6. Gio
Gio
The secure line crackles once before Marco’s voice cuts through my laptop speakers.
"Matteo’s captains are holding a dinner in Rome tonight," Marco says, the faint clink of cutlery and background chatter suggesting he’s in a restaurant somewhere. "They think you're hiding in New York because you're terrified of his new mercenaries."
"Let them think it," I say, my eyes tracking the small screen on my desk. "Are our shipping lines in Palermo still secure?"
"For now," Dante’s flat voice cuts in. He’s in a vehicle; I hear the rhythmic slap of windshield wipers. "But Matteo’s scouts are pressing our borders. We picked up two of them outside the dockyard yesterday. I broke their fingers and sent them back to Rome with a message."
"Good. Don't let them breathe," I mutter.
I am barely paying attention to the details of the war.
My focus is split. Sitting on the corner of my desk, wrapped in brown butcher paper, is a heavy, leather-bound book.
It is a first-edition, 1897 copy of The Beetle, the exact Victorian Gothic novel I ruined when I plowed into Lina on the sidewalk.
It cost me five thousand dollars and a frantic favor from an antique dealer in Boston to have it overnighted.
It is a completely useless disaster of a purchase. It serves no purpose. It doesn't advance the merger. It doesn't make her sign the papers.
It is stupid, I tell myself, my jaw clenching as my thumb traces the edge of the brown paper.
It's just an investment. A way to lower her defenses.
But the lie tastes sour in my throat. I bought it because I couldn't stop thinking about the look on her face when she knelt in the mud, her small fingers trying to wipe the wet grime off her cheap paperback.
I bought it because I wanted to see her eyes widen as I handed it to her.
I wanted to see if she would shiver again when my fingers brushed hers.
"Gio?" Enzo’s gravelly voice cuts through my thoughts. "Are you listening?"
"I'm here," I say, my voice flat.
"Matteo’s scouts in the Northeast are moving fast," Enzo warns. "We lost track of one of his bloodhounds near Boston two days ago. He’s driving a gray sedan. If he finds her before you have her secured, the New York men will pull out of the deal. They won't risk a dead princess."
"No one is going to touch her," I say, my eyes drifting to the camera feed of The Mug & Page across the street. "I’m handling it. Keep Palermo locked down."
"Don't lose your focus, ragazzo," Enzo says quietly, before the line goes dead.
I close the laptop, the glowing screens plunging the living room back into a cold, gray shadow.
I stand up, grab the wrapped book from my desk, and pull my black coat over my shoulders.
My body feels tight, wired with a restless, aggressive energy that has been building since I touched her temple in the shop yesterday.
I walk out of my apartment, down the creaking stairs, and step out onto the street.
The fog is thick today, rolling off the harbor in heavy, gray sheets that smell of salt and rotting wood. I cross the street, my boots clicking against the wet cobblestones, and push open the door of her shop.
The bell chimes.
Lina is standing behind the counter, her dark hair pulled back in a loose, messy braid that exposes the soft, pale curve of her neck.
She is wearing an oversized yellow sweater that makes her look small, soft, and edible.
When she sees me, her shoulders instantly go rigid, her wide, expressive eyes narrowing into a glare that is supposed to be intimidating but only makes me want to pin her against the wall.
"You're late," she says, her voice sharp. "It's eight-thirty. I was starting to think you'd finally moved back to wherever you came from."
"I had business," I say, stepping up to the counter.
"Right. Very important business for 'John' who doesn't have a last name or a job," she mutters, reaching for a paper cup. "The usual? Or do you want to offend me by calling my pastries lopsided again?"
"Just the coffee, Lina," I say.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the wrapped book, and slide it across the counter. It lands with a heavy, solid thud on the polished dark wood.
She stops, her hand hovering over the espresso machine. She looks at the package, then up at my face, her brows furrowing. "What is this?"
"Open it," I say.
She hesitates, her stubborn chin tilting up slightly, but her curiosity gets the better of her. She steps closer, her fingers tearing the brown butcher paper away with a quick, impatient movement. When the dark, gilded leather of the 1897 first-edition is revealed, her breath hitches.
She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. She touches the gold lettering on the spine as if she’s afraid it will dissolve into smoke. "John... this is... how did you find this?"
