19. Adriano
The end of January has come around fast, work is crazy busy and things have settled into a nice rhythm.
Casey still looks surprised every time she laughs.
The guarded hesitancy she was using to keep her heart safe is starting to ease.
I know she checks herself sometimes, though, wondering if she should be more guarded.
Not visibly.
Not in a way most people would notice.
But I do.
I notice the slight hesitation before it happens sometimes, like part of her still expects herself to stop before she gets there, and the way her expression softens after, as though she’s caught off guard by the fact she enjoyed something without immediately ruining it by overthinking.
It happens more now than it did when she first arrived.
Not often, but enough that I’ve started waiting for it.
Which is a problem I prefer not to examine too closely.
“Are you listening to me?”
Matteo’s voice drags me back into the office, and I look up from the report in front of me to find my brothers watching me with varying levels of irritation.
“I heard everything you said.”
“That’s impressive considering you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”
“I’ve read the page.”
“Three times,” Nico mutters from the other side of the office.
I lean back slightly in the chair, ignoring them as I close the file in front of me.
The office around us hums quietly with the steady movement of the building beyond the glass walls—phones ringing somewhere outside, low conversation, footsteps against polished concrete floors.
ISM headquarters always feels more alive in the afternoon, people moving faster as the day starts tightening toward deadlines.
Usually, I like that energy.
Today it’s grating slightly.
Mostly because I slept badly—again.
Which, unfortunately, has become a recurring issue since New Year’s Eve.
Not because I regret kissing her.
That part isn’t the problem.
The problem is that I haven’t stopped thinking about doing it again.
Her hand gripping the front of my shirt.
The sound she made when I pulled her closer.
The way she looked at me afterward, dazed and flushed and trying very hard to recover enough dignity to speak normally while I stood there fighting every instinct telling me to kiss her again.
And again.
And again.
Instead, I kissed her forehead, went to my room, and spent the night reliving every sound, every taste until I’d had to get up and relieve the ache in my cock from thoughts of her.
A decision I now revisit daily with increasing levels of dissatisfaction.
“She smiled at me this morning,” Matteo says suddenly.
I blink at him. “What?”
“Casey,” he replies, far too pleased with himself already. “In the kitchen.”
Nico snorts quietly without looking up from his laptop. “Congratulations.”
“I’m serious. She voluntarily smiled at me.”
“That’s because she’s recovering from whatever temporary personality disorder made her tolerate you.”
Matteo points at him. “See? This is why women prefer me.”
“No,” Nico replies calmly, “women prefer you because you look like trouble and most people enjoy self-destructive hobbies in their twenties.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Physically, yes. Emotionally? Fifteen.”
Normally, I’d let them continue.
Today I don’t have the patience.
“We’re not discussing Casey.”
They go quiet for a second.
Too quiet.
Matteo leans back slowly in his chair, studying me with entirely too much interest. “That sounded territorial.”
“Get fucked, Matty.”
“It sounded like if I smile at her again, you’re going to throw me through the window.”
Nico finally looks up then, his expression more thoughtful than amused.
I hold his gaze evenly.
Matteo notices that too, because of course he does. “Oh, this is bad,” he says, grinning now. “You actually like her.”
“I like a great many people.”
“No, no,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Not in the human way. In the you way.”
“There is no me way.”
“There absolutely is.”
Before I can respond, the office doors slam open, hard enough that every conversation outside the glass walls cuts off almost immediately.
Three men step inside first.
Dark jackets.
Federal badges.
And behind them—a dozen uniformed officers.
The shift in the room is immediate. Cold and sharp and familiar in a way I fucking despise.
The lead agent steps forward. “Adriano Mancini?”
I rise slowly from my chair. “Yes.”
He holds up paperwork. “We have a warrant to search these premises in connection with an investigation into illegal weapons trafficking through ISM shipping subsidiaries.”
For one second, nobody speaks.
Then Matteo laughs.
Not because anything is funny. Because it fucking isn’t but because he’s angry enough to bite through concrete and that’s his way of dealing with it.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, already pushing out of his chair.
Nico stands too, much more slowly, one hand flattening hard against the desk. “Weapons trafficking?” he repeats, his voice dangerously calm. “Through ISM?”
The agent doesn’t react. “Sir, I’m going to need everyone to remain cooperative while we conduct the search.”
“Cooperative?” Matteo echoes. “You storm into our offices in the middle of the day, accusing us of running guns through a memorial company named after our mother, and you want us to cooperate?”
“Matteo,” I say quietly.
He stops talking immediately and glares at me. We have a silent conversation without words as only brothers can and he nods.
I hold my hand out for the warrant. The paper crackles slightly between my fingers as I scan it, forcing myself to read slowly despite the anger already moving under my skin.
ISM Holdings.
Subsidiary shipping lanes.
Anonymous tip.
Probable cause.
And then—the judge’s name.
My eyes narrow slightly.
Judge Lawrence Bale.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Because Bale’s name surfaced two weeks ago during a background review Rossi conducted into Jasper’s financial network.
Nothing criminal, nothing concrete, but enough political overlap to stand out—charity events, campaign donations routed through the same investment groups Jasper’s company favors, private club memberships.
Coincidence is possible, but improbable.
I don’t believe in it.
