Chapter 9 – LUCA
LUCA
The gates swing open before I reach them, the guard in the booth watching my approach on the cameras. He sees my car and knows better than to make me wait on a night like this.
The drive is long and winding, lined with trees that cost an obscene amount to import and plant, and landscape lighting picks out the impressive stone facade of the three-story house as I pull up.
Normally, seeing my home—the one I paid for with my own money and not my father's—gives me immense pride.
Not tonight. Tonight, all I can think about is finding whoever did this and making them regret it.
Feeling more than a little pissed off, I leave the keys in the ignition when I climb out, knowing my guards at the front entrance will move the car to the garage. Like a well-oiled machine, they know what needs to be done before I ask.
Nico is waiting in the foyer, still in the suit he wore to the party, though his tie is gone, and his chin is shadowed with stubble.
"How is she?" I ask.
"Still sedated," he says, expression grim.
I don't slow my stride, moving past him toward the east wing.
"They're saying the next twenty-four hours are critical."
He falls into step beside me, our footsteps echoing off the pale floors. The house is silent around us, lights dimmed, staff making themselves scarce. Bad news travels fast. They’ll know we don’t want to be disturbed.
My office is at the end of the hall, the one room I actually chose myself, where the rest of the house was decorated by a designer I met once and never saw again.
This space is all dark wood paneling, leather furniture worn soft from use, and shelves lined with the books I've actually read and loved.
I head straight for the side table where a crystal decanter of whiskey catches the low light. Under a silver dome, some food’s been left for me by the ever-attentive Carmella, but I don’t have the stomach for it right now.
Instead, I pour two generous fingers of whiskey into a tumbler before loosening my tie and dragging it over my head. The top button of my shirt follows, then my cuffs, which I roll methodically to my elbows, as Nico closes the door.
"Have you checked in with everyone?" I ask, crossing to the wall of monitors that display feeds from cameras positioned throughout, not just this property, but key businesses and assets I own across the city. All appears quiet.
“No signs of any other trouble.” Nico settles into one of the leather chairs facing my desk and crosses his long legs at the ankles. "Father's detail has been doubled. The men rotating through the hospital to protect Kate are armed and briefed. We’ve got someone on every entrance."
Good.
I take another long sip of the whiskey, letting the burn slide down my throat as I scan the feeds. The clubs and the casinos. The warehouses. The hotels. Nothing stands out.
"What about the shipment next week?" My mind is distracted, but this is one of the joys of being the boss. No matter what else is going on, you still have to take care of business.
"I've asked Corso to revisit the logistics and security arrangements. He's wondering if we should delay until we know more about what we're dealing with."
Lifting the glass to my lips once more, I pretend to consider the suggestion, but I already know what we should do.
"No." I turn from the monitors to face him. "Business as usual, albeit on high alert. We don't flinch."
Nico's face suggests he disagrees, but instead of arguing, he looks for a concession. "Then we double the escort and add a decoy vehicle just in case."
I nod. "Fine. Do it."
As Nico pulls out his phone to relay my orders, I sink into my chair, the leather creaking beneath me as I lean back, legs outstretched. Outside, the sky is brightening, with the faint orange glow of dawn teasing the horizon.
But yesterday isn’t quite over for us. There will be no sleep tonight.
“Corso has no more news yet.” Nico volunteers, still glued to the screen in his hands. "But the Russians are the obvious answer. They've been trying to renegotiate territory for months. Maybe they got sick of talking. This could be an opening move."
The Russians are the obvious answer, too obvious for my liking. Plus, for reasons I’m not inclined to share with my brother just yet, I'm confident it wasn't them.
Or at least, it wasn't authorized by their leadership. There's always the chance someone's gone rogue.
"They wouldn't risk starting a war. Not like this." I cross my arms and stare into the glass I’m still clutching in one hand. "And if Mikhail was sent to kill me, I'd be dead, but without a room full of witnesses to the event." I swirl my drink, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
A public attack with this much law enforcement and media attention isn't the Russian’s style. They prefer clean and deniable. A fall out of a window. A tragic car accident. Poison. Not sloppy shootings.
Nico shudders but reluctantly accepts my point. "The Irish then. They hate us. And none of them attended the party, conveniently."
It is convenient, there’s no denying that.
"They hate our father," I correct. "We're just guilty by association." It's taken me years to rebuild those bridges. Tonight was meant to be the first step. Instead, it's all gone to shit. "And why would they sabotage their own deal? Or risk Kate?"
Nothing about this is adding up.
"So maybe not Finn himself, but someone who didn't want Kate married to you? And thought removing you from the equation was worth the risk."
There's merit to the theory, but if so, they fucked up royally. It's Kate that’s lying in a hospital bed, not me.
I set my drink down harder than I intended, frustration bleeding through. “None of this makes fucking sense."
We sit in silence for a moment, weighing all the unanswered questions and trying to make sense of the fragments of information we have. But it’s not enough.
On the monitors, a guard makes his rounds along the perimeter wall, rubbing his hands together to fend off the cold dawn air. Normally, my men keep to the comfort of the huts dotted around the property. Not today.
"So if it's not the Russians," Nico says slowly, "and it's not the Irish, then who? An unsanctioned attack? A personal vendetta?"
There are plenty of people who would like to see me dead, that comes with the territory, but nothing stands out.
"Maybe." I stare at the wall of screens. "Or maybe it's someone closer to home."
Even saying the words aloud feels dangerous. We both know what that means. Another family watching my father weaken, watching me prepare to step up, unconvinced I'm the right man for the job, thinking their bloodline would do a better one.
Nico's eyes dart briefly to the door to make sure it’s shut. Even under this roof, there are ambitious men who don't always agree with my plans. But to question the trust and loyalty of our own is a grave matter.
