11. Leona
LEONA
Greco’s meeting location was at a restaurant on the border of Harlem and the Upper East Side. As soon as we pulled up in our armored SUV, I felt the weight of the occasion.
Greco hadn’t chosen a high-end, super secure location. This was a place that the mafia frequented since the seventies and eighties. Choosing it signaled a few things: Greco had done his research, he felt at home in our spaces, and he wanted us to know it.
It pissed me the fuck off.
“I wasn’t expecting a place like this,” Ryu said as Obi pulled the SUV into the parking lot around the back. We crammed into one car this time, and it was full from front to back. Obi and Ryu were in the front seat. Me, Ciel, and Wynn were in the second row. Cas and Max were in the back.
Something seemed to have shifted between those two. Cas didn’t have his normal tightness in his shoulders. He wasn’t watching Max out of the corner of his eye at every turn. I needed to talk to him later and figure out what had changed.
“Me neither,” I said. “I’ve never been, but the Five Families used to meet here. I can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse.”
“Worse,” Obi said as he turned off the engine. “Greco is making a point.”
He glanced in the rearview, his eyes softening slightly as he saw my hand folded against Wynn’s and Ciel’s palm on my thigh. The two of them were practically smothering me with their nervousness, but it helped to calm my racing heart.
Inside that building waited Piero Greco and the forces of the Camorra. Would they try an amicable takeover or a hostile one?
“This is definitely a trap,” Max mumbled from the back row.
“Oh, for sure,” I answered. Ciel’s hand tightened on my thigh, but he didn’t respond.
“We should leave,” Max insisted, leaning forward. “We don’t have to do this.”
“I want to.”
I needed to see Greco face to face. It was silly to hope he’d back off just because I wouldn’t back down, but truly, I wasn’t afraid of walking into that building. The six—seven of us now—could handle ourselves.
I was more nervous about what his meeting signified. It was bound to be the kickoff to a conflict, a bloody war the likes of which New York hadn’t seen for decades.
Ryu glanced at his phone. “Kostya is in place a few blocks away. He’ll wait for the signal if we need it.”
“Giulio is waiting, too,” Cas said. “He’ll be looking for our check in signal. He’s got our men primed for a fight.”
Our allies and our men would be nearby if we needed them. I hoped this wouldn’t devolve into a bloodbath, even though Obi looked more on edge than I’d ever seen him—and one day, his careful control would snap.
“What about Enzo Rossi?” I asked.
Cas tucked his phone into his pocket. “He’s not about to let the Camorra steamroll his territory. He said if we’ll still watch his back, he’ll still watch ours.”
“We will.” I turned in my seat to look at him. “Rossi has more aces up his sleeve than we know. I can feel it.”
“I think so, too,” Cas agreed. “He’s smart, and he’s careful.”
I cast a glance at Max. “Max, what do you think about Sandrini?”
Max stared out the window, hands clenched on his knees. “Sandrini will roll over to Greco immediately. He’s always flocked to the stronger Heads of the Five Families. He does what he’s told, and that’s how he stays in power.”
I looked back at Obi. “If he does what he’s told, think we can turn him?”
Obi shook his head. “Not once the Camorra get their claws in him. They’ll absorb him, his men, and his territory.”
“Great,” I said with a huff before I glanced at the clock on my phone. “We’ll monitor him then and assume he already supports Greco. That leaves us and Rossi against them both.”
“It’s time,” Obi said. “Everyone ready?”
We discussed going in guns blazing, killing Greco before he reacted, but there was no knowing yet how many men he had at his disposal, and it was simply too risky. We’d play this safe unless they struck first.
“Ready,” I answered, followed by each one of my men.
Greco’s men were waiting for us when we got inside the restaurant. There were no patrons, no staff. Just five men waiting in a front alcove by the host desk and seven more lurking in the eerie quiet blanketing the rest of an empty dining room.
“Signorina,” one said, a heavy Italian accent dripping from his words. “Please leave your weapons here.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“No arms are allowed inside the meeting.” He straightened his back. “We will return them to you after the meeting concludes.”
“Absolutely not,” I snapped. My men stepped up behind me, backing me up and forming a disapproving wall that said if you want them, take them from us.
“It is customary—”
“No.”
The man’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “You will not be allowed inside—”
“I said no.”
He opened his mouth to argue again, but just then a hard voice cut across the space.
“Ah, ah, ah.” A man walked through the empty dining room, coming from a door in the back—maybe to the kitchen.
