Chapter 18 Giovanni
GIOVANNI
Brooklyn looks different from above.
Sharper. Angrier. All hard lines and impatience, steel and glass stacked high like the city is daring someone to blink first.
I keep my back to the concrete ledge of the opposite building and my eyes trained on the skyscraper across the street, its windows dark at this hour except for a handful of floors near the top.
Twenty-seven stories.
Private garage underneath. Limited exits. Too clean to be legitimate.
Matteo’s voice echoes in my head from earlier this morning, clipped and furious. Rose had been taken straight out of his house. From under his roof. A humiliation he wouldn’t forget and wouldn’t forgive.
Anton Pavlov forcing a marriage.
I roll the thought around and feel something cold settle behind my ribs. Anton had always liked ownership disguised as tradition. Matteo, on the other hand, doesn’t love easily. But when he does, it’s with enough force to destroy the world.
He hadn’t looked like a man planning a rescue. He’d looked like a man preparing a massacre.
Good.
My role tonight is simpler. I’m not here to storm the building or kick down doors. I’m here in case something slips through the cracks. In case someone runs.
Amber doesn’t know about this.
I made sure of it.
She’s relaxing in my bed, tangled in expensive sheets, breathing slow and even for the first time since the docks.
Or sank in the jacuzzi, enjoying the hot water and luxurious soaps on her beautiful bronze skin.
I picture her there for half a second longer than necessary, then push the thought away. This isn’t the moment for softness.
Movement catches my eye.
A flash of motion at the base of the tower. The garage gate lifts just enough to let a car peel out, tires shrieking softly as it cuts into the street.
I straighten.
Then I see him.
Georg Pavlov. My target. The pezzo di merda who’s been infringing on my territory, according to Nico’s intel.
Anton may belong to Matteo, but he’s crazy if he thinks I’ll let him take my prey too.
The youngest of the Pavlov brothers is unmistakable even at a distance—too rigid, too controlled, moving like someone who expects the world to part for him. He breaks into a run toward the car waiting at the curb, coat flaring behind him.
I’m already moving.
I vault the gap between rooftops, boots skidding slightly on gravel as I land, then take the stairs two at a time. By the time I reach street level, the car door is swinging open.
“Stop,” I call.
He turns just as I draw.
Gunfire cracks the air. Loud. Close. A chaos of echoes between buildings.
I duck behind a concrete pillar as bullets chew into stone, then lean out and fire back. Glass shatters somewhere above us. A scream follows.
Georg dives for the driver’s side.
I track him through the sights, steadying my breath, finger tightening on the trigger.
Then he moves aside.
And the man in my crosshairs isn’t Georg.
It’s him.
My second.
Lorenzo.
Time stretches.
I see it all at once—the familiar set of his shoulders, the way he pivots to cover Georg’s escape without thinking. He looks older. Leaner. But it’s him.
My finger freezes.
One shot. That’s all it would take.
The car roars to life.
I lower the gun.
The moment passes. The vehicle fishtails into traffic and vanishes down the street, leaving only the echo of engines and my own pulse in my ears.
I swear softly and pull out my phone, snapping a photo of the license plate before it disappears completely.
That will have to be enough.
By the time I get home, the sky is darkening at the edges, and Matteo’s text has brought me at least one piece of good news.
Amber is in the kitchen when I step inside, wrapped in one of my shirts, hair loose and wild like she hasn’t decided what kind of morning this is yet. She looks up when she hears me, eyes narrowing immediately.
“You look like hell,” she says.
I shrug out of my jacket, aware of the dried blood at my cuff, the faint ache blooming in my shoulder. “I’ve had worse days.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then her gaze drops to the smirk I haven’t managed to shake.
“What?” she asks, gaze narrowing.
I walk past her and pour a glass of water, down half of it in one go, then set it aside.
“How would you like to go see Rose?”