Chapter Eight
Stefano
THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT HER eyes.
Big, bright, striking emerald-green.
I’ve seen them before. Sure of it. Staring into them feels like standing on the edge of an icy mountain, gazing up at the aurora borealis.
For shit’s sake. I shake it off and refocus on the chessboard in front of me.
Vale waits patiently across the table, arms relaxed, confidence unwavering. Knowing he’ll remain undefeated no matter how long I stare at the board.
We’ve been playing since I was a boy, and I’ve yet to beat him. Not even once. The bastard has never even thrown me a pity win. He may be a priest, but he’s no sucker.
Most would’ve given up a long time ago. But somewhere along the way, my weekly Sunday matches with him became a kind of meditation. A time to review the choices made that week, reset, and, if necessary, rethink. Sitting at this table, losing to the best, helps me win where it matters.
Vale takes a slow drink of his iced tea. “Rumor has it your organization is cracking from the inside.”
I scoff. “You hear that inside the confession booth?”
He chuckles. “From within my echoing church walls. Where I hear most rumors.”
“Mhm. What else is a church for if not useless gossip.” I reach for a piece, reconsider, and pull back. “I run a tight ship, Uncle. Always have. There are no slits in my sails.”
Vale drums his fingers against the table’s edge. “Have you given any thought to turning your life over to Christ? Or will you just continue to be lukewarm?”
He asks me this every week, like it’s a mandatory closing line. The altar calls at the end of every sermon.
“As long as his rules are the same? No.” I lean back. “Your Christ wants me poor and pathetic now so I can be rich later. Whatever that means. Why can’t I be rich now and rich later? If you ask me, he’s an egotistical sadist.”
Vale snorts. “And yet, you never miss mass.”
“Because I’m still afraid of Mamma. If I stop going, I’ve no doubt that when I inevitably die and wake up in hell, she’ll find a way out of heaven to track me down and paddle my ass.”
Vale throws his head back in laughter. “Oh, how I miss your mamma. She was a riot.”
I miss her, too.
I make my move, and Vale tuts, as though he knew that’s the move I’d make. Five seconds later, he’s taken my bishop.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter.
“Language,” he rebukes.
Before I can respond, Lorenzo strolls onto the patio, holster vest strapped on, guns at both sides, flipping a snub-nose revolver around his finger.
For shit’s sake.
He does this sometimes. His way of reminding Vale he’s in the company of killers. They’ve never gotten along. Lorenzo thinks Vale is a sneaky hypocrite who shouldn’t be trusted. Vale thinks Lorenzo is a disrespectful hellion.
Without missing a beat, Lorenzo flicks the revolver again and quotes, “‘Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful.’”
Used to Lorenzo’s baiting by now, Vale takes a drink of his iced-tea and eyes him.
“You don’t realize that every time you pull this stunt, you’re not shaming me, but impressing me.
” He sets his glass down. “You quote a different Bible verse from memory every single time. You somehow know the Bible inside out, all while avoiding church like the plague.” He gestures to me.
“But I bet if you ask this one what book that verse is from, he wouldn’t have a clue. ”
Now how the hell did I get dragged into this?
Not that he’s wrong.
Lorenzo might walk around with a threatening mean mug ninety-nine percent of the time, but what most people don’t know is that, compared to me, he’s well-read, an insanely fast learner, and a hell of a lot smarter than he lets on. Between the two of us, he’s all brains.
But where he falls short—people skills, finesse, forging relationships—I excel.
He’s too blunt, too impatient to lead with smoke and mirrors.
But that’s precisely what it takes to coax trust, to manipulate, to build an empire.
Brains and bluntness will only get you so far.
That’s why we lean on each other. Where one of us is weak, the other fills the gap.
It’s why we work. We have complete confidence and trust in each other’s capabilities.
“We need to talk.” He arches a brow at Vale as he adds, “Guns and pussy shit.”
“I guess that’s my cue to leave.” Vale exhales and stands. “Are we still on for golf Thursday?”
“Yeah.” I knock over his queen with one of my knights. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Lorenzo motions with exaggerated flair for Vale to go ahead of him. “Allow me to show you out, man of God.”
Such a pain in the ass sometimes.
When he returns, he drops into the chair Vale just vacated and places an ugly ass utility watch on the chessboard. “Aren’t you tired of him sweeping the floor with you?”