"Who else wants to take over?" Nico asks, palms up. “I sure as hell don’t.”
Lots of people want my job, or more precisely, they want the money and power that come with it. The old guard thinks I'm too young, too reckless, too willing to shake up how things have always been done. The young guns always think they could do better.
And nobody likes change. Rich, powerful men, least of all.
"It's not just who wants it. The real question is who has the balls to do something about it."
That’s a far shorter list.
"Which reminds me." Nico reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a phone. "There's something you should see."
He connects it to the monitor system. The wall of screens flickers, the security feeds replaced by a single frozen image of Bellini's dining room, captured from what looks like a camera held at chest height.
"I had the men collect footage from everyone who did any recording," he explains, fingers moving across the phone screen to queue up multiple files. “Most of it is useless, but…” He hesitates, and I wonder why it hasn’t started playing yet. “Luca…”
"Just fucking show me."
He hits play, then backs away as the chaos unfolds across the screens in front of me.
The first clip is shaky, panning across the crowd, everyone laughing and celebrating, in the moments before everything went to hell. I recognize friends and business partners, all of them dressed in their finest, glasses raised, smiles wide.
Then the window explodes, and the sound of music and conversation is replaced by the pop, pop of gunfire and screams.
The phone jerks wildly, capturing a blur of ceiling and floor as the person holding it dives for cover. The footage switches to another angle, from someone closer to the bar, and the chaos becomes clearer.
Glass rains down across the marble floor. Bodies hit the ground as they dive for cover. My men are drawing weapons, all of them oriented toward the blown-out front windows where the first shots came from.
I curse. The distraction worked perfectly.
On the screen, I rush across the frame, shoving past panicked guests, toward Sienna, frozen in the middle of the room.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortably aware of Nico watching as I launch myself at her, taking her down, and shielding her body with mine.
She twists her face, looking up at me, terrified, as I scan for the threat from above her.
Nico says nothing, just waits as the footage switches to another angle.
This one shows the far side of the room where he’s shoving our father, protecting him while formulating an exit plan. Father is fighting Nico, wanting to stay, but Nico holds firm and ushers him to safety.
I feel a flash of pride. He did well tonight. “Good job.”
When I glance at him, he refuses to meet my eye, instead nodding his head toward the TV.
"Here. This part." Nico moves closer and points as the footage changes once more to that of a woman talking to the camera as she records.
The image quality is better than the others. Behind the woman's pouting face, there, in the shadows, is a figure in black, a ski mask pulled low, the smoking gun still slightly raised in his gloved hand. He’s calm amidst the pandemonium around him.
He's not firing. He’s not running. He's looking at someone.
The camera turns slightly, and suddenly, I can see what he's looking at.
Sienna.
She's pinned beneath me, but while I’m shouting orders, the shooter looks at her, and she looks right back.
“What is she doing?” I hiss. My heart rate spikes, even knowing that she’s home safe with Tony posted at her door. “She’s lucky she didn’t get herself killed.”
Nico grunts. Eye-balling someone pointing a gun at you is never a good idea. Their stare off only lasts a couple of seconds, but it feels like forever.
Then the gunman raises a finger to his lips and backs away into the shadows.
A rush of cold dread floods my veins.
“She didn’t mention this?” Nico asks, but I ignore him, needing to be sure what I just saw.
"Play it again."
Nico rewinds, and I watch it unfold a second time.
"Again."
The footage loops, and I lean forward, hands braced on the desk, watching her share an unspoken moment of connection with a shooter while I’m shielding her fucking body with mine.
Stay quiet. Keep this between us.
And she did. She didn’t say a word.
"She lied to me." My tone is measured, but Nico knows to recognize the danger in that. “She said she thought he bumped into her earlier. But she never mentioned… this.”
Nico doesn’t comment, knows there’s no need to. “I’ll see if I can find that in the footage.”
Nodding, I stare at the screen and think of her standing there in her towel, all that defiance, telling me not to come back. The whole time she was hiding this. And I was too affected by the memory of us, by being close to her again, to push her as hard as I should have.
"He had a clear shot of you," Nico says carefully. "Why didn't he take it?"
I know what he’s suggesting, that the shooter knows Sienna, and with her trapped under my body, finishing me would have meant killing her too. But I don't answer. I'm still trying to push down the rising tornado of anger and betrayal that I feel.
She fucking lied to me.
"Think about it." Nico presses on. "She shows up at your engagement party, of all places, after ten years, on the same night someone decides to take a shot at you.”
The words settle into the silence. I turn his words over, looking for a flaw in the logic, but I can't find one.
"If this were anyone else," Nico adds, quieter now, "you'd already have them in a room with Corso."
He's right, but that’s not what’s going to happen here, even if I do accept the possibility that she might have been involved.
Draining what's left in my glass, I pause the footage on that one gesture she chose not to share with me. "Do not show this to Father."
Nico stares at me. "He'll want to see everything we have."
"I said no." The look I give him leaves no room for argument. "Not until I've dealt with her."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, weighing whether to push back on the wisdom of me getting personally involved. “I could find out. If you didn’t want to set Corso on her.”
“NO.”
"Fine. But let the record show, I think dealing with her yourself, is going to blow up in your face.”
When I crack my knuckles, he pales but continues.
“And he’s going to use you keeping this from him as a reason to keep his grubby hands on the reins for a while longer."
Probably.
"I'll worry about him. You reach out to the Russians and make sure this isn’t their doing."
Nico nods, but there’s no missing the concern in his eyes. This woman pushed me to the edge once before.
"And get me that fucking file," I say, fixated on the grainy image of the woman I was once convinced would be by my side forever.
"And then?"
I pour myself another measure and lean back in my chair.
"Then I pay Sienna another visit and make sure she understands she’s not going to be able to run from me this time."