19. Leander
Leander
I hope tonight goes well.
Four weeks of quiet maneuvering behind the scenes have brought us to tonight.
I adjust the cuffs of my black suit jacket in the mirror of my bedroom.
Kara steps out of the bathroom, pulling the silver zipper of her black floor-length gown up her back. The dress is simple, tailored tight across her waist, with an open neckline that shows her collarbones. Her hair is pinned up, a few dark locks framing her face.
I step up behind her, taking the zipper for the last two inches and pulling it smooth against her skin.
"How are your ribs?" I ask softly, my hands resting on her hips for a beat.
"Fully healed," Kara mutters, turning in my grip to face me. "No ache, no pull. Your nursing was adequate, Dr. Sartori."
"Adequate?" I echo, a tiny tilt touching the corner of my mouth. "I stayed awake four nights straight changing your ice packs."
"And you complained every time I opened my laptop," she replies, her eyes warm as her hand rests against my lapel. "Which makes you overbearing, not heroic."
I look down at her face, my thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone.
Ten years ago, I walked out of my father's compound with a single duffel bag and a bloody nose.
I stripped the Moretti name off my driver's license, took my mother's maiden name, and swore I’d spend the rest of my life behind sterile hospital glass where everything had logic.
I hated the noise of the family, the greed, the posturing, and the way men killed each other over shipping containers and pride.
I chose a scalpel because it fixed things instead of tearing them apart.
But standing in this bedroom, looking at the thin scar along Kara's left side, I know I'd burn every building in this state to keep her breathing.
I didn't come back to this fight for power or money.
I came back because leaving her exposed to my family was a mistake I refuse to make twice.
"Ready?" I ask her.
"Ready," Kara says. "Who are we meeting first?"
"Capo Valenti," I tell her, sliding my arm around her waist as we walk out toward the hallway. "He controls the private gaming parlors in the west district. If Valenti switches his support, Vincenzo loses half his liquid cash flow by midnight."
We take the service elevator down to the subterranean garage where Julian is waiting beside a long, blacked-out executive sedan.
Julian is wearing a dark charcoal suit, leaning against the fender with a quiet, watchful look in his eyes.
For four years, Julian and I have run the off-grid dockside clinic after hours, treating union workers and Valenti's managers when they needed quiet stitches without police reports or my father's involvement.
Two years ago, I treated Valenti's younger brother after a quiet turf dispute and kept the records off Roberto's desk.
Valenti remembers who saved his blood, and Julian has been keeping that line of communication open for the past month.
"Everything is set up at The Crown," Julian mutters. "Valenti is sitting at the high-rollers baccarat table in the back room. He brought three of his main floor managers with him."
"Did he mention Vincenzo?" I ask, stepping into the leather interior.
"Vincenzo tried to double his protection tax on Valenti's tables two days ago," Julian replies. "Valenti is furious. He's ready to listen."
“Thank you, Julian.”
“That’s what best friends are for,” Julian winks playfully as he walks towards his car.
“Fuck off.”
The driver pulls out into the evening street, leaving the quiet residential district behind as we head toward the commercial quarter.
The Crown is a private, low-key casino operating on the top two floors of an unmarked brick building near the river. There are no neon signs outside, just two doors and a discreet valet stand in the alleyway.
We walk up the back carpeted stairwell. The ambient sound of shuffling cards, clinking glasses, and low conversations fills the air as we step onto the main floor. The room is dimly lit, filled with polished tables, leather armchairs, and amber crystal chandeliers overhead.
Standing near the private bar at the edge of the VIP lounge is Capo Valenti, a broad, silver-haired man in his late fifties wearing a blue suit, holding a glass of scotch.
When Valenti sees us approaching, his sharp eyes scan my face, then shift to Kara standing at my side.
"Leander," Valenti says, his voice a low, raspy rumble. He nods once. "Miss Rossi."
"Valenti," I acknowledge. "You look stressed."
Valenti lets out a short scoff, taking a sip of his drink.
"I have Vincenzo demanding sixty percent of my table rake while your father sits at the estate pretending everything is fine.
The docks are crawling with federal auditors because of that mess at Dock Fourteen, and my logistics guys can't move freight. "
"Vincenzo is short on cash because three of his warehouse leases got canceled this morning," Kara croons, stepping up beside me. "My office filed the emergency injunction on his municipal permits at four o'clock."
