Chapter 1 - The First ThreadThe amber liquid in my glass caught the dim light of the study as Isabella brushed past me, her perfume—jasmine and something sharp, metallic—lingering in the air. "More ice, Alessandro?" she asked, her voice as smooth as silk pulled over a blade.
"No," I said, keeping my tone flat. "This is fine."
I watched her walk out of the room. Every movement was calculated, graceful, the product of a lifetime of pretending to belong in worlds she wasn't born into. When I met her at that charity gala, I thought her poise was a shield against the brutality of my life. Now, sitting in the heavy leather armchair where I had signed execution orders and brokered truces that shaped the Eastern Seaboard, I realized it wasn't a shield at all.
It was camouflage.
Max, sitting silently beside my chair, let out a low, barely perceptible whine. His amber eyes were fixed on the doorway through which Isabella had vanished. For seven years, I thought his silence was a tactical advantage. Tonight, it felt like a countdown.
I set the scotch down untouched and pulled my encrypted burner phone from my pocket. It took three rings before a gruff, exhausted voice answered.
"Boss. It's late."
"Vincenzo," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I need you to dig into the past six months of our domestic accounts. Specifically, anything routed through offshore shells in the Caymans or Zurich."
A pause on the line. Vincenzo had been my underboss for fifteen years; he knew the subtle shift in my tone that meant blood was in the air. "Any specific name attached, Boss?"
"Isabella."
Silence stretched over the line for so long I thought the signal had dropped. "Mrs. Vitale?" Vincenzo asked, his voice tight with disbelief. "Are you sure?"
"Just pull the records," I snapped, ending the call before he could ask another question.
I stood up, walking to the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves that lined the back wall. Behind the third shelf down, housing a complete leather-bound collection of Machiavelli, was a biometric safe. I pressed my thumb against the scanner. It clicked open, revealing a Beretta 9mm, a stack of bearer bonds, and a ledger containing the names, addresses, and dirty secrets of every politician, judge, and cop on my payroll.
If Isabella was selling me out, she wouldn't go to the cops. A cop could be bought, threatened, or buried. No, if my wife was betraying me, she was dealing with someone who had deeper pockets and a longer reach than the NYPD.
She was dealing with the Outfit out of Chicago, or worse—the Russian syndicate trying to muscle into the Brooklyn docks.
Max stood up, his massive body stretching as he followed me back to the desk. He didn't make a sound, but his ears were pinned back, listening to something in the quiet hum of the house.
May you like
"What do you know that I don't, old friend?" I murmured, running a hand over his thick black neck.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
