Chapter 16
Maximo
Constance comes home quieter than the grave she’s trying to avenge, and silence follows her through the halls.
Eventually, she curls up in her room with a book she probably isn’t even reading.
At six forty-five, I send Leonard to tell her we’re having dinner at seven tonight. If she wants to keep freezing me out for wanting to protect her, she can do it at the table to my face.
By the time she comes down, Enzo is already there, nursing a glass of Chianti at the far end of the table. It pairs well with the prime rib my chef’s prepared for the evening. I brought down my laptop to stream the local news while Francis brings out the rest of our dinner.
Constance hesitates at the doorway.
“Have a seat,” I tell her, gesturing to the chair on my right so she can see the laptop as well.
She does, and her eyes stay fixed on the screen. The anchor’s polished smile fades as the segment changes, and a live shot of the city’s courthouse fills the frame.
Arthur Darby, former mayor, family associate, and the man whose campaign I had bankrolled, stands at a podium beside Byron Mathews, the current mayor, bought and paid for by the Bratva.
Darby looks older than the last time I saw him.
His hair is thinner, his suit baggier, hanging unhealthily from him as though he had suddenly lost weight.
“…this senseless violence has to stop,” Darby says. “We’re calling for a full investigation into the criminal activity plaguing our city, and we will not tolerate armed gangs fighting in our streets.”
Mathews steps forward, nodding gravely as he takes over the podium. “We’ll be working closely with law enforcement to bring those responsible to justice.”
The camera cuts to footage from the pier, panning across the flashing lights, police tape, and dark-clad figures to the burned-up warehouse.
There’s a long shot of a black-bagged body being rolled out on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance.
There are no wanted faces on the screen and no accusations against me personally, but the message is clear enough to those who are meant to hear it.
They want people to believe the Luciani family is fucking slipping.
A pulse of rage flares hot behind my ribs. They’re painting me as weak. That’s the first step before they go for the kill.
I close my laptop and turn back to Constance. “That’s what Enzo brought to my attention earlier. Our own people are now making nice with Bratva puppets in public.”
Constance doesn’t flinch, but the tension in her shoulders shifts, tightening, not softening. She understands the blow this is meant to be.
Enzo sets his glass down on the table. “Ever since Darby lost the election, our local political clout has waned. We still have good enough relations at the state level that no one would dare accuse you directly of any crime, but this push by the city police is coming from the mayor, who is taking orders from Alexei Volkov.”
“They know I’ve got enough friends and associates, as well as lawyers, to fight off any direct accusations against me. That’s why they’re targeting our infrastructure,” I explain to Constance.
“That’s not all,” Enzo continues. “I’ve gone through what we recovered from the raid—there wasn’t much left by the time we got there. The Russians were moving guns and drugs through the port. My guess? They got tipped off when we were coming. Everything of real value was gone.”
“Which means someone in our communication chain is dirty,” I mutter.
Enzo nods grimly. “I’ve already put the word out on the street like you ordered—Maximo Luciani’s badly wounded and leaving town for his own health and safety. Kirill will probably hear it inside an hour. He’ll think he’s won.”
Constance glances at me. “And then Saturday…”
“We burn Club Metron to the ground, with him and all his cronies,” I finish for her.
Enzo leans forward, his voice low. “There’s one more thing. Kirill and his uncle Alexei, they’ve got crews out contesting control of our territories all over the city. Street corners, our business rackets, even some of the old gambling rooms. They’re testing every inch of our territory.”
My jaw ticks. So, this is their play, bleed us slowly before they come for me.
I sit back and let all the pieces arrange themselves in my head. A war on the streets, a war in the press, a mole feeding them intel. And in forty-eight hours, we’ll either take Kirill off the board or give him exactly what he wants.
“We have to hit them hard,” I finally say. “Starting Saturday night.”
Constance’s gaze holds mine across the table. She’s still angry, still daring me to try and keep her out of it.
