20. Chapter 20
Tony was ready to kill someone. Maybe literally.
Maybe not. His fury had been simmering for hours, a low, restless burn that refused to settle.
He stormed into the security department, sick of being cooped up in his office.
He needed people around him, movement, noise—anything but the silence pressing in on him.
That happened to be the exact moment Sal walked in, cradling Gianna against his chest. The little girl was happily slurping at her bottle, her enormous dark eyes blinking curiously at the glowing tactical screens.
“Need a break?” Tony asked immediately, his gaze fixed on the baby. His chest tightened, the furious beast inside of him still clawing, still restless—but soothed, just a little, by the sight of Sal’s tiny daughter. Maybe if he held her, some of that calm would rub off on him too.
Sal’s arms tightened around Gianna. “Not a chance. She’s almost done with her bottle.”
“I don’t care,” Tony shot back, stepping closer. “Hand her over. I’m her godfather. She likes me better.”
Sal snorted. “You wish. She’s already figured out who has the real brains in this operation.”
“Brains?” Tony barked a laugh. “You can barely work a coffee machine without me standing behind you.”
Before Sal could retort, Paulo’s low chuckle rumbled from behind him.
Both men turned, glaring.
“What the hell is so funny?” Tony demanded, narrowing his eyes at the tall figure leaning casually against the counter that separated the analysts from the tactical maps.
Paulo Ruffino didn’t flinch. He never did.
Tall and lithe, with the kind of wiry strength that spoke of speed and control, Paulo was one of those rare men who could dominate a boardroom under the spotlight or vanish into shadows without a sound.
A predator, through and through. Detroit was his territory, and he guarded it with the same ruthless devotion Tony and Sal protected Chicago.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Paulo drawled, arms folded loosely. “The two kings of Chicago bickering like schoolboys over who gets to hold a baby.” His dark eyes flicked to Gianna, softening for half a second. “Though I’ll admit—she’s pretty damn cute.”
“She’s not cute,” Tony growled, planting his fists on his hips. “She’s perfect. And back off. I’m her godfather.”
Sal rolled his eyes, patting his daughter’s diapered butt soothingly. “You’re her backup. I’m her father.”
Tony’s jaw flexed. “Details.”
Paulo shook his head, his lips twitching. “Damn, I came here expecting strategy meetings and instead I get to watch you two nearly come to blows over who gets spit-up duty. Detroit’s gonna love this story.”
“Don’t you dare,” Tony warned, his glare sharp enough to cut steel.
Paulo only smirked, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded packet of papers.
His voice shifted back to business. “Jokes aside, I didn’t come all this way to play referee.
Frankie Calvino, the guy who took over after Bianchi’s arrest, is moving players.
And I don’t think it’s going to be good.
Also, the FBI agent who took down Bianchi? Still in play.”
Tony straightened immediately, tension flooding into his shoulders.
“The FBI isn’t an issue. The agent, a guy named Raffe Moretti is a good guy.
” He huffed a bit, his hands fisted on his hips.
“We gave him Bianchi, as well as a massive arms shipment that was heading to that group of idiots lurking in the woods of Montana.”
Paulo’s eyes narrowed. “You own an FBI agent?”
Sal snorted and shook his head. “No one owns Agent Moretti. But he’s fair.”
Tony nodded, then turned and stalked over to the tactical map, tapped a command, and the glowing outline of Minneapolis enlarged across the screen. “Moretti was strategic. He stopped the arms shipment to the Montana boys, but he’s gone quiet now. Even I don’t know where to find him.”
Paulo’s mouth tightened. “Quiet doesn’t mean gone, so this agent might become an issue. And more importantly, Calvino isn’t a hothead like Bianchi. He’s colder. Smarter. Just as brutal.”
The three men stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the glowing screens, their faces underlit by shifting maps and intelligence reports.
“Then we need to figure out a way to use the FBI to take out Calvino too,” Tony said, his voice flat with conviction.
Paulo nodded once. “And put someone steadier in Calvino’s place. We don’t need another power-hungry idiot trying to burn everything down, like Bianchi.”
