Chapter 2 Kicking Down the Door

I hold my breath, my eyes glued to the monitor. My hand grips the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles turn white. I hate him. I hate the way he moves, the way he breathes, the way he stole my brother's future five years ago. I want to see him fail. I want to see him bleed. But right now, I need to see what he knows. I need to see if my name is on his lips.

Before the iron tool can descend, heavy footsteps echo from the stairs at the top of the video frame. A steel door opens, and Matteo Moretti steps into the basement. Luca's underboss looks pale. His usual calm demeanor is gone. He walks fast, his leather shoes slapping against the wet floor, his trench coat open.

Luca does not lower the tool. He keeps his eyes on Frankie’s trembling hand. "I told you I did not want to be disturbed, Matteo. We are in the middle of a budget correction."

"We have a problem, Luca," Matteo says. He stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he ran all the way from his car. "A massive problem. There was a shooting twenty minutes ago at St. John’s Cemetery in Queens."

Luca freezes. The iron tool remains steady in his grip. He slowly turns his head to look at his underboss, his eyes narrowing. "The Russo territory. Who was hit? Did they take out Alessandro?"

"Valentina Russo," Matteo says.

Hearing my own name come out of his mouth through my speakers makes my heart stop. I lean closer to the monitor, my face inches from the glass.

"Is she dead?" Luca asks. His voice drops, becoming dangerously quiet. The lack of emotion in his tone makes my stomach twist. He asks the question as if he is checking the status of a late delivery.

"No," Matteo answers. "She killed two of the shooters herself and got away. She’s smarter than we thought. But that is not the issue. The trucks used in the ambush were registered to a dummy corporation we own in Long Island. The rifles left behind were top-tier military gear from our old suppliers. The word is already hitting the streets, Luca. Alessandro Russo is calling his captains to the table. He thinks we tried to assassinate his niece at Enzo's grave to finish the bloodline."

Luca lets go of Frankie’s hand. He sets the iron tool back on the wooden table with a dull clatter. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white handkerchief. He begins to clean his hands, his movements slow and deliberate. He wipes the dark blood from his knuckles, staring down at his skin as if calculating his next three moves on a map.

"We did not order that hit," Luca says, his tone deadpan.

"I know we didn't," Matteo says, stepping closer to his Don. "But someone went to a lot of trouble to make it look like we did. They used our registration. They used our timing. If the Russos launch a full strike in retaliation, the whole city goes up in smoke. We aren't ready for a two-front war, Luca. The feds are already sniffing around our construction fronts in Manhattan."

Luca finishes wiping his hands. He tosses the stained handkerchief onto Frankie’s bloody lap. He steps into Matteo's space, his massive frame towering over his underboss, his dark eyes locking onto the other man.

"Dead men don't start wars, Matteo," Luca says, his voice cutting through the basement draft like a cold blade. "Find out who pulled that trigger before I burn the city down."

The feed continues, but my mind is spinning. I stare at Luca's face on the screen. The hatred is still there, a heavy lump in my throat, but it is now tangled with a cold, terrifying realization. He didn't do it. The devil of New York didn't try to kill me today. He is just as blind as we are. Someone else is pulling the strings, playing our families against each other like puppets in a theater of blood.

If Luca Moretti didn't order the hit, then who did? Who has the money for military-grade weapons and a silent helicopter? Who benefits if the Morettis and the Russos destroy each other completely?

I close the laptop sharply, the plastic clicking in the quiet room. The sudden silence in my office is loud. I stand up and pace the floor, my torn skirt swishing against my legs. My cheek throbs where the stone shard cut me, the blood drying into a tight line on my skin. I need to go downstairs. I need to tell Uncle Alessandro what I saw. I need to stop him from sending his hit squads into a trap. We are walking straight into an ambush designed by an invisible enemy, and our pride is going to get us all slaughtered.

I reach for the brass doorknob to head down to the dining room, but before my fingers can touch the metal, a heavy thud echoes through the foundation of the house.

It is followed by a sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

The high-pitched, metallic wail of federal sirens.

The glass in my office windows rattles in the frames. Bright red and blue lights flash through the wooden blinds, painting the white walls of my room in a rapid, dizzying pulse. Downstairs, the heavy oak front door splinters with a loud, crashing boom that shakes the floorboards under my feet.

"FBI! Nobody move! Get on the ground! Face down on the floor!"