Two days. That’s all the time we have to make sure the fire burns the way we need it to. “Let’s eat, then we need to make a plan. How exactly are we going to burn the club down while the Bratva are celebrating?”
“They may be careless; they may even think they’ve already won if you lie low and we don’t retaliate any further,” Enzo says.
“Don’t rely on that,” Constance breaks her silence as she shakes her head. “Don’t ever assume your enemy is stupid or even distracted. They’ve been onto us so far, and I doubt they’ll let their guard down now.”
“She’s right,” I agree while flashing her a tight smile. “They’re likely to have a police presence there as well. The only way this is going to work is if we plant a device in the club tomorrow, in preparation for Saturday.”
“I can get some boys out late tonight to sabotage the HVAC system at the club, so they’ll have to call in a repairman tomorrow,” Enzo offers.
“We’ll make sure one of our crews gets the job; that will give us access to plant a bomb in the ductwork.
If we blow it up in the insulation, we should get the inferno we need to put Kirill on his heels and get a shot at him. ”
“A device in the club is a point of no return,” I warn. “If the police trace anything back to us—”
“They won’t,” Enzo cuts in.
“Make the calls,” I order him. “While we’re at it, I’ll call the capos tonight and try to calm their nerves. With their crews being pressed all over the city, I want them to know I still have their back…”
“Don’t do that,” Constance interrupts. “You’ve got leaks, Maximo, even more than that Pellegrini rat. I know you want to reassure the people in your ‘family,’ but if we’re going to pull off Saturday, the Bratva can’t have even a hint of a warning…”
“You’re right.” I sigh in defeat and rub my forehead. “I’m not thinking clearly. Between my ribs and my leg, I’m fucking exhausted. It’s in my nature to keep my captains in the know, but now…”
“Come on, let’s go to bed,” Constance says as she moves around the table and pulls me to my feet.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Enzo confirms.
“Call me as soon as everything is ready,” I remind him.
As Constance and I make our way upstairs, she turns to me with concern etched on her pretty face. “Are you sure about this, Max? Planting a bomb, burning the club down to get to Kirill Volkov?”
I enjoy the way she says the shortened version of my name way too much. But I push those thoughts aside for now.
“Kirill and his uncle Alexei are the ones responsible for your father’s death. I thought you were ready to do anything to get revenge.”
“I am. I just thought…I thought it would be more personal. Although, I guess there is a poetic justice to killing him in a fire.”
“The explosion and the fire hopefully won’t kill anyone.
I’m not looking for any collateral damage,” I explain to her.
“I just want Kirill to panic and get flushed out of the club. It’ll be risky with a police presence, but I’ll have men outside ready to take a shot at him.
We’ll get him Saturday night,” I promise her.
“That’s still leaving too much to chance,” she replies. “What if the HVAC technician leaves something besides a bomb at the club? What if he also left a gun?”
The walls seem to narrow around her words.
This isn’t the same woman I watched weep next to her father’s grave.
This is someone forged by grief and fury. Someone stepping toward a line she may never come back from.
“Why would he do that?” I ask warily, even though I have a good idea.
“Because I’m an unfamiliar face. Nobody in the Bratva knows me.”
“Some of the Russians could have seen you at the warehouse on the pier. They would remember you.”
“The only ones that looked my way got shot,” she counters. “None of the men in that gunfight would be able to pick me out of a line-up. My looks aren’t that noteworthy.”
“I beg to differ.” I smile at her as I prop myself against the mattress and begin gingerly unbuttoning my shirt. “I think your looks are quite noteworthy.”
“Save it, Romeo,” she says with a smile as she helps pull my undershirt over my head. “I want to be on the ground Saturday night at the club. If your plan is to burn the place down and try to shoot Kirill when he runs, I want to be there. I want to be a shooter.”