“There’s no glory in surrender.” I nod at the watch. “What’s this ugly thing?”
“Raya made me get them,” he says. “Built-in frequency jammers to keep us from being listened in on. Indestructible. Also has satellite communication in case we end up in a bad situation.” He lifts his wrist, tapping the device strapped there.
“We’re synced. Yours, mine, Gio’s. If shit goes sideways, we can communicate under the radar. ”
I tuck two fingers inside my collar and tug, loosening it for air.
Every time that damn girl’s name comes up, the air around me thickens, my skin burning from the inside out. An inexplicable reaction. One I’ve never experienced before. Has to be a warning, right? Something’s not right with her.
“You take orders from Raya now?”
“Not orders. Advice.” He shrugs. “She’s smart. Knows her shit. Has Red Cage-level knowledge. And since Red Cage can’t help us right now, we’re damn lucky to have her.” He lifts a brow. “For free. Not the hundreds of thousands they’d be charging us. We all know how much you love spending money.”
A little too convenient for me.
What are the odds that this impressively knowledgeable woman showed up right when THE O ripped my pants down and left me with my ass out?
I might drag myself to mass every Sunday, but I have zero belief that the Big Guy gives a damn about my wretched soul, let alone enough to send me favors.
She’s no favor. She’s a slippery snake. Slithering her way around the villa, charming everyone with her calculated lies. The fact that she managed to win over Lorenzo Hate-The-World-And-Everything-In-It Castello and turn him into her personal champion? That alone proves how dangerous she is.
I left for two damn weeks and came back to “Raya this, Raya that,” shoved down my throat every goddamn day.
Fuck that girl. Seriously. Who else but a spawn of the devil could make a man’s body burn like he’s standing in the bowels of hell just by being in the same room?
I tug harder at my collar. “What’s the important thing you needed to talk about?”
Before Lorenzo can answer, Gio walks out holding an all-too-familiar monogrammed box. “This just arrived.”
THE O.
Of course. Leave it to them to ruin my goddamn Sunday.
To make room, I slide the chessboard aside. Gio sets the box down, and I untie the silken red bow, popping the lid open.
Nestled inside is a gold bishop, a black pawn, and a card that reads…
Well done on keeping it clean. It appears you’re only good at taking orders when the threat of death is around your neck.
You’re one step closer to your target. Keep going.
We’re watching.
“Does that bishop mean—”
“Forsyth was one of the alliances,” I cut in.
After the ordeal with the Russians, it took everything in me to curb the vengeful urge to lay waste to those fuckers. Instead, I took the advice of bold-as-brass rule-breaker Raya. Let the Russians go to catch the one who paid them.
We laid the trap. Let them raid us. Then tracked them right back to their boss.
James Forsyth. A business tycoon. One of our most lucrative partners. Most importantly, the middleman between us and our artillery clients.
It was a blow, to be honest.
To end Forsyth outright would mean to take a big financial hit. So we pulled back, regrouped and plotted how to retaliate without burning our partnership to the ground. In the end, we targeted his eldest son, Finley. Next in line to inherit the entire Forsyth empire.
Knowing this day might come, I’d begun cozying up to Finley long ago.
We’re golf buddies. I know he’s been chafing under his old man for a while now, impatient for the old bastard to kick the bucket so he can put his “big plans” in motion.
So when I told Finley what his father had been up to—the Russians, the raid, the betrayal—he was livid.
A little extra fabrication about a gun battle, men lost, and a fake gunshot wound on my shoulder? That was all it took to push him over the edge.
Four days later, business news sites exploded with James Forsyth’s fatal “heart attack.”
An enemy down, our partnership intact, and our hands unbloodied.
The cleanest I’ve ever operated.
And now, this golden bishop confirms it. Forsyth allied against me.
“What’s that on the bottom of the pawn?” Lorenzo asks.
I flip it over. “The Russian flag.”
“They were the pawn,” he muses.
Gio whistles. “Wowza. Raya was right on the money about—”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snap. “For fuck’s sake, if I hear that name one more time, I’m shooting everything in sight.”
“Well, RIP to us, because Raya might’ve found a lead on our leak,” Lorenzo says. “One of our bartenders at Liquid Blue’s been making secret exchanges with a Skullaz. I’ll pick her up later. Quietly. Take her to the zoo, get some answers.”
Fucking hell. Is Raya our savior now?