“What are Calvino’s weaknesses?” Sal asked, still rocking Gianna with one arm but focused on the discussion.
“He has a daughter,” Tony offered without hesitation. “And a mother-in-law in a nursing home.”
Paulo’s head snapped toward him, eyes hard. “We don’t threaten women or the elderly. Not in my city. Not in yours.”
Tony met his glare without blinking. “Not saying we would. You asked for weaknesses. He’s got two people depending on him. That’s pressure, not leverage. Different tools.”
After a tense beat, Paulo gave a short nod, shoulders loosening. “Fine. What’s the daughter’s deal?”
Tony’s mouth curved, the closest he ever came to a smile. “Mia Calvino is the daughter. She’s quiet. There isn’t much to know about her.”
He turned and called out to Ben. “Give me whatever you can on Calvino’s family.”
“On it, boss!” the analyst called back, his fingers already flying across his keyboard.
Tony turned back to Paulo and Sal, about to say something more. But Ben interrupted with some surprising news.
“Mia Calvina was in boarding school somewhere in Europe,” Ben explained. “She disappeared off the map, but just popped back up. My sources say she’s not a big fan of her father. But that’s just chatter.”
Paulo arched a brow. “She’s not out shopping for her next designer bag, then?”
Sal chuckled, finally breaking his silence. “Don’t tell me you don’t have sources in Europe who could give you her shoe size and hair color.”
Tony flicked him a look, deadpan. “Six and a half. Dark brown. Ben’s getting current details. That doesn’t mean I don’t know who she is.” He paused, lifting a dark brow. “Would you like her class schedule too?”
Sal laughed outright, even as Gianna stirred in his arms. Paulo shook his head, muttering something about lunatics running the world, but his lips twitched in reluctant amusement.
Gianna squawked again and Tony didn’t ask this time. He plucked the tiny infant out of Sal’s arms and soothed his goddaughter.
And for a brief, fleeting moment, the dangerous business of strategy and bloodshed was held at bay by the sight of two mafia kings squabbling over a baby while a predator from Detroit looked on, pretending not to be charmed.
Paulo chuckled under his breath, and Sal shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth as Tony swayed gently to get his goddaughter back to sleep.
Tony looked up and recited several other details about Mia Calvino as well as her father, Franky, who was another brutal man, even worse than Enrico Bianchi had been.
“Damn,” Paulo muttered, narrowing his eyes at Tony. “I want a ‘Tony’ in my organization.”
Sal snorted. “You’ve got Mick.”
Paulo tilted his head in thought, then gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah. Mick’s got some mad skills.”
Tony cut through their amusement with a growl. “Can we get back to the issue at hand?” His tone wasn’t a request. It was a demand, sharp enough to silence the room.
Both men smirked, but they sobered quickly, turning back to the map glowing on the wall.
“What’s your plan?” Sal asked, his voice level as he took back his daughter.
Tony glared at Sal, but eventually sighed, but he wasn’t happy about losing the little girl from his arms. Immediately, the tension returned, knotting the muscles in his neck like a vice.
“I don’t currently have a plan.” His gaze swept over the two men, steady and unflinching.
“Right now, Calvino’s still getting his footing.
Consolidating. But that window won’t last long.
” He straightened, arms crossing over his chest, his presence filling the room. “I think we should—”
“Uh…Boss?” Lizzy’s voice cut in from across the room.
She was hunched over her bank of monitors, her face pale in the blue glow of the screens.
“There’s a woman approaching the house.” Her fingers flew over the keys.
“I’m running her face through the system now and—” She gulped audibly. “I think she’s Madelaine Keane.”
The room stilled.
All eyes shifted to Paulo. His easy humor vanished in a blink, features tightening into a mask of cold, hard control. His jaw flexed once, his eyes unreadable.
Tony stepped closer, his hand heavy on Paulo’s shoulder. “I’ll handle her.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. Through the tunnel, up into his own house. The reinforced door clicked shut behind him.
And then—
A scream. Piercing, high, unmistakable. Catarina.
