37. Maxim
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
maxim
Cora had insisted that I couldn’t navigate the stairs on my crutches, so she’d set us up in the guest room. I wouldn’t admit that she was probably right. My leg hurt like an absolute bitch, throbbing and pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own despite the two tumblers of whiskey I’d downed and two ibuprofen.
Somehow, the beast was snuggled up on my chest, and despite everything, the little maniac was kind of comforting. The furball was purring like he was twice the size of one of those Abominable Snowmen on crack and kneading his little claws into my chest, but I couldn’t find it in me to mind.
“Here’s a glass of water and an extra couple of Ibuprofen for later tonight.” Cora set them on my nightstand, squinting at the sight of the kitten. “Made friends?” she snorted.
“I didn’t put him there. He just climbed up,” I defended myself.
“You’re warm. He knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“That’s right. Maybe you should climb on,” I suggested, hopefully.
She laughed. “Not a chance, big guy. You’re injured. You get kitten therapy. That’s it. Maybe tomorrow. Let’s see how you’re doing and if you can rest.”
“You’ll sleep with me, though, right?” Her gaze softened, and she brushed her hair back.
“Yes, Max. I’m sleeping here.” She slipped up onto the bed with me. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Music to my ears. I clasped her hand, and I let myself drift off, holding Clyde with the other.
The tension in the room was palpable as I watched Conall ease himself into the leather armchair at the head of the table. I wasn’t sure it was so advisable for him to be out of bed, but he’d insisted, and he was nothing but a stubborn son-of-a-bitch.
His face was pale but resolute, and the strain of the gunshot wound to his abdomen was evident in every movement. The lines of pain etched across his features reminded me of the toll this war was already taking. I followed him into the room, my crutches clicking softly against the marble floor as I moved to a seat beside Cora. She stayed close to her brother, her expression calm but watchful.
Angelo and Ilias were already seated, their presence commanding despite the casual elegance of their attire. Oliveto, an unexpected addition to the meeting, leaned against the back of his chair, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if sizing up the players on a chessboard.
I shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the discussion ahead pressing heavily on me. Gripping my crutches, I spoke, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s get to it. Vallone has made his move. He’s gone beyond posturing. An attack on us here … right on O’Kelly turf is a declaration of war. The other families won’t have anything to complain about when we hit back.”
Conall’s jaw tightened, and he nodded. “He should have made sure to kill us the first time around.”
Angelo’s smooth voice cut in, laced with menace. “Vallone’s ambition has always been his weakness. He’s overextended himself, and now we have an opportunity to strike. We need precision. Anything less will cost us more than we gain.”
“Agreed,” Ilias added, his tone measured. “But we also need to consider the collateral. Vallone isn’t just playing for power; he’s playing for chaos. He wants to draw us into a war we can’t control.”
That made a lot of sense.
Cosimo leaned forward, his voice cutting through the discussion with authority. “Chaos is exactly what we can’t afford. The question is, what’s our leverage? What do we have that he doesn’t?”
I glanced at Cora, feeling the weight of everyone’s gaze. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. “We have information,” I said, quieting my voice but no less firm. “Vallone thinks he’s untouchable, but he’s made mistakes. We have some of his accounts, but we need to get them all. We need to catalog all of his movements and… other vulnerabilities. I’ve asked a hacker friend to help me, but we need to set up some of our resources to do our own spying. Vallone is dedicating resources to this — we need to do the same.” I was gratified to see nods around the table.
Cora’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She had seen the files I had gone over with Ronnie, and we had pored over the details late into the night. It was damning, but it also meant we were playing a high-stakes game.
“We need to hit him where it hurts,” Conall said, his voice like steel. “Trafficking, for one, but we do it on our terms. No more reacting. We plan, we coordinate, and we finish this.”
“And we do it quickly,” I added. “Vallone isn’t going to sit back and wait for us to retaliate. He’ll be moving already.”
“What about his alliances?” Angelo asked, glancing at Ilias. “Do we know who’s backing him?”
“Some,” I admitted. “The Albanians are one of his major alliances, but there are more. That’s another piece we need before we strike. Any cracks in his foundation need to be exploited.”
The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the decision settling over us. Cora glanced at Conall, her voice soft but firm. “Whatever we do, we need to be certain. Vallone won’t just retaliate; he’ll escalate. Innocent people could get caught in the crossfire.”
“We’ll keep it clean,” Conall assured her. “But we can’t let him walk away from this. Not after what he’s done.”
“He’s made his decision. He’s not walking away,” I pointed out.
Cosimo stood, his movements deliberate. “Then let’s start—no more hypotheticals. We draw up the plan, assign the players, and make the move.”
“It’s going to be a process we can’t rush,” I warned.
As the men leaned forward, the conversation turning to logistics and strategy, I caught Cora’s gaze lingering on her brother. She could see the fire in his eyes, the determination to protect what was his. And as much as I knew she hated the violence, she also knew there was no turning back.
This was war, and we would all see it through.