Chapter 2

Angelo

My day has been utterly exhausting. When my phone buzzes with a message saying my boss, Luciano Falcone, wants to see me, I know it's not going to get any better. At this late hour, it likely means something has come up that will keep me here longer than I want, instead of heading to my favorite vintage whiskey bar and meeting one of the few girls I can rely on for a date and casual sex.

That’s how I’d prefer to spend my evening—and it’s how I’ve been spending them lately.

Things have been calm in New York’s criminal underworld for a while now. With the alliance between Luciano and Sandrino Pagano—the Bratva leader here—and their mutual alliance with the Irish Kings in Boston, plus deals with the Santiago cartel in Mexico, business is booming, and no one dares challenge their authority. This makes my job relatively easy—except for days like today, dealing with shipment issues, an underperforming crew, and reprimanding the man who hired them. It’s all tedious, and as I close the ledger and tuck my phone in my pocket to meet Luciano one floor up, I hope it won’t take long.

The grave look on his face when I enter the office tells me otherwise.

“Sit down, Angelo.” Luciano points to one of the leather chairs in front of his desk, leaning back in his own. “I have news you’re not going to like.”

I sit down, not bothering to hide my tired sigh. Luciano is my boss but also my friend, and has been for a long time. As his right-hand man, I know almost everything he does, and he trusts me more than anyone else. If he’s distant at times, I understand—his former right-hand man betrayed him deeply, like a brother.

“I don’t know how to say this.” Luciano rubs his hand over his mouth, looking grim. “Don Santoro—your stepfather…he’s dead, Angelo.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. “Dead?” I blink at Luciano, unable to fully grasp it. “He can’t be. He—”

I take a breath. “I haven’t talked to him in a while, but last I knew, he was in good health. What happened?” There are many possibilities, but Vincezio wasn’t that old—in his late fifties. He should have had plenty of life left, even with the stresses of being the head of the Chicago mafia.

“It wasn’t natural.” Luciano runs a hand through his hair. “His daughter found him. Dead, in the middle of the night, with his throat slit in his study. The window was open. Someone attacked him at home and escaped.”

“And they’ve been caught?” I lean forward. “Surely Vasilev and McNeil are helping? They were his allies. And the Family?”

“They’re all looking into it,” Luciano says tiredly. “But no, nothing has been found yet. Whoever did it planned well and covered their tracks.”

"And Rosalia found him?" I close my eyes, not wanting to imagine how awful that must have been for her. Rosalia and her father were always close, closer than most mafia fathers are with their daughters. He didn’t believe in the old ways of raising daughters, keeping them ignorant and suitable only for marriage at a young age, ignoring them in favor of sons. Rosalia was his only natural child, and he loved her deeply. “How is she?”

Luciano shakes his head. “From what I hear, not well. The funeral is tomorrow. I received a request to release you to go to Chicago, both for the funeral and to meet with the Family to discuss Don Santoro’s successor. I expect that will have something to do with the girl’s marriage as well, whether it was already arranged or still needs to be. Yesterday was her eighteenth birthday, apparently,” he adds with a sigh. “Not the way it should have gone.”

“I know why they want me back.” I grit my teeth, thinking of the last conversation Vincezio and I had before I left Chicago and stopped speaking to him for three years. Rosalia was fifteen then, and she often gazed at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. “Vincezio probably put it in his will that he wants me to be his successor.”

“Really.” Luciano looks at me curiously. “Was that why you fell out? I thought he would want it to go to her future husband. I don’t mean this as an insult, Angelo; I know he thought of you as a son—but you don’t share his blood. You have his name, and that’s all. At least Rosalia’s children would be half-Santoro by blood.”

I frown. “He wanted me to marry her when she was older. Twenty-one at least, he said. The best way of both ensuring the son of his heart led the family after his passing and that the heirs would be the family of his blood. I refused, of course.”

“Of course,” Luciano echoes, but I can tell from his tone that he doesn’t understand. “You refused to be betrothed to Rosalia?”

“She’s my stepsister.” I stare at Luciano. “And half my age.”

“But you weren’t raised together. You left three years after she was born. You’re hardly siblings in anything but the most legal sense. Certainly not blood-related, or even with the awkwardness of having grown up together. And she is of age now.”

“Exactly Vincezio’s argument. And my answer remains the same. Absolutely not. I will not lead the Santoro mafia—not only because I have no right to, but because I have no desire to be don. And I will not marry Rosalia. It’s not right. Besides—”

I don't finish the sentence. The reasons I've given are strong enough. Rosalia is too young, even if she's legally old enough to marry, and she's my stepsister. It doesn’t matter that I have my own reasons for not wanting to marry her, whether Vincezio put it in his will or not. Reasons I don't plan to share with my boss.

“They expect you in Chicago, one way or another,” Luciano says. “Tomorrow.”

“And I’ll go.” I let out a long breath. “There’s no saying no to the Family, of course. I’ll help set things straight, and then I’ll come back here—where I’m perfectly content working as your right-hand man and helping you lead.”