His immaculate dark blue suit fit every contour of his lean body.
His grey hair swept away from his forehead, and his eyes were welcoming but hid a shrewdness beneath their surface.
He was handsome for his age—probably early sixties—and carried his body with an authority that had his men shrinking back as soon as he stepped forward.
Even the shiny gold rings on his fingers dripped with power and wealth.
He was…overwhelming. I wanted to stare at him and flinch from him at the same time.
Piero Greco.
“You must be Signorina Vero.” He held out his hand. My men tensed behind me when I took it. Greco gave it a firm, polite shake before letting go, and Obi immediately wrapped a big hand around my hip to pull me into his side.
“Signore Greco,” I responded, trying to keep my voice careful.
“Obi, it has been a long time,” Greco said as he reached for another handshake. Obi did not grab it. “I am impressed by the work you’ve done in the Shadows since I last saw you.”
Obi inclined his head. “I’ve come a long way.”
Greco’s eyes narrowed slightly, but before he could say anything else, I jumped in.
“We’re here, as requested.”
His eyes floated over each of us before they paused on Max. At the back of our group, Max seemed like the odd man out, but the way Greco’s eyes flared predatory had my inner hackles rising in defense.
“I see we have an issue here,” Greco said as tilted his head slightly to look down at me. His tone was playful.
“Your men have asked us to give up our weapons. As I don’t trust you, I won’t.”
“Per favore,” he said, his accent present but not as thick as I would have expected. “It is customary in Italia for the leaders of our world to meet without weapons. It is the only way we can guarantee we all feel safe.”
I looked from him, around the room to his dozen men, then back to him. “I don’t feel safe.”
“You have my protection, I assure you,” he said, his voice taking on a warm tone. Was it warm or condescending? “We are all adults here, sì? We can speak privately without killing one another. It would be barbaric.”
I glanced around the empty restaurant. “How can I be sure your men don’t have weapons on them either? Or you?”
He undid the buttons on his suit and held open the jacket so we could see no evidence of holsters or hidden guns. He did a slow turn so we could see he had nothing tucked into the back of the waistband of his trousers either. “As you see, I am unarmed.”
He snapped his fingers, and his men did slow spins in the same fashion. Not one gun or knife in sight.
In sight, I whispered to myself.
“Allora,” he said. He pointed to the security box waiting on the host’s standing podium.
“Those will be locked. I will give you the key. You can return to it after our business has concluded.” He gestured to other locked boxes sitting on the floor against the wall.
“Rossi and Sandrini are already waiting inside. They have also surrendered their weapons.”
“Fine.”
Carefully, each of us disarmed. Guns, knives, Wynn’s knuckles, one by one we dropped our lifelines into the box.
Once we were all done, we watched Ryu continue to pull his unlimited supply of knives from the countless sheaths strapped to his body.
I was about to burst into laughing when he finally dropped the last one in.
“Is that all?” I teased, grinning.
He flicked my nose playfully, but his face was angry.
“Happy, Greco?”
The man nodded. He extended an arm toward the door he had entered from. “Please. Follow me.”
I moved to walk with him until Ciel’s hand slipped into mine. His eyes flicked to the garotte he still wore, wrapped around his wrist like a simple bracelet. I squeezed his hand back and straightened my shoulders.
He wasn’t turning over everything, and neither was I.
Greco led us through the empty dining room to a private room in the back. As he pushed open the door, the faces of Enzo Rossi and his men, plus Giuseppe Sandrini and his men, greeted us. They already sat around a large, wooden dining table that extended the full length of the room.
There were only four chairs.
“Sit, please.” Greco gestured to one of the empty seats while he walked to the other. Obi’s palm on my back nudged me to the chair, and I sat down at the same time as Greco.
Five of Greco’s men formed a line behind him, but one had a nasty sneer plastered across his face as he stared at something behind me. I turned slightly to see what had drawn this asshole’s attention. His mocking smile was aimed at Max.
Max glared right back through his yellowing black eye. His hands were in his pockets, but I could see the tension in his corded muscles under the clothes he had borrowed from Cas.
Who the hell was this guy?
“Max,” I murmured while Greco got settled. He ordered one of his men to pour four glasses of water before passing them out.
Max’s eyes dipped to mine, a question written in them.
I crooked my finger. All of my men watched curiously as he ducked his head, and I whispered in his ear. “Who is that man?”