Chapter 15 Giovanni
I glance at Emmaleen as the gates swing open with mechanical precision.
Her eyes widen slightly—a quarter-second of genuine reaction before she remembers to compose herself.
Interesting. She’s recalibrating her facial expressions for what she believes is appropriate.
Trying to appear unimpressed when she clearly is.
The driveway unfurls ahead, a winding ribbon of crushed limestone bordered by mature oaks. Each tree strategically placed by the landscape architect to create a sense of journey, of gradual revelation. Psychological manipulation through horticulture. A specialty of the rich.
“The trees are over a hundred years old,” I say, watching her reaction. “The original owner had them transplanted as mature specimens. Cost more than the house itself.”
Miss Take nods, her fingers laced together in her lap. White on white. The outfit suits her better than expected. The right balance of modest and elegant, though her posture betrays her discomfort with the formality.
As we round the final curve, the mansion reveals itself. Pottsville sandstone glowing amber in the late afternoon sun, three stories of Tudor Revival architecture with steep gabled roofs and ornate chimneys. My father’s monument to legitimacy. A fortress disguised as a home.
Emmaleen’s breathing changes. Almost imperceptible, but there it is—the slight catch when the scale of wealth registers. It’s not the reaction I usually get. Not awe or envy. Something closer to... assessment. She’s cataloging details.
“Built in 1911 by a steel magnate,” I tell her, slowing the Lamborghini to allow her a better view. “It’s been in our family since I was three.”
The Aventador’s engine purrs as we circle behind the main house, past the stone lions that guard the entrance.
The fountain comes into view—three tiers of carved marble, water cascading down to a pool where my mother once sat reading poetry while my father conducted business inside.
An image in my mind I can’t seem to delete.
I pull up alongside the pool house, cutting the engine.
“I stay here when I’m in town,” I explain, watching her eyes track the movement of light on water. “Both my brothers live in the main house with their families. Eight children between them, plus their wives. And my father, of course.”
I don’t elaborate on why I prefer this arrangement. The distance isn’t physical—it’s tactical.
“I prefer privacy,” I add simply.
We exit the car. Her heels click against the limestone path as we approach the pool house door. I enter the six-digit code (my mother’s birthday, backward) and the lock disengages with a soft click.
I hold the door, watching Miss Take’s face as she steps inside.
The pool house is minimalist compared to the main residence—open-concept with concrete floors, exposed beams, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the far end of the heated Olympic-sized pool.
The living area features a sectional in charcoal leather, a dining table that doubles as a desk, and a kitchen along one wall.
A fireplace faced in blackened steel dominates the opposite wall.
And at the far end, clearly visible, a king-sized platform bed.
Her eyes find it immediately. The implications register in the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the recalculation happening behind those pale green eyes.
“I’ll take the couch,” I say before she can speak, cutting off whatever objection or question was forming. Not out of consideration for her comfort, but to maintain the professional veneer this arrangement requires. At least for now.
I change the subject with deliberate abruptness.
“What do you call it?”
She turns, confusion momentarily replacing caution. “What?”
“Your poem,” I clarify, watching her face. “What do you call it?”
The question catches her off-guard. Good. I prefer her slightly unbalanced, reaching for solid ground.
“Word Collector,” she answers after a moment’s hesitation.
Word Collector. I consider it. Accurate. Efficient. It captures both the subject and the author in four syllables. She hoards words the way others collect art or cars—as treasures, as identity markers, as shields.
“It suits you,” I say, though I hadn’t intended to offer approval.
The words slip out before I can catch them.
“Make yourself at home. I’m going to go find out what the hell is going on.
There were no cars out front—typically my father likes to park his Phantom in the west-wing carport. But it’s not there so...”
I don’t know why I’m telling her this. It’s none of her business. Yet something about her standing there in my space makes me want to explain myself, a rare and unwelcome impulse.
I cross the polished floor to the control panel on the wall near the kitchen, my footsteps echoing in the quiet space.
With practiced precision, I press a button that activates the blackout shades.
They begin their slow, mechanical descent over the floor-to-ceiling windows, gradually sealing us off from the outside world.
