She’s about to leave when I stop her.
“Actually.” I glance past her, toward the outer office where Bea is typing at her desk. “You mentioned needing help with the filing backlog.”
“The records consolidation, yes. It’s a two-person job, at minimum.”
“Take Bea.” I keep my voice neutral. “She could use the experience. Especially after the crosswalk incident.”
Marcy’s brow furrows. “Crosswalk incident?”
From the doorway, Bea’s voice drifts in. “I jaywalked. Very serious offense. Mr. D’Amico takes pedestrian safety extremely seriously.”
Marcy looks between us, clearly sensing undercurrents she’s smart enough not to explore. “Right. Well. I’ll get the files set up.”
She leaves. Bea returns to her typing without looking at me.
The corner of my mouth twitches. Just slightly.
Jaywalked.
The elevator chimes.
I go still.
Very few people can access this floor without clearance. Marcy. Bea. A handful of senior partners who know better than to arrive unannounced. Anyone else would be stopped at security, announced, escorted.
The doors slide open.
Lorenzo Castellano steps out like he owns the place.
He’s a big man—broad shoulders, rough hands. Today he’s wearing a suit that definitely cost more than it should, given how badly it fits, and a grin that suggests he knows exactly how much trouble he’s in and doesn’t particularly care.
“Raffaele.” He spreads his arms wide with false warmth. “Good to see you, boss. Been a while.”
“Two weeks.”
“Has it been that long?” He affects surprise, poorly. “Time flies when you’re working hard.”
“I’m sure.”
Lorenzo’s attention shifts to Marcy, who’s stopped to gather files near Bea’s desk. “Hey, sweetheart. Me and Mr. D’Amico are gonna need to talk alone. Important business stuff. You understand.”
Marcy doesn’t dignify that with a response. She collects her materials and heads for the back offices, spine rigid with professional disdain.
Lorenzo watches her go, then his gaze lands on Bea.
“Oh.” His grin widens. “New face. And a pretty one at that.” He looks her up and down without any attempt at subtlety. “Where’d you come from, sweetheart? Don’t remember seeing you around before.”
Bea’s typing doesn’t falter. “I work here.”
“Yeah? Doing what?”
“Whatever Mr. D’Amico requires.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows rise. He looks at me with new interest.
“Whatever he requires.” He repeats the words slowly, savoring them. “Now I get it.”
I don’t react, just reach for the humidor on my desk, select a cigar, and begin the ritual of cutting and lighting. Taking my time. Making him wait.
“Get what?”
“Why Marisol went home so disappointed.” He jerks his chin toward Bea’s desk, grin sharpening. “You’ve already got your entertainment lined up. Can’t blame you—she’s easier on the eyes than anything I could’ve sent.”
Something twitches in my jaw. I force it to still.
“Come in,” I say. “Close the door.”
He does, dropping into the chair across from my desk with that same lazy sprawl. His eyes keep drifting toward the glass wall, toward Bea’s desk.
“So.” He pulls a lighter from his pocket. “The warehouse job is done. Clean. No loose ends, no witnesses, no problems. Just like you asked.”
“Two weeks ago.”
“Well, you know how life is, boss. Things come up.”
I take a long drag of the cigar. Smoke curls toward the ceiling.
“No, I don’t. You had a simple job. Yet you seem to have found time for hookers and, if my sources are accurate, two weeks of gambling your paycheck away before you even left Nevada.”
Lorenzo’s grin flickers, just for a moment.
“There was some gambling,” he admits. “But that’s not the whole deal, alright?”
“Then what is?”
He reaches for his pockets, patting them down with increasing frustration. “Shit. I had one somewhere...”
I watch him search for a cigar he clearly doesn’t have. After a moment, I open my desk drawer and toss him one.
“Thanks, boss.” He catches it, bites off the end, lights it with ease. “So, as I was saying—”
“You’re still on his tail.”
That stops him.
His hand clenches around the lighter. “Can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can. When you agreed to work with us, the deal was clear. You build influence stone by stone. The old Castellanos are dead to you. Remember?”
“It’s not about the famiglia.” He leans forward, cigar clenched between his teeth.
“They can all go to hell for all I care. This is about blood. My blood.” His voice drops, rougher now.
“I mean, if Nico—if your own brother looked you in the eye and put a bullet in your father’s head, then took everything that was supposed to be yours—wouldn’t you want him dead? ”
The question hangs.
I sit with it. Properly. Lorenzo deserves at least that much honesty—even if he won’t hear it from me.
“Probably,” I say. “But I’d want proof first.”
“So you don’t trust me?” He sounds genuinely wounded.
“I was there, boss. I saw Stefano’s face when he pulled the trigger.
I saw him step over the body and shake hands with the guys who were supposed to be loyal to us.
My own brother. And now he’s sitting in my father’s chair, running what’s left of the family into the ground, and I’m supposed to just—what? Forget about it?”
“I’ve heard this story.”
“No, listen.” He leans forward in his chair with a gleam in his eye.
“This time I got something solid. There’s this guy, Petey, used to run numbers for us before Stefano took over.
He saw the whole thing go down. Says he’ll testify if I can get him protection, and I’m thinking we set up a meet, maybe bring some muscle, and—”
A knock at the door.
Bea enters with a whiskey bottle and two glasses on a tray. She moves to the side table, pours a measure into one glass, and brings it to Lorenzo.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Bea returns to her desk, leaving the door slightly ajar. Good. I want her to hear this.
“Lorenzo.” I wait until his attention is fully on me.
“What exactly do you think happens next? You find this Petey, you drag him in front of—who? The cops? A judge? You think anyone in this city is going to take testimony against Stefano based on the word of a numbers runner and the brother he cut out?”
He opens his mouth. I don’t let him speak.
“You want to build a new famiglia. Fine. But you’re minor family now, so here’s a lesson: there is honor among thieves.
You need proof—real proof, not some junkie’s word.
You need wills. Paperwork. Reputation. Right now, you’re in a position where you could leave Chicago behind entirely.
Start fresh here, build something clean.
Stefano gets to keep the ashes of whatever your father built—and you get to build something better.
I’m giving you that opportunity. Don’t fucking waste it chasing ghosts. ”
Lorenzo takes a long drink of whiskey. Sets the glass down harder than necessary.
“Right. And you wouldn’t do the same? You’re the one always preaching about family this, family that. Now I’m supposed to just let him walk around wearing my father’s ring like he earned it?”
“That’s not doing it for family. That’s scratching your own itch and slapping a noble name on it.” I hold his gaze. “By that logic, Nico would’ve been in a ditch years ago. But I’m patient.”
“Patient.” He laughs. “That’s one word for it.”
“I don’t want to hear about Petey, or Stefano, or any of this past bullshit again. When Vincenzo brought you in, he brought you in clean. Fresh blood, no strings. You start dragging old vendettas into this business, I’m going to have to question whether you’re worth the trouble.”
The threat lands. I see it in the way his hand flexes around the glass.