"I have connections," I say, my voice low. "You said I ruined your book. I do not like to owe debts."
"This is a first edition," she whispers, her eyes shining with a sudden, brilliant warmth that makes my chest go completely tight.
She looks up at me, all her anger and defiance vanishing into a soft, vulnerable awe that makes my hands ache to touch her.
"It must have cost a fortune. I can't accept this. "
"It is already paid for," I say, leaning my weight against the counter, closing the distance between us. "And I do not take returns."
"You are so infuriatingly stubborn," she says, a small, genuine smile finally breaking across her lips.
It is the first real smile she has ever given me, and it hits me in the chest like a hollow-point bullet.
Cazzo. She is too beautiful when she looks at me like that. "But... thank you. Seriously."
"Do not thank me, piccola," I murmur, my gaze sliding down to her mouth. "Just take care of it."
"I told you not to call me—"
She cuts herself off.
Suddenly, her eyes drift past my shoulder toward the front window of the shop. I don't even need to look to know what she’s seeing.
Through the glass, past the swirling gray fog, a dark figure is standing by the brick corner of the boutique across the street. He’s wearing a heavy gray jacket, his hood pulled low, his eyes fixed directly on the counter where we are standing.
It is him. The same watcher from yesterday.
The blood in my veins instantly turns to liquid fire. Twice. The bastard has checked her perimeter twice. "John?" Lina whispers, her voice shaking as she notices my posture go rigid. "Is that... is that the same guy?"
"Stay behind the counter," I say, my voice dropping to a low, lethal command that brooks no argument. "Do not come out."
"John, wait—"
I don't wait.
I turn and stride out of the shop, the bell above the door clattering violently behind me. The moment I hit the wet pavement, the watcher’s head snaps in my direction. He sees my face, freezes for a fraction of a second, and then turns and bolts down the street.
"Hey!" I shout, my boots slamming against the slick cobblestones as I sprint after him.
The chase is instantaneous. He is fast, but I am faster, my legs eating up the distance between us with huge, aggressive strides.
He turns a sharp corner down the hill, heading toward the commercial fish-processing plants near the pier.
The fog is thicker down here, smelling of dead scales and diesel exhaust.
"Stop!" I roar, the sound echoing off the metal siding of the warehouses.
He doesn't look back. He lunges over a stack of rusted lobster traps, scrambling down a narrow, damp alleyway between two packing plants. I vault the traps effortlessly, my coat flying behind me, my eyes locked on the gray hood of his jacket.
He reaches the end of the alley, a dead end blocked by a high, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. He scrambles to climb it, his fingers clawing at the metal grid.
I reach him before he can clear the first tier.
I grab the back of his jacket and yank him down with the full force of my weight. He hits the wet gravel hard, letting out a sharp, wet grunt as his breath is knocked out of him. Before he can roll over, I drive my boot directly into his ribs.
Crack.
He screams, curling into a ball in the mud. I drop to my knees, pinning his shoulders to the ground, my hand slamming into his throat, cutting off his airway. I pull my SIG Sauer from my holster, pressing the cold steel of the barrel directly between his eyes.
"Who do you work for?" I growl, my chest heaving, my voice a dark, terrifying rasp. "Give me a name, stronzo, or I will paint this fence with your brains."
He thrashes beneath me, his hands clawing at my wrists, his face turning a dark, mottled purple as he struggles for air. He is Sicilian. I can see it in his dark features, the structure of his nose, the terrified recognition in his eyes when he looks at me. He knows exactly who I am.
"Ferrante..." he chokes out, his voice a wet rattle. "Matteo... he knows... he knows she is here..."
"How many of you are in this town?" I squeeze his throat tighter, the plastic grip of my gun biting into his forehead. "Tell me! How many?"
"Just... just me..." he gasps, his eyes bulging. "The others... they are in Boston... waiting..."
I have him. I have the location of their base, the confirmation of their numbers, the exact leverage I need to secure her perimeter and wipe them out before they can even cross the state line. I just need to drag him to my basement, lock him in the dark, and make him talk.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic clatter sounds at the entrance of the alley.
"Rusty! Come here, boy!"