“Absolutely not. It’s going to be chaos in the streets; you could get swept up in a stampede or accidentally injured in a dozen other ways. No, you and I are staying here Saturday, and that’s final.”
Her eyes spark with defiance, sharp enough to slice through every boundary I’m still pretending exists between us.
She doesn’t reply to my ultimatum. She just leans in and kisses me, soft and certain, like the argument is already over.
And as she melts against me, I know my words never stand a chance.
Constance Monroe listens to exactly one voice—her own.
And that voice has already decided she’s going to that club on Saturday night, with or without me.
Constance
Maximo is asleep before midnight, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the dark bedroom.
I lay beside him for another ten minutes, listening, waiting, until I’m sure he won’t wake when I slide out from underneath the covers.
A part of me whispers that I should stay. That slipping away from him tonight is crossing a line I can’t uncross. I smother it and keep walking.
The hallways are quiet, the kind of stillness that comes when most of the house is sleeping but a few corners are still humming with business. I find that hum in Maximo’s office; a murmur of voices and a warm slice of light spilling out into the corridor.
Enzo is inside, leaning back in Maximo’s chair with his phone to his ear. His voice is low, calm. It sounds like he’s negotiating, threatening, and bargaining with someone all at once.
“Make sure the HVAC techs are there first thing in the morning. Not too early to be suspicious but not delaying.” He hangs up, makes another call, then another, each one stitching together another piece of Saturday night’s trap while I listen.
“Are you sure the HVAC techs are loyal?” I finally ask him from the doorway.
Enzo looks up, not startled but watchful.
“They’ve been with us for years. The elder Luciani, God rest his soul, helped them get their business started with some seed money.
They owe the family favors. They’ll repair the system so it’s nice and warm for the party but leave a surprise that will blow the roof off the building and smoke the place out quick as that.
” He raises a hand and snaps his fingers.
“Good.” I take the final step inside the office. From the pocket of my bathrobe, I pull the Glock I’ve been carrying and practicing with for days here at the estate. I study it for a moment, so sleek and familiar now. It’s comforting in my hand. I set it down on the desk in front of Enzo.
“I want this hidden somewhere inside the club. Bathroom ductwork, utility closet, anywhere I can get to it quickly if things go sideways.”
Enzo frowns, his eyes narrowing. “Absolutely not,” he snaps. “Maximo would put a bullet in my skull if I armed you for something suicidal.”
I lean forward, putting my palms on the desk.
“I’m going, Enzo. With or without your blessing, or his.
I won’t stand outside while the man who murdered my father walks past me untouched,” I explain to him.
“So, you can help me prepare, or you can leave me unarmed in the middle of a Bratva party. And when Maximo finds out, he’ll be a hell of a lot angrier at you than at me.
” That last part is a stretch, but it has the desired effect.
Enzo’s jaw works for a moment, but he doesn’t answer right away.
“You know I’m right,” I add quietly.
“Dammit, Constance… you’re forcing my hand.”
Finally, he sighs, picks up the Glock, and tucks it into his jacket.
“Fine,” he caves. “But I’m telling Maximo what I’m doing. I’ll put it where you can reach it, but I’m not keeping this from him.”
“That’s fair,” I say, even though we both know it isn’t. My stomach knots. I told him Maximo would be angrier at him than at me, but we both know that’s a lie big enough to choke on.
Enzo shakes his head. “You’re even more trouble than I expected. I’ll do this, but only because I know he won’t let you set one foot in that club,” he adds before picking up his phone and going back to his calls.
I leave him there, satisfied, with the phantom weight of the Glock still warm in my palm.
Come Saturday night, I’ll be ready.
By the time I slide back into bed, Maximo’s breathing hasn’t changed. He doesn’t stir when I curl against him. He has no idea the world is already shifting around him.
I close my eyes, and all I see is the Glock, the smoke, the fire we’re about to ignite.
Saturday night, I’m not watching from the sidelines.
I’m going in.