Tony didn’t think—he moved, his boots pounding up the stairs. Sal was already a step ahead of him, sprinting like a man possessed, his daughter conspicuously absent from his arms.
Tony risked a glance back—and nearly barked out a laugh.
Paulo—stone-faced, lethal Paulo—was clutching tiny Gianna. Both predator and infant stared at each other as if equally horrified by the arrangement. The baby’s dark eyes blinked up in bewilderment, while Paulo stared warily down at her, like she was a live grenade with the pin already pulled.
But Tony knew Paulo wouldn’t harm her. Not even by accident. So he kept running, his focus on the sound of Catarina’s voice.
At the landing, Sal skidded to a halt. His hands moved with muscle memory, pulling twin pistols from the hidden panel in the wall. Tony mirrored the motion, his own fingers closing around cold steel, both men raising their weapons in the same breath.
Then they froze.
Because Catarina wasn’t in danger.
She was strolling into the foyer arm in arm with the newcomer.
Madelaine Keane—daughter of Ronan Keane. The Irishman who had been enemy number one of Paulo for the past two decades.
The woman walked as if she had no concerns in the world, her smile lazy, her posture graceful and unbothered.
Neither she nor Catarina seemed to notice the three men staring them down: two bristling with weapons, and one standing stiff as a post with a baby clutched awkwardly in his arms.
Gianna squirmed, making a tiny noise of protest. Paulo adjusted her with the stiffest, most uncomfortable movement Tony had ever witnessed, his expression murderous—not at the baby, but at the sheer absurdity of the moment.
And still, Catarina and Madelaine Keane walked forward, oblivious to the tension, chattering like old friends.
“Oh my gosh!” Catarina blurted out when she saw her husband and the other two men, frozen like statues. “How rude of me!”
She hurried over to Paulo and, without hesitation, plucked Gianna from his stiff arms. The baby immediately settled against her mother’s shoulder, cooing softly. Catarina went up on her toes and kissed Paulo’s cheek, utterly ignoring the low, warning growl from her husband.
“Thank you for taking care of her,” she said warmly, then turned to beam at Sal. “Honey, this is my roommate from boarding school, Madelaine.”
Tony slid his weapons back into the recessed holders and closed the panel with deliberate calm, locking it with a firm snap. His eyes flicked toward Paulo—and froze.
The man’s face was as unreadable as ever, every muscle under perfect control. But Tony had known him for a long time. He could see it, the taut line of Paulo’s jaw, the faint twitch in the fingers still clenched at his side, the coiled rigidity running through his shoulders.
Paulo was rattled.
Shaken, even.
The Detroit boss was staring at the newcomer as though he hadn’t decided whether to destroy her where she stood…or toss her over his shoulder and disappear with her into the night.
And then Tony’s gaze slid to the woman herself.
Madelaine Keane. Long, nearly black hair spilled down her back, her green eyes vivid against pale skin. She wasn’t bold, not in the way she carried herself. She was cautious, hesitant almost, but her eyes…
They were fixed on Paulo.
There was confusion there—she didn’t seem to know who he was or why he was staring at her with such intensity—but she couldn’t seem to look away. She didn’t even try.
Catarina, oblivious to the silent storm brewing between them, bounced her daughter lightly and began making polite introductions. Madelaine smiled faintly, nodding at each man in turn. She didn’t extend her hand, but she acknowledged every name with quiet grace.
Yet her eyes kept drifting back to Paulo.
Tony’s lips curved in the barest ghost of a smile. Interesting.
He filed that away, a mental note for later.
But then, unbidden, Naomi slipped into his thoughts.
The image of her smile, the warmth of her laugh, the stubborn tilt of her chin when she challenged him.
He should have felt reassured. She was only a few doors away with the Peterson boys, safe and protected.
She herself had mentioned how well-behaved they’d been lately, how their reading skills were improving by leaps and bounds.
And yet…
Tony’s shoulders tensed, that itch coming back, resting between his shoulder blades, that subtle, restless warning he’d learned long ago never to ignore.
Something was wrong.
He couldn’t prove it, couldn’t even explain it. But every instinct screamed it just the same.