Chapter 2
Adrian
The man in my chair is crying. The sad little whimpers coming out of his throat make me want to crush his voice box. Unfortunately, that would mean I wouldn't be getting the information out of him that I need.
"Please," he whimpers, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Please, I told you everything—"
"You told me what you thought I wanted to hear." I wipe my hands on the towel Leo hands me, leaving dark red streaks across white cotton. "That's not the same as the truth."
My apartment is quiet except for the man's labored breathing and the soft jazz playing from the speakers. Coltrane. Leo's choice. He's leaning against my kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching with the detached interest of someone observing a mildly entertaining play.
Leo is always like this—detached. I think it's because he was in the military. I'm certain he's seen things worse than this. Not that we talk about it.
I walk past him toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view is spectacular, and it's wasted on the man bleeding behind me.
I sigh. "You know…" I don't turn around. "It's a shame that they don't open anymore." I chuckle. "They stopped for safety reasons. Too many people were jumping."
"Please…" the man gasps. "I'm sorry. I'll pay—"
I twirl my knife between my fingers as I turn back to the man. "Now," I smirk, "I didn't go to med school, but I once watched a YouTube video on how to cut the larynx and keep a man alive. Shall we see how good I am?"
The man whimpers.
"Adrian," Leo says, his voice dry. "He can't talk if he's physically unable."
I glance at the man, considering. His eyes widen with fresh terror. I'm pretty sure he pissed himself at some point. I can smell the scent of urine in the air.
"Good point." I lean forward, pressing my knife against his orbital bone. "But you don't need both eyes."
He starts crying. "I swear!"
I press harder, a stream of blood blooming under the knife. "The shipment that went missing from the docks last week. Who paid you to look the other way?"
"Please, God! I needed the money. My mother—"
I move so fast, the man's eye squelches on my knife before he can process it enough to scream. "Names!"
He chokes out two names. Port authority. I suspect they're plants from the Russians, but I can't be sure.
The man is sobbing, tears, blood, and snot making a mess of him.
I turn to Leo. "Get him out of here and make sure those two names don't show up for work tomorrow."
"Dead or disappeared?" Leo asks.
I glance at Leo, checking to see if he's serious.
"Dealer's choice."
Leo nods, pulling out his phone to make the call. The man in the chair is gulping in air. He thinks this is over. I'd feel pity for him if I were capable.
As it were, he should be glad he's going to end up with a bullet in his head instead of dismembered while breathing.
That is mercy.
At least, in my book.
My phone rings. Bianca.
Of course.
"Your mother has impeccable timing," Leo observes.
I answer. "What?"
"Good evening to you too, darling." Her voice is cool, controlled, the same voice she's used my entire life. No warmth. No affection. Just calculation. "I need you at the mansion. We have business to discuss."
"I'm taking care of our rat problem."
"Finish it and come here. And Adrian?" A pause. "You're attending the gala at The Palazzo tonight. Be presentable."
She hangs up before I can respond, which is not unlike her.
My mother isn't just the head of the Nero family. She's the chairwoman of the Commission—the coalition that controls every Italian operation in New York. The Marinis, the Costas, the Russos. They all defer to her. They all answer to her.
And when she steps down, they'll defer to me.
If they think I'm ready.
"She wants me at a charity gala," I tell Leo.
"Of course she does." Leo is already texting someone, probably arranging cleanup for our guest. "You're her heir. She wants you to be seen."
"I'm busy ensuring that the entire city is terrified of her."
"By what? Torturing mid-level employees?
" He glances at the man in the chair with something like pity.
I never know if it's for the person, the situation, or something else.
Leo is a complex individual. "This one's told you everything he knows.
Either kill him or let him go but do it quickly. You're going to be late."
He's right, which pisses me off.
I walk back to the man, lean down until we're eye level. He's trembling so hard the chair creaks. I press a hand to his cheek, pressing my fingers into his jaw. "Tonight is your lucky evening."
He's sobbing openly, and I'm disgusted.
"You're going to leave the city," I tell him. "Tonight. And you're never going to work in shipping again. If I see you, if I hear your name, if you so much as think about coming back to New York, I will make sure that your entire family is dead."
He nods frantically. "Yes. Yes, I'm gone. Thank you—"
Leo makes a phone call and two of my men appear from the service entrance. They haul the man out, still crying, still thanking me.