A small, high-pitched voice echoes through the fog. A little boy, no older than eight, steps into the alleyway. He’s wearing a bright red raincoat, holding a frayed dog leash, his eyes wide and innocent as he searches the shadows.
"Rusty?" the kid calls out, his boots splashing in a puddle.
The watcher’s eyes go wide. Before I can register the movement, he drives his elbow hard into my fractured ribs, the old injury from Palermo barking in hot pain, and scrambles out from under my grip. He doesn't run toward the fence.
He lunges toward the kid.
"No!" I roar, lunging forward.
But he is closer. He grabs the boy by the collar of his red raincoat, yanking him backward against his chest. In a flash of silver steel, he pulls a long, jagged folding knife from his pocket, pressing the blade directly against the kid’s small, pale throat.
The boy lets out a terrified, high-pitched scream, his leash dropping to the gravel as he starts to sob. "Mommy! Mommy!"
"Don't move, Ferrante!" the watcher screams, his voice high and panicked, eyes darting wildly. He is shaking, his grip on the kid’s collar so tight that the fabric is tearing. "Throw the gun down! Throw it down, or I'll cut his fucking throat!"
I freeze, my gun still leveled at his chest.
My mind operates with a cold, mechanical precision.
Shoot him, the enforcer in my head whispers.
The kid is a civilian. A casualty. If you let this man go, Lina is exposed.
Matteo’s mercenaries will come. She will die.
It is the logical choice. The Sicilian choice.
My father would have shot through the boy to secure the target.
Matteo would have done it without a second thought.
But if I shoot, the kid dies. The police will swarm this town. My cover is blown, my false identity is useless, and Lina will be dragged into a federal investigation before I can get her out of the country. I will lose her anyway.
And more than that... I look at the kid’s terrified, tear-streaked face, and I see Lina crying in the gravel twenty years ago.
I promised I would never let her fall again. I cannot build a throne on the blood of children. It is the one line I will not cross.
"Drop the knife," I say, my voice dropping to a quiet, icy whisper. "Let the boy go, and you will walk out of this alley alive. Touch him, and I will spend the rest of my life hunting every person who bears your last name."
The watcher looks into my eyes, and he knows I am not bluffing. He is shivering, his knife hand trembling against the kid’s neck.
"Back up," he stutters. "Back up to the fence!"
Slowly, keeping my gun aimed flat at his chest, I step back. One step. Two steps. My heels hit the chain-link grid.
The moment the distance is clear, the watcher hurls the little boy forward. The kid hits the wet gravel, crying out in pain, and the watcher spins on his heel, sprinting out of the alley and disappearing into the dense, white fog of the harbor.
"Damn it!" I hiss, lowering my weapon and sprinting to the boy.
I drop to my knees beside him, my hands checking his neck, his arms, his chest. He is shaking violently, his face white, but the skin of his throat is unbroken. The knife didn't cut him.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice rough but steady. I grab his shoulders, forcing him to look at me. "Look at me, kid. Are you hurt?"
"I... I want my mommy," he sobs, clutching his scraped elbows.
"Go," I say, pointing toward the main street, where the shops are lit. "Run straight to the grocery store. Do not look back. Go."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He scrambles up and runs, his red raincoat vanishing into the gray mist like a fading spark.
I stand up slowly, my knuckles bleeding where they hit the gravel, my ribs throbbing with a dull, hot ache. I look down at the muddy ground where the watcher was pinned. There is a small puddle of dark blood where my boot hit his chest, but he is gone.
Matteo’s man is loose in my town. He knows Lina is here. He knows I am next door.
The perimeter is breached. The war is no longer an ocean away. It is standing on her sidewalk, watching her through the glass while she serves hazelnut coffee and reads her vintage books.
I reach into my pocket, my fingers clenching around the cold metal of my gun. A dark, terrifying possessiveness claws at my throat, tight and suffocating.
She is mine, I think, my jaw setting into a hard, granite line as I start the walk back up the hill. They will have to burn this entire state to the ground before they take her from me.
I walk back through the fog, the weight of my secrets feeling heavier than the steel in my holster. I have to tighten the trap. I have to make her trust me, make her choose me, before the wolves arrive.
Because if she runs from me now, she won't just be running from a lie.
She’ll be running straight into a grave.