Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
RICCI
The warehouse on the far edge of the industrial district feels like it always does — cold concrete, dim overhead lights buzzing faintly, the air thick with rust and old diesel.
Maps and ledgers are spread across the long metal table in front of me, and the men stand in a loose half-circle, waiting for direction.
Salvatore is dead, and there’s a lot to do.
I’m well equipped to handle it all. I’ve been running the numbers and pulling the strings in the shadows for years. This is what I do.
Now I have to build the new structure from the ground up, making sure every route, every drop point, every hand-off fits together solid and tight.
No loose ends. No room for the other families to smell weakness and start circling.
I point at the map and reroute a shipment here, shift a different crew there.
But even as the words leave my mouth, my mind suddenly shifts to her.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about her right now.
Viola. Alone in the penthouse. Is she okay?
I end the meeting abruptly, pull out my phone, and dial her driver/guard myself.
“Boss.”
“How did it go?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “I took her to Salvatore’s, but she didn’t pick up any of her stuff. She wanted me to go back later and get it.”
I frown. “Why?”
“I’m not sure, boss, but she was in a hurry to leave.”
My jaw tightens with fury. “Why the fuck did you take your eyes off her?”
“Boss, I stayed outside like she wanted. She told me to wait in the car.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, the pressure building behind my eyes. “What about Mario? Was he there?”
The guard’s voice drops, like he already knows the words are going to land wrong. “Yeah.”
Everything inside me goes still for half a second.
Then the words sink in, heavy as lead in my gut.
Mario. That slimy, greedy piece of shit had been near her again.
My fingers tighten around the phone until the edges bite into my palm.
Annoyed doesn’t even come close. Something darker coils low and tight in my chest. It is a hot and possessive rage, the kind I have never experienced before.
I end the call, and I stand in the middle of the warehouse, phone still gripped tight, jaw locked hard. I need more information. I can’t leave it like this.
I dial the servant who’s always been closest to Viola — the quiet older woman who moves like a shadow through that house and sees everything without ever saying much. She picks up on the first ring.
“Don Santori.” Her voice is polite and respectful, but I hear the hesitation and caution underneath.
“What happened?” I ask, straight to the point.
She pauses. “I’m not sure, Don Santori. I just heard that there was an argument of some kind at the stables. She left right after that. I’m sorry, but that is all I know.”
An argument. Mario doesn’t do arguments. My free hand curls into a fist at my side. I have to get the truth from Viola directly. No more second-hand stories. No more filtered versions. I need to see her face when she tells me exactly what transpired.
I want to leave immediately, but the next meeting is an important one.
I rarely leave early, but midway through the meeting, I lose interest completely.
All the voices blur into background noise.
I hear numbers, routes, concerns about the police chief, but none of it sticks.
My mind is already back at the penthouse.
Wondering what the hell went down at those stables.
Wondering if Mario put his hands on her.
Wondering if I need to kill the bastard and how much of a blowback that will cause.
Unable to take it a minute longer, I stand abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor. The room falls silent.
“Let’s continue at the lounge later tonight,” I say, my voice flat, leaving no room for questions. “I have something to handle.”
They say nothing. They know better. A couple of them exchange quick glances, but no one speaks. I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and walk out without looking back.
Outside, the late afternoon light is starting to fade, the sky is turning the shade of purple-gray that always hangs over the industrial district.
I slide behind the wheel of my own car instead of waiting for the driver.
The engine growls to life under my hands.
I try to stay calm on the drive back so I don’t walk in too wired to make any sense, but my hands stay tight on the wheel the whole way, knuckles pale.
In the private elevator on the way up I pull out my phone again and check the CCTV feed from the penthouse. There she is.
Viola is seated on the couch, just staring out at the view of Manhattan.
Not moving. Just sitting there, perfectly still, like the weight of the entire day is pressing down on her slim shoulders.
The t-shirt she’s wearing looks too big on her, and her blonde hair falls loose around her face.
She looks small against the huge windows and the glittering skyline behind her.
Vulnerable in a way that makes something fierce and protective twist hard inside my chest.
She looks so delicate and lost for a second, I wonder if I should just leave her alone. Give her the space she clearly asked for this morning. Let her have the quiet she needs after whatever the fuck happened at that house.
But the elevator doors open with a soft ding, and I slip the phone back into my pocket and step into the penthouse.
The sliding doors are open and the low, constant hum of the city far below. Distant traffic and the faint wail of a siren somewhere, drifts into the apartment. I wait for a second in the foyer, listening, trying to read the hushed atmosphere the way I read a room full of dangerous men.
I don’t call out her name. Not yet.