The agent starts issuing instructions behind me, officers moving through the office while employees outside pretend not to stare and fail completely.
I can already feel the ripple effect spreading through the building—the fear, the speculation, the humiliation of federal agents walking through a company we spent years building from the ground up.
Through legitimate work.
Legitimate sacrifice.
My mother’s initials sit on every floor of this building.
Every contract.
Every ship.
Every hotel.
Every employee badge.
We’ve worked our asses off to keep this business clean. To keep the stink of our family name from tainting even an inch of it. We walked away from our mafia legacy for my mother, for my father, and still it follows us.
And now some arrogant bastard thinks he can drag her name through the dirt because he’s angry Casey walked away from him.
Rage settles low and heavy in my chest.
Not explosive.
Worse.
Focused, calculated.
Nico moves to my side, his voice low enough not to carry. “You know who this is?”
“Yes.”
“You know, or you suspect?”
I hand him the warrant instead of answering immediately.
He reads the judge’s name.
“Jasper has links to that Judge.”
His jaw tightens instantly. “Ah,” he says softly.
Exactly.
Across the room, Matteo is pacing now, one hand shoved through his hair while two agents search filing cabinets they’ll find absolutely nothing in.
“You won’t find anything,” he snaps.
“Obviously,” Nico replies, trying to calm our younger brother.
“That’s not the point. This is a warning, a move on the chessboard.”
Yes.
It is. The point is disruption.
Public embarrassment.
To make people ask questions, to cause doubt in our abilities and make our partners lose faith in us.
Even clean businesses bleed when suspicion gets attached to them long enough.
Whoever orchestrated this understands that.
Which means Jasper is either smarter than I gave him credit for, or someone smarter is advising him.
Neither possibility improves my mood.
One of the agents approaches again. “We’ll also need access to your shipping records from the last six months.”
“You’ll have them,” I say evenly. “Along with the apology you’ll eventually issue when this turns into nothing.”
He doesn’t respond to that; he just smirks. “We’ll be taking your computers too.”
I grind my teeth and fight the urge to punch his over-white teeth down his throat. “Fine.”
The search lasts nearly two hours.
Two hours of employees standing around looking nervous, while fear hangs through the building like smoke.
Two hours of agents opening rooms, reviewing manifests, questioning department heads who shouldn’t have to defend themselves against accusations built on fabricated intelligence.
Two hours of my brothers getting progressively closer to homicide.
And then—
nothing.
Of course.
Because there’s nothing to find.
The lead agent approaches again near the end, expression noticeably tighter now. “We’re done here.”
Matteo lets out a sharp laugh from near the windows. “That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a dramatic reveal.”
“Sir—”
“No, go ahead,” Matteo continues. “Check under the desks next. Maybe the missiles are hidden in accounting.”
“Enough,” I say before this turns into an actual incident.
Matteo exhales sharply through his nose but falls silent.
The agents leave with stiff professionalism and absolutely no evidence.
The second the elevator doors close behind them, the office erupts.
Voices outside the glass walls rise immediately, overlapping questions and nervous conversation spilling through the department floor.
Matteo turns violently toward the desk, shoving both hands against it. “I’m going to kill him.”
“No, you’re not,” Nico replies.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Matteo looks at me instead. “Tell me you’re not just letting this go.”
I hold his gaze for a second. “Did I say that?”
That stills him slightly, a smile spreading across his face when he sees the expression on mine.
“Go calm the staff down,” I tell him. “And tell legal I want every media outlet monitored for leaks.”
His expression remains murderous, but he nods once and heads for the doors, already pulling his phone from his pocket.
Nico waits until we’re alone before speaking again. “I’ll talk to Rossi,” he says, loosening his tie slightly. “See where this came from and whether there’s anything else moving behind it.”
“There is.”
“You think Jasper’s escalating.”
“I think he underestimated how closely I’d look once he involved this company. He thinks he knows who we are, but now he’s going to find out the hard way he was wrong.”
Nico studies me quietly for a moment, then glances toward the city beyond the windows. “What are you going to do?”
There’s no judgment in the question.
No hesitation either.
Because he already knows there’s only one answer.
I walk slowly toward the bar built into the side of the office and pour myself a drink, the burn of whiskey sharp against the back of my throat, making me think of Casey.
Then I set the glass down carefully. “He wants attention,” I say. “Visibility. Power.”
Nico stays silent.
I look back at him. “I think it’s time someone reminded him how quickly those things disappear.”
Understanding settles across his expression immediately. “You’re going to ruin him quietly,” he says.
“Obviously.”
“Adriano.” I meet his gaze. Nico’s voice lowers slightly. “Don’t do anything that drags us backward.”
I understand exactly why he’s saying it.
Because this building matters to more than just us now. It’s our legacy to our children.
Because our mother mattered.
Because we fought too hard to become something different from what we were raised to be.
“I’m not going backward,” I say calmly.
Jasper thinks ruin arrives loudly and with performance.
Men kicking down doors, but that’s amateur thinking.
Real ruin happens quietly.
A delayed payment here.
A frightened investor there.
A whisper in the right ear.
A contract that vanishes overnight.
One weak point touched with enough pressure that the entire structure eventually collapses under its own weight.
Art, really.
And I’ve always appreciated patience.