"You're getting soft," Leo says.
"I'm bored." I head toward my bedroom, already pulling off my shirt. There's blood on the cuff, and I need to change anyway for this gala. "Killing him wouldn't have been fun. He'd already pissed himself, and I'd only taken an eye. Plus, like you said, he's low level."
"And yet you let him live."
"He's not worth the cleanup." I strip out of my pants, grabbing my tux. "Besides, Bianca wants me presentable. Hard to show up to a gala with blood under my fingernails."
Leo follows me, leaning against the doorframe as I head into the bathroom. I turn the water on hot enough to sting.
"What do you think she wants?" Leo asks from outside the door.
"To remind me I'm still waiting." I step under the spray, watching pink-tinged water circle the drain. "The Morozov family has been pushing boundaries. She'll want me to handle it, but on her terms. Her timeline. Her strategy."
"And you'd rather just handle it yourself?"
"I'd rather put a bullet in Alexei Morozov's skull and be done with it." I scrub my hands, watching the last of the blood disappear. "But that's not how Bianca operates. She wants negotiation. Posturing. Chess moves."
"She's kept the entire Commission unified for twenty years," Leo says. "That takes more than bullets."
He's not wrong. "I respect what she's done," I admit, shutting off the water. "Keeping five families from tearing each other apart while the Russians try to move in? That takes skill." I grab a towel. "I just don't think she's the only one who can do it anymore."
Leo doesn't answer. He never speaks against my mother. After all, she is his actual boss.
"I'm going to go and make sure those two port authority agents are dealt with," Leo says.
I grunt, and finish dressing in silence.
By the time I'm ready, I look nothing like the man who was elbow-deep in someone else's blood twenty minutes ago. I look like old money. Like power. Like everything the Nero name represents.
Bianca will be pleased.
It doesn't take long to get to the mansion. Manhattan traffic is at a weird lull.
Figures that the night I want to drag things out, we move quickly.
The Nero mansion rises up on East 72nd Street, six stories of limestone and iron, every window glowing. It's been in our family for three generations. My grandfather bought it. My father expanded it. Bianca rules it.
One day it'll be mine.
I'll probably gut it and start fresh.
The gate opens before we reach it. Bianca's security already knows we're coming. Everything about this house is controlled, monitored, perfect.
Like her.
I walk in without knocking. I don't need to. This will be mine eventually, despite what my mother thinks.
The interior is exactly as cold as the exterior suggests. White marble floors. White walls. Original artwork worth millions. Everything pristine, everything bloodless. Like stepping into a mausoleum.
"She's in her office," one of Bianca's assistants says, appearing from nowhere. Young, blonde, terrified. Probably one of her spies. Smart girl.
Bianca sits behind her desk, perfectly composed in a cream-colored suit, her dark hair pulled back in a chignon. My mother is sixty years old and still beautiful in that cold, untouchable way—like a marble statue.
"Adrian." She doesn't look up from the document she's reading. "You're late."
"I was handling our mole."
Bianca looks up. "And?"
"Leo is taking care of the names he gave us."
"And the individual?"
"He was taking money for his mother. I decided to take his eye and let him go."
Her lips press into a thin line, and I watch as she takes her phone and sends off a text. "We don't leave loose ends," she scolds. "I thought I taught you better than that."
An insult sits on the tip of my tongue, but I roll it back. There's no point in trying to go toe to toe here. My mother isn't incorrect that I should have killed him, and I would have had she not interrupted.
Not that it matters now. The man is likely dead as we speak.
"The Morozov family has been making moves in Brooklyn. Small things. Testing boundaries."
"So let me remind them what happens when they cross those boundaries."
"With violence?" She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a particularly interesting problem. "That's always your answer."
"Because it works."
"In the short term." She stands, moving to the window. Outside, the garden is dark except for strategic lighting. "In the long term, it creates enemies. Instability. We've maintained power through strategy, not brutality."
"We've maintained power through fear," I correct. "The Russians don't respect strategy. They respect strength."
"And you think you're strong enough to lead this family?"
Here we go. The same conversation we've had for three years.
"I am." Not arrogant. Just fact. "The question is whether you're ready to let go."
Something flickers across her face. Not anger. Calculation. She's wondering if I'm testing her or stating the obvious.