Chapter 11
VAUGHN
She ate the scrambled eggs.
At first, I only heard the faint scrape of the fork on the plate. She probably fought herself with every bite, struggling over whether to give me the satisfaction. But hunger won. It always does.
From the hallway, I hear Riley get up and go to her room. The empty plate sits outside her door.
I take it, rinse it, and place a glass of water in its stead. Then I head into the living room.
The house is spartan, but it has everything necessary.
I bought it eight months ago through a shell company and had Valentino furnish it.
The kitchen has a gas stove and enough supplies for three months.
Canned goods, rice, pasta, flour, sugar, coffee, shelf-stable milk.
Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living room with a worn-out sofa and a wooden table.
A generator in the basement provides the power.
A cistern on the roof collects rainwater, supplemented by four pallets of bottled water in the pantry.
No television. No landline. No Wi-Fi router.
At least none that Riley will find.
I sit at the wooden table and pull my laptop from the bag Valentino stashed in the house before we arrived.
I reach into the side pocket of my backpack and pull out the satellite router.
A compact, gray device, barely larger than a paperback book.
I connect it to the power bank, activate the encrypted hotspot, and link my laptop.
The connection takes a minute, then the signal stabilizes. Slow, but steady.
My only access to the outside world. And one Riley must never discover.
I open the encrypted messenger and type.
Delivery arrived. Everything according to plan. Awaiting next instructions.
The message goes to two recipients. Griffin, sitting in Manhattan coordinating the legal front, and Valentino, who is in a motel somewhere between here and Las Vegas, waiting for my call.
Valentino Ferretti. If there is one person in this world I would trust with my life, it’s him. A remarkable statement, given that I fundamentally trust no one.
I lean back and wait for confirmation while my thoughts drift to the man who drove the car today. Valentino wasn't always my driver.
When I met him, he was a quiet Italian with sad eyes and a scholarship for economic law at the same university where I earned my computer science degree.
Eventually, he also became a member of the Chester Street Society.
He didn't belong to the Quattro—Beckett, Griffin, Marcel, and Cayden were a closed circle, a brotherhood within the brotherhood, so tightly knit you could barely see a seam from the outside.
Valentino stood on the edge, just like me.
Two outsiders in a society of the privileged.
We never bonded over a beer or had deep conversations about life. Our friendship was born of a favor. Or more precisely, of a mob boss’s son and his exceptionally unusual sexual preferences.
Valentino's family is from a village in Calabria.
His father ran a small olive farm there until the local 'Ndrangheta family decided the farm belonged to them.
The Ferrettis paid protection money for years until they finally couldn't anymore.
Then came the threats. Then the violence.
Valentino was twelve when his father came home from the hospital with a broken jaw and said they had to leave the village.
They fled to America. Valentino worked his way through school, got the scholarship, and thought he’d left the past behind.
Until the extortionists tracked his family down in the States.
The long arm of the Cosa Nostra—or in this case, the 'Ndrangheta—reaches far across borders, and old debts don't just vanish.
Valentino was on the verge of dropping out of university to raise the money his family allegedly owed the mafia.
Nearly a hundred thousand dollars that his parents obviously didn't have.
Then I stepped in. I can't even say exactly why I helped him—probably because I could, and because Valentino was one of the few people who never asked about my past. I hacked into the extortionist clan's private servers and found things that were remarkable even by mafia standards. The local Don’s son—a man named Rocco, who was considered a god-fearing family man in his village—had a cloud storage full of videos where he did things with animals for which there is no word in any language I care to speak.
I sent Rocco an anonymous message. A single screenshot and a simple instruction: The Ferretti family is not to be harassed again.
The Ferrettis haven't heard from the 'Ndrangheta since.
Valentino never asked how I did it. He only said: I owe you my life, and if you ever need me, I’m here. He hasn't broken that promise once in the last fifteen years. He’s the man who set up the safehouse. Who delivers the supplies. Who drives the car. Who doesn't ask questions he shouldn't.
And now Valentino is on call. When supplies run low, when I need new gear, when plans change—one call, and he’s here within hours. Some people do anything for money. Valentino doesn't do it for money. He does it because I saved what no currency in the world can replace: his family.
Can you ever rely one hundred percent on another human being? No. Life taught me that early on. But if there’s anyone who comes closest to that mark, it’s Valentino.
Griffin’s reply appears on the screen. Brief and legalistic.
Understood. Marriage certificate registered with the County. Contract will be notarized on Monday. Blackstone hasn't made a move yet, likely doesn't know anything. Stand by.
I read the message twice and delete it. Then I close the laptop and disconnect the satellite router. I slide it back into the backpack pocket and stow everything in the living room cabinet, behind a stack of blankets where Riley won't look.
From the hallway comes the sound of running water. Riley is showering.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the wall. The rush of the shower fills the house like steady breathing. And without being able to stop it, an image pushes into my mind.
Riley, standing before me last night. The green dress a puddle around her feet.
Her gaze searching mine because she wanted to give herself permission to stop being a good girl.
Her skin under my hands. The way her back arched when I touched her for the first time.
Her breasts, her hips, the curve of her stomach, the freckles on her shoulders that I traced with my mouth.
My body reacts to the memory before my mind can intervene. A dull throb spreading beneath the fabric of my trousers.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Concentration. Discipline. I didn't come here to be distracted by a woman. Not even a woman who looks so good naked it clouds my judgment.
Richard Blackstone had no compassion when he took everything from my parents.
Compassion is a luxury I cannot afford. Not now. Not with what’s at stake.
The water stops, and I hear Riley step out of the shower.
Footsteps on the tiles, the rustle of fabric—she’s changing, likely into the clothes I left in the dresser.
T-shirts, sweatpants, underwear, all in her size.
I know her size because I hacked the order history of the online shop the Onyx Grand uses for employee uniforms.
It’s ten o'clock at night now, and through the kitchen window, I see nothing but darkness. No point of light on the horizon. No moon tonight. Only the desert and the stars, so numerous the sky looks like someone tossed white sand onto black velvet.
The footsteps in the hall grow louder until Riley stands in the doorway.
Wet hair falling in dark strands over her shoulders. The white T-shirt fits her well; she’s rolled up the sweatpants because they drag slightly at the ankles, larger than expected. Her feet are bare on the stone tiles. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying.
She looks exhausted, but her gaze is clear. It’s the look of a woman who has stopped crying because crying changes nothing. More than anything, it’s the look of a woman who wants answers.
“I want to know why I’m here. Now,” she says.
“Sit down,” I tell her. “It’s a long story.”