“Which you’ve done exceptionally well at.” Luciano frowns. “I don’t think they’ll let you refuse as easily as you think. Whatever Vincezio has asked, they’ll feel duty-bound to follow. And they may have their own ideas.”

“I’m sure they will.” My jaw tightens. “But I have my own opinions, and I intend to stick to them.”

“Good luck,” Luciano says, looking at me from across the desk. “Whatever you decide, I’ll support it.”

I’m grateful for his support. But as I leave the office and head back to my apartment—a high-level, spacious loft in one of New York’s high-rises—I’m determined to stick to the choices I’ve already made.

My life, as it is, is everything I want. I have influence and money while staying in the background as Luciano’s consigliere—a position he’s often mentioned promoting me from to underboss, but even that I’m not sure I want. I’ve never been power-hungry, at least not in my own estimation, and I’ve seen what happens to those in high positions. I’ve seen the dangers to not only Luciano and his allies but also to their families. I don’t escape danger entirely in my role—that would be impossible, but the gun has never been aimed directly at me.

It’s not just the danger but the responsibility. So many people rely on Luciano and others like him. Every choice he makes matters. I’m not sure that’s what I want for my life. I’ve never aspired to rise higher than I already have.

Now the Family will want me to. I have no doubt about that. And they’ll want me to fulfill Vincezio’s wishes—not only to inherit but also to marry Rosalia. And that, I absolutely will not do.

I toss my keys into the ceramic dish on the antique wooden table just inside my door, shrug off my suit coat, and loosen my tie. I’d planned to go out for a drink, but now staying in sounds like a better idea, especially since I have to go to Chicago in the morning. I reach for my phone as I walk into my living room, the view of New York in the early evening spreading out beyond the huge windows, and thumb through my contact list—all girls who would be happy to come over with a moment’s notice.

That sounds like a good night. The peace of my own home—the last night like that for a while, depending on how long it takes to settle things in Chicago—a glass of good wine, and a girl on her knees, making me forget everything that's bothering me.

I sink down onto the black leather couch, watching the city lights flicker to life, and feel anticipation as I type out a text. In thirty minutes, this evening will be much better.

And when I finish what needs to be done in Chicago, I can come right back here, to the ideal life I’ve created for myself.

It’ll just take a few days, that's all.

The next morning, as I board the jet that Luciano let me borrow for a smoother flight, I’m feeling less sure. I went to bed with the sheets smelling of vanilla perfume, my body well-pleased, after a second round with the girl who had come over—a pretty red-haired lounge singer named Siobhan, with a voice even more beautiful when she comes. She’d let me tie her to the bed and tease her with my tongue until she was begging, giving me something much more pleasurable to focus on than the morning’s tasks. Then I made her come three more times when I flipped her over and had her as I pleased. I should feel satisfied and relaxed today, having had both good sex and sound sleep the night before. Still, I feel tense and unsettled, and as I settle into my seat on the jet, I can’t shake the feeling.

It doesn’t get better when I arrive in Chicago, a few hours before the funeral. I send my bags with a driver to drop off at my hotel—I have no intention of staying in Vincezio’s home, even though I know it’s what he would have wanted—and head straight for the church, feeling that knot of anxiety tighten mile by mile until I step inside.

The smell of wood and incense that hits me as I walk in the doors brings back a flood of memories—everything from my own confirmation not long after Vincezio and Rosa adopted me, to Sunday mornings sitting in the hard wooden pews, to Rosalia’s baptism when she was small. I’d hoped it would be much longer before I returned here for a funeral.

The church is quiet, with few people present yet. The coffin sits atop the stairs—made of dark wood and brass, elegant in its simplicity. I'm certain Vincezio detailed his wishes for this, just as he did for everything else. And now, the Family will expect me to fulfill those instructions.

I know Rosalia is the singular figure in the front row without having to see her face. She’s sitting stick-straight in the pew, dressed in black, her thick hair pulled back at the front with a diamond hair comb that glitters in the low light of the church, looking at the coffin. I pause a third of the way down the aisle, hesitant to see her, to speak to her.

It’s been three years. When I left, she was a fifteen-year-old girl with an inappropriate crush on me, nothing more than a child. Now, I know she’ll be something else. And the Family will ask for her to be something else tome, specifically.

I’ve told myself, again and again, that I’m horrified by the idea. That eighteen or not, she’s too young, too innocent—and above all else, legally my stepsister, even if she was raised all her life with my presence as nothing but a footnote. There’s no feeling between us, no connection, but it feels wrong all the same.

I force myself to keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until I’m three pews away from her. I stop and clear my throat, waiting for the moment when she turns her head to look at me.

“Rosalia?” I keep my voice soft, soothing, wanting to comfort her in some small way if I can. This is a loss for us both, but I think it runs even deeper for her.

For a moment, she doesn’t turn. Her shoulders stiffen when she hears my voice—and then she turns her head. Her blue eyes meet mine for the first time in three years, beautiful, even saddened and red-rimmed, and I’m unprepared for the way she makes me feel the moment she looks at me.

She looks older. More grown-up than I’d imagined. And I’m struck with a realization that I’ve never had before.

She’s absolutely beautiful.