“Twenty thousand dollars isn't a fee, Donatella. It’s an investment in a woman who can make a Don bleed and stitch him back together without a single blink.”

“An empire built on a graveyard only stands as long as the ghosts stay buried.”By 6:00 A.M., the penthouse floor had been cleared of corpses, but the smell of copper and cordite clung to the expensive crown molding. Donatella sat at the kitchen island, a pristine white porcelain teacup between her fingers, though she hadn't taken a sip.

Cosimo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a fresh black shirt unbuttoned halfway down to accommodate the tight bindings around his ribs. He was on a secure satellite phone, his low, gravelly voice issuing cold orders to the captains still loyal to him.

“Lock down the docks,” Cosimo commanded. “Silvio’s crew doesn't get a single crate out of Harbor No. 4. If they breathe wrong, put them in the Atlantic.” He hung up, tossing the phone onto the counter. It slid, stopping right next to Donatella’s cup.

He looked down at her. The morning light caught the sharp angles of his jaw, softening none of the danger radiating from him. “Silvio has already gone to ground. He knows Marco’s hit failed. He’s running, but he has the keys to the Moretti counting houses in Brooklyn.”

“He won’t go to Brooklyn,” Donatella said calmly, her eyes fixed on the dark liquid in her cup.

Cosimo tilted his head. “And why is that?”

“Because page fourteen of my father’s ledger says Silvio owns a dummy corporation registered to an estate in Greenwich, Connecticut,” she replied, looking up to meet his dark gaze. “My father noted that whenever the Moretti family faced a federal indictment, Silvio transferred liquidity to the Connecticut accounts. He’s a coward, Cosimo. Cowards don't run toward the fight. They run toward their money.”

A slow, appreciative smile tugged at the corner of Cosimo’s mouth. He leaned over the island, bringing his face close to hers. The scent of woodsmoke and clean linen drifted off him, completely replacing the smell of blood from a few hours prior.

“You are a terrifyingly smart woman, Donatella Rizzo.”

“I’m an observant woman,” she corrected, her voice steady despite the proximity of his lips. “When you spend your life adjusting waistlines, you learn to see exactly where a man hoards his excess.”

“And what do you see when you look at me?” Cosimo murmured, his dark eyes dropping briefly to her lips before returning to her gaze.

“A man who thinks he’s the tailor, but is actually just the fabric,” she whispered back. She stood up, her full figure brushing lightly against his chest as she stepped past him. “We need to move before Silvio realizes we have the Greenwich address. If he flushes the accounts, we have no leverage over the remaining Moretti capos.”

Cosimo watched her walk toward the master bedroom to change out of her blood-stained clothes. Every movement she made was deliberate, devoid of the frantic panic that usually consumed civilians in his world. She was a weapon he hadn't prepared for, and for a man who controlled everything, the unpredictability of Donatella Rizzo was the most intoxicating drug he had ever tasted.

An hour later, they were in a armored black sedan, tearing north out of the city under a gray, bruised sky. Donatella was dressed in a dark wool coat, her titanium knife tucked into the custom sheath she had sewn into the interior lining.

As they crossed the state line, Cosimo broke the silence. “The hit on your father. I won't ask for your forgiveness. In our world, an apology doesn't wash out blood. But I want you to know... I didn't take pleasure in it.”

Donatella looked out the window as the trees of Connecticut blurred past. “If you had taken pleasure in it, Cosimo, you’d already be dead. I would have let the alcohol poison your bloodstream while I was stitching you up. Do not mistake my alliance for forgiveness. We have a contract. When the Moretti empire is ours, and Silvio is dead, then we will settle our account.”

Cosimo’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the leather groaning under his strength. “I look forward to the negotiation.”