Valenti tilts his head, his sharp eyes fixing on Kara with genuine interest. "You froze his municipal permits?"
"All four of them," Kara replies, her tone completely calm. "Which means any cash moving through his west-side accounts is subject to immediate freeze by the state tax authority if he tries to transfer it tonight."
Valenti looks at me, a slow grin breaking across his features. "She's sharp, Leander. Antonio Rossi raised a lawyer, not a trophy."
"She isn't Antonio's," I quip. "She's mine. And she's the reason Vincenzo is losing his grip."
"Sit down," Valenti gestures toward the high-stakes baccarat table in the private alcove. "Let's see if your mind is as sharp as your filings."
We take our seats at the green felt table. Two other senior floor managers sit across from us, their faces unreadable as the dealer shuffles two fresh decks of cards.
For the next forty-five minutes, the conversation moves back and forth over the game. I don't play cards often, but the math is simple—probability, pattern recognition, and watching the way men shift their weight when they hold a losing hand.
"Vincenzo thinks he can force a vote at the next commission meeting," Valenti says, tossing three five-hundred-dollar chips onto the felt. "He thinks the southern capos will back him because of Roberto's name."
"The southern capos care about profit margins, Valenti," I lay my cards flat on the table, a natural nine. "Vincenzo lost two million dollars in delayed cargo last week alone. If you pull your gaming revenue from his line, he won't have enough capital to pay his enforcers by Friday."
Valenti looks down at my winning hand, then looks up into my eyes. "And what happens to my rake if I back you?"
"You keep eighty percent," I tell him, my raspy voice dropping low and firm. "The remaining twenty goes directly into a shared security fund for the district docks. No skimming, no extra taxes, and no enforcers stepping into your parlors without your permission."
Valenti stays silent, processing the numbers.
Beside me, Kara leans forward slightly, her hand resting light on the felt edge.
"The dealer is holding an eight-deck shoe, Mr. Valenti," she remarks quietly, her eyes fixed on the remaining stack.
"The house edge on the banker bet drops to 1.
06 percent if you split the secondary wager now. The math favors the shift."
Valenti blinks, looking from Kara to the cards, then lets out a loud, genuine laugh that echoes through the private alcove.
"You calculated the variance while we were talking logistics?" Valenti asks, shaking his head with a grin.
"I like clear numbers, Valenti," Kara says smoothly, a subtle smile touching her lips. "In law and in cards, bad math gets people broke."
Valenti slams his palm against the table, turning toward his two floor managers. "Did you hear that? That's how an alliance is run. Not with threats and broken windows, but with actual intelligence."
Valenti turns back to me, holding out his broad, calloused hand across the felt.
"You have my tables, Leander," Valenti says, his voice carrying absolute weight. "And my four votes at the commission."
I reach out, taking his hand in a firm, solid grip. "Deal, Valenti."
We finish our drinks, wrap up the final details of the harbor transfer, and step out of the casino twenty minutes later.
The night air outside the alley is cool and crisp.
Kara and I step into the back of the blacked-out executive car. The driver pulls the door shut, cutting off the noise of the alley, and accelerates smoothly out into the main street traffic.
The privacy partition between the front cab and the rear cabin slides up, locking us into total isolation. Low amber ambient lights glow along the floorboards, casting soft shadows across the leather seats.
I look over at Kara. She's leaning back against the leather headrest, her hair slightly loose from the clip, her eyes bright with adrenaline.
"Eighty percent," she whispers, looking at me with a faint smile. "You gave him a generous cut."
"He controls the floor, Kara," I unbutton my suit jacket and toss it onto the empty seat beside me. "A generous cut keeps men loyal. Greed makes them stupid."
"You were brilliant back there," she says, her voice dropping into a low, quiet register that sends a subtle pulse straight down my spine.
"Me?" I ask, leaning closer to her. "You calculated the house edge on a baccarat shoe just to prove a point."
"I like winning," Kara whispers, reaching out to catch the lapels of my open shirt, pulling me toward her.
The control we kept all evening inside the casino shatters instantly.
I grab her by the hips, lifting her body off the leather seat, and pull her straight onto my lap. Kara lets out a low, breathless gasp as her legs part around my thighs, her dress sliding up her legs as her hands wrap tight around the back of my neck.