Chapter 7
Izzy
Izzy recognized the name before he reached the gate.
Lionetti.
He’d heard it years ago in back rooms where conversations dropped when certain men entered. A name tied to power. The kind that didn’t advertise itself.
He slowed for half a second.
Then the gates opened.
No questions. No hesitation.
That unsettled him more than being stopped would have.
Jenna stood at the entrance in a fitted red dress, diamonds catching the late afternoon light. She looked composed. Confident. At home.
“Hey,” she smiled, leaning in to kiss him. “Daddy’s ready.”
Inside, the mansion was quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. Men stood at intervals down the hallway, still but attentive. The air smelled faintly of leather and cigar smoke.
She led him straight to the office without knocking.
Manetto Lionetti sat behind a wide desk, reviewing something on his phone. He set it down slowly when they entered.
His eyes assessed Izzy in one measured sweep.
“So,” he said evenly, “you’re the one.”
Izzy stepped forward, extended his hand. The shake was firm, deliberate. Not welcoming. Not hostile. Controlled.
“Sir.”
They sat.
Jenna wasted no time.
“She’s still hovering,” Jenna said, irritation just beneath the surface. “I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t bother me.”
Lionetti glanced at her, then at Izzy.
“She asked me to intervene,” he said calmly.
Izzy’s chest tightened.
This wasn’t the beginning of a conversation. It was a continuation.
Jenna leaned back, crossing her legs. “She thinks she can stay close to him, and it won’t affect anything. It does.”
Lionetti’s gaze settled on Izzy.
“And you?”
The question wasn’t about Rebecca.
It was about loyalty.
Izzy chose his words carefully. “She doesn’t know when to step away.”
That was enough.
Lionetti nodded slightly. “It’s already being addressed.”
The shift in the room was subtle but final.
Izzy felt it.
This wasn’t about confrontation or warnings. There were no raised voices, no dramatic threats. Just calm certainty.
Lionetti folded his hands. “I prefer efficiency.”
Izzy didn’t ask what that meant.
He didn’t want clarification.
The meeting lasted only a few more minutes. Nothing specific was said in front of him. Nothing graphic. Just implication.
When they stood to leave, Jenna looked satisfied.
Outside, she slipped her hand into his.
“I told you I’d handle it,” she said softly.
He kissed her automatically.
His mind was somewhere else.
By the time he reached his car, a quiet unease had settled in his stomach.
He told himself this would be pressure. A scare. Something controlled.
But as he drove toward Buck’s instead of home, a thought kept circling him—
He hadn’t been invited to stop anything.
He’d been invited to witness it.
Izzy learned early that nothing was permanent.
Not homes.
Not people.
Not promises.
His mother burned through whatever she touched—relationships, money, herself. Drugs came first. Always did. By the time Izzy was old enough to understand why men kept disappearing from their apartment, his father was already a story no one bothered finishing.
Foster care did the rest.
Group homes. Temporary beds. Rules that changed depending on who was in charge that week. He learned how to read people quickly—how to give them what they wanted so they’d leave him alone.
By his teens, he was already running errands for men who paid in cash and silence. Small deals at first. Then bigger ones. He wasn’t reckless—just visible enough to be useful.
The tattoos came next.
Not for meaning.
For protection.
Ink made him look older. Harder. Untouchable. And in the circles, he moved in, that mattered. Artists liked him. Photographers noticed him. Someone mentioned his face once—strong jaw, sharp eyes, the kind of look that told a story without saying a word.
Modeling followed like an accident.
Streetwear brands. Underground campaigns. Nightlife flyers. He fit the image—danger wrapped in control. For a while, it worked. Money came easy. Doors opened without him having to knock.
Izzy loved the freedom.
No wife.
No kids.
No one expecting more from him than he was willing to give.
But freedom had a cost.
Parties blurred into mornings. Drugs stopped being occasional and started being necessary. One bad night turned into a headline—photos leaked, names mentioned, sponsors quietly pulling back.
Contracts didn’t vanish all at once.
They thinned.
Calls stopped coming. Jobs slowed. The same industry that loved him for being reckless lost interest the moment he became inconvenient.
Tattoo shops were different.
Ink didn’t ask questions. It didn’t care about scandals or background checks. Artists saw his body as a canvas, his presence as currency. He started hanging around more learning the rhythm, the culture, the unspoken hierarchy.
That’s when he heard her name.
Not from gossip.
From respect.
Becca.
The artist everyone was watching. The one magazines whispered about before they featured her. The woman whose work didn’t just sit on skin—it transformed it.
They said she was disciplined. Focused. Building something real.
Everything Izzy wasn’t.
And for the first time, he didn’t want to borrow someone else’s momentum.
He wanted to be part of it.
He told himself she was different. That being close to someone like her might steady him. Balance him. Keep him from tipping back into the chaos he could already feel circling.
For a while, he believed it.
But habits don’t disappear just because you want them to.
And long before Becca became a consequence, someone else noticed Izzy slipping through the cracks.
Jenna.
She didn’t save him.
Didn’t stop the fall.
She simply stepped into the space where his control was already weakening—and waited.