Emmaleen’s body language shifts immediately. Her shoulders tense, her fingers curl slightly at her sides. Finally. A flicker of the wariness I’ve been waiting to see.
“What are you doing?” Her voice carries that careful neutrality people use when they’re trying not to sound afraid.
“I don’t want anyone to know you’re here.” I keep my tone matter-of-fact, watching her process this information.
“Why not?” She tilts her chin up slightly—a small act of defiance that I find oddly satisfying.
“Because I don’t know what’s going on. I need to find out.
” It could be anything. We could be at war with a rival family.
Someone could’ve died. My father could be making a power move.
Who the hell knows. But I don’t enlighten her with any of that.
The less she understands about my world, the safer she remains.
It’s only luck—or perhaps the hypervigilance that’s kept me alive this long—that makes me turn at precisely the right moment. Through the narrowing gap in the descending shades, I catch movement coming through the trees. A familiar silhouette that sends ice through my veins.
I lean forward, instinctively moving closer to confirm what I already know. “What the fuck is he doing here?”
“Who?” Emmaleen asks, turning toward the slowly disappearing windows, her eyes scanning for whatever has triggered my reaction.
“Shit.” The word hisses through my teeth, laden with years of history and complications she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“What?” Emmaleen’s voice has risen half an octave.
She’s more than nervous now—I can see the fear beginning to bloom across her features.
The blackout shades complete their descent with a soft mechanical click, and the entire place goes dark.
The only illumination comes from the digital readouts on the security system, casting an eerie blue glow across her face.
“Stay here. Don’t come out. Don’t open the door.” Without waiting for further questions, I turn to the door, open it just enough to slip through, and close it firmly behind me, leaving her alone in the darkness of my pool house.
As the lock clicks into place, I feel a strange, unfamiliar twinge of something like regret—for bringing her here, for the fear in her eyes, for whatever is about to happen with Rico LaRiccia back in my life.
It’s been five years since we’ve seen each other.
Five long years where I’ve managed to build something resembling stability, where the constant looking over my shoulder gradually faded into a dull awareness rather than acute vigilance.
Five years of peace where his name became just another ghost from my past rather than an active threat lurking around every corner.
Five years of safety, where I could sleep without checking the locks three times, where business decisions weren’t clouded by wondering if they might trigger his particular brand of retribution.
Five years where Pittsburgh and New York maintained their delicate equilibrium, where the LaRiccia family stayed on their side of the invisible boundary that kept our organizations from tearing each other apart.
Five years is not enough.
I put Emmaleen Rourke behind me now as my attention returns to Rico LaRiccia.
He emerges from between the trees like a supervillain, flanked by four enormous men arranged in a diamond formation. Two at his shoulders, two trailing behind. Not associates. Muscle. The kind of men who don’t speak because their only job is to break things when told to.
Rico himself looks unchanged. The same expensive suit that somehow appears both pristine and slept-in. The same swagger in his step. The same cruel mouth fixed in that perpetual half-smirk I’ve seen in my nightmares since childhood.
Behind me, I hear the distinctive rumble of Dom’s Escalade.
I keep my eyes fixed on Rico, tracking the sound as Dom pulls up and parks beside my Lamborghini.
Good. Reinforcements. Not that Dom and Ricky would be much help if Rico’s men decided to make this visit permanent, but at least I won’t be alone when the inevitable dick-measuring contest begins.
“Hey! What’d we miss?” Ricky calls out across the lawn as he and Dom approach. At least they had the sense to leave their glitter girls behind.
“Nothing yet,” I reply, keeping my voice deliberately low. “Your timing is perfect.”
Dom strides past me with that casual confidence that only men who think they’re immune to danger can pull off.
He engulfs Rico in a bear hug, slapping him on the shoulder like they’re old friends catching up after a fishing trip instead of representatives of rival crime families with enough bad blood between them to fill the Allegheny.
“Rico! Holy shit!” Dom’s laugh booms across the manicured lawn. “When’d you get in from New York?”
Rico tolerates Dom’s physical contact with surprising grace. A courtesy he wouldn’t extend to me.