Chapter 2
NICO
The advantage of sitting at the head of the table is that no one notices what you are looking at.
Or who.
From here, I can see the entire dining room of Notte Bianca without turning my head. The tables, the bar, the entrance desk, the narrow corridor that leads toward the kitchen. Every movement, every guest, every server weaving between chairs with trays balanced on their palms.
Most of the men at this table come here for the food.
I come here to observe.
The head waitress moves through the dining room again, the same way she has done every night for the past year.
She walks quickly, but never looks rushed.
Her eyes move constantly, taking stock of everything at once.
A table that needs refilling, a guest who looks impatient, a server who needs help carrying drinks.
She handles each small problem before it becomes large enough to disturb the illusion this place is built on.
Competence is rare.
Competence under pressure is rarer.
I watch her step between two tables, balancing a tray on one hand while speaking quietly to a couple seated near the window. They relax almost immediately. Whatever complaint they had dissolves under the calm tone of her voice.
Efficient.
Graceful.
Controlled.
“You’re staring again,” Leone says beside me.
“I am observing,” I reply, without taking my eyes off her.
Leone leans back in his chair and glances toward the direction of my gaze. His mouth curls in faint amusement.“ You’ve been observing her for an hour.”
“That is none of your concern. Focus on your food.”
Leone shrugs, unfazed.
He has served as my second-in-command long enough not to take my tone personally. The man is loyal, capable, and unfortunately inclined to speak his mind when silence would be wiser.
“She’s pretty,” he says casually.
I turn my head slowly.
Leone lifts his hands in mock surrender. “Just an observation.”
“Continue making observations,” I say calmly, “and I will personally arrange a swim for you in the Hudson.”
He smirks. “With the fishes?”
“With the anchors.”
He smiles faintly. “I always wondered which one you preferred.”
Leone returns his attention to his drink, but I can see the satisfaction in his expression. Teasing me is one of the few luxuries he allows himself in this job.
Most men would not risk it.
Leone knows the difference between a threat and a warning. And he knows I rarely repeat either.
Across the table, Matteo Moretti watches the exchange with mild curiosity.
Matteo is one of the youngest Dons among us, and it shows sometimes. Not in his intelligence or his instincts, both of which are excellent, but in the way he still studies the rest of us as though searching for the invisible rules of the room.
He will learn them eventually.
Giovanni Gallo sits beside him, swirling bourbon in his glass. Giovanni is sharper than Matteo, though he hides it behind humor and sarcasm more often than not.
The others will arrive soon. For now, the table is quiet.
My attention drifts back across the dining room without effort.
I watch the head waitress moves toward the bar again. She speaks briefly with the bartender and the florist perched on the stool beside her, then disappears between two tables with another tray of drinks.
She’s efficient. Always efficient.
Leone clears his throat. I don’t need a soothsayer to know he’s caught me staring again. Observing, actually.
“You realize everyone in the restaurant will start to notice eventually,” he says.
“What?” I feign ignorance.
“The way you watch her.”
“They will notice nothing,” I mouth.
“Maybe not the customers.” His gaze flicks toward the bar. “But the staff notices everything.”
That is true. Service workers survive by paying attention.
I lean back slightly in my chair. The truth is that Leone’s comment doesn’t concern me as much as he probably expects. People can notice many things without understanding them. It’s the understanding that’s the dangerous part.
Across the table, Matteo glances toward the door.
“Romano and Lucchese are late,” he says.
“They will arrive,” I reply calmly. Two people being less than an hour late to dinner gives me no reason to worry.
Matteo studies me for a moment before nodding.
It is not leadership that places me at the head of this table. No one elected me to that role. But time has a way of settling authority into certain places whether anyone acknowledges it or not.
I am older than the others. Not by a vast margin, but enough. Pushing fifty now. Old enough to remember things the others only learned about through stories.
The Borough War, for example.
The young ones call it that like it was some distant legend, something their fathers told them about over dinner.
They never saw the smoke rising over the city.
Never heard gunfire echoing through entire neighborhoods for weeks at a time.
Never watched families bury their dead because a handful of powerful men decided pride mattered more than peace.
I was ten years old when the war started. Old enough to remember. Young enough that no one thought to shield me from it.
The memory has stayed with me longer than anything else in my life. Because wars like that begin quietly. Not with explosions or gunfire. With small incursions. A shipment that disappears. A territory that becomes suddenly unsafe. A man who vanishes one night and is never seen again.
At the time, those things felt like isolated problems. Minor disturbances. But if you look at them long enough, the pattern reveals itself.
Patterns are everything in our world.
Leone taps his phone once and sets it on the table in front of me. A notification appears on my screen. AirDrop.
I accept the file without comment.
Leone has done his work well, as usual.
The information confirms what I have suspected for several months now.
The Bratva. Not just one crew, but a larger structure behind them. Three branches operating under the same extended family.
Their operations have begun appearing across the boroughs in small ways. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to be noticed by the right eyes, and ignored by the wrong ones.
Matteo and Giovanni have both reported problems recently. Nothing severe. Nothing they couldn’t handle themselves. But taken together, the incidents begin to form a pattern.
One that reminds me of another time. Another war.
The others have not seen it yet, but they will.
But tonight I intend to help them see sooner rather than later.
Leone leans closer.
“You’re going to tell them?”
“Yes.”
“You think they’ll listen?” He whispers.
“They will.”
Leone glances around the table thoughtfully.
“Even the younger ones?”
“They respect experience,” I say. “And they respect the consequences of ignoring it.”
He nods slowly.
That is the advantage of age. Not authority. Memory.
The head waitress crosses the room again.
She pauses briefly near the welcome desk, checking something on her phone before slipping it back into her apron pocket. Her expression tightens slightly. Something has disturbed her calm. I notice because I have spent enough time watching to recognize the smallest change.
Leone follows my gaze again.
“You know,” he says, “for someone who claims to be observing the room, you spend an impressive amount of time observing exactly one person in it.”
I do not answer.
The others arrive. Romano settles next to Lucchese, their seconds at either side of them. Alberto and Valerio. Bruno is here too, Matteo’s right arm. Giovanni is alone by design. His man is away on a mission. Undercover, long-term. It’s my job to know that too.
A young waitress comes to get our orders. Erin, I think she’s called. The one Luca always stares at for a second too long. Then again, I’m in no position to chastise him. Not that I would. Our lives afford us every luxury, but rarely any pleasure.
We eat. Dinner is, as always, excellent.
The chef here is supposed to be Gerard Bernardi, one of the owners, but everybody knows the real work is done by his sous chef, Savannah Cross.
Just like everybody knows it’s not Donald Bernardi who is responsible for the impeccable wine selection and the choice of flower arrangements, but the young bartender behind the lounge counter and the florist chatting with her there.
And the one who keeps the machine well-oiled, the one who keeps this place going—
“Can I get you anything else, sir?”
Izzy Hartwell. The head waiter.
She smiles so brightly, it pisses me off that every man in the room does not turn to watch. At the same time, I know I’d kill them all if they did.
“Just the dessert menu,” I say with the straightest face I can muster. Because if I told her what it is I really want, she’d run fast in the opposite direction.
I know, because she already did it once.
“Of course. Coming right away, sir.”
After she’s gone, Giovanni leans forward slightly across the table.
“So,” he asks me, “why exactly did you ask us to meet here tonight?”
Straight to the point as usual. “I have information to share.”
Matteo blinks. “About what?”
Before I can answer, Luca Lucchese suddenly pushes his chair back. “Excuse me,” he says.
He walks toward the hallway near the bathrooms without another word.
Leone watches him go. “If I’m not mistaken,” he murmurs quietly, “his favorite waitress just slipped back there too.”
I glance at him briefly. “Mind your business.”
Leone smiles. “Just making an observation.”
“Stop observing.”
Across the room, Izzy moves toward the bar again.
She laughs softly at something the bartender says, then takes another tray and heads toward the dining room.
Moments later, Riccardo Romano stands.
“I’m stepping outside,” he says.
“For what?” Matteo asks.
“A smoke.”
Matteo frowns. “You don’t smoke.”
Riccardo shrugs slightly. “Never too late to start.”
He leaves the table without another explanation.
Leone leans towards Valerio, who has just appeared behind Riccardo’s chair.
“Looking for the cook,” I hear Valerio whisper. “His latest obsession.”
Leone lifts an eyebrow. “For how long now?”
“Months.”
Leone shakes his head. “Your boss has the patience of a saint.”
Valerio smirks. “Or the stubbornness of a mule.”
The two of them continue quietly for another moment like a pair of gossiping housewives until I set my glass down on the table.
The sound is not loud. But it is enough. They both fall silent immediately.
Giovanni clears his throat. “So,” he begins, “are you going to tell us why we are here tonight? Or should we wait?”
I glance briefly toward the hallway where Luca disappeared, then toward the door where Riccardo stepped outside. With two Dons missing, the moment has passed. I lean back slightly in my chair. “We will discuss it when everyone returns.”
Matteo looks surprised. “You’re willing to wait?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unusual.” His surprise seems to deepen.
“Is it?”
“You’re usually all business.”
I take another sip of my drink. “Tonight we can afford a moment of patience.”
Giovanni smiles, faintly. “Well,” he says, “in that case, I suggest another round.”
We rise from the table and move toward the lounge bar.
The restaurant has grown even louder since we arrived. More guests. More movement. More light reflecting off wine glasses and polished silverware.
As we pass the service station, Izzy steps directly into my path. For a moment we stop.
Her eyes lift toward mine. She inclines her head slightly in polite acknowledgement before moving aside to let us pass. Our gazes meet for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Then she turns back toward the dining room.
I continue walking. There are many temptations in this world. Most of them are easy to resist. Some far less so.
A man in my position must remember who he is. Must remember what his life requires of him. Certain pleasures are dangerous. Especially the ones that feel familiar. And some pleasures… are simply not meant to be repeated. No matter how strongly one might wish otherwise.