Page 30 of Forced Arrangement

The men fan out, combing the warehouse for anything of value. It doesn’t take long before one of them calls out, “Boss, over here.”

I walk over to find them standing by a large set of crates, the wood splintered and worn. I recognized the markings immediately—Costa’s usual method of smuggling contraband into the country. He has connections at the ports, enough to get questionable shipments through customs without so much as a raised eyebrow.

“These are his,” I say, my voice dark with satisfaction. “Open them.”

The men pry the crates open, revealing their contents. My eyes narrow as I take in what’s inside. High-end electronics, pharmaceuticals, and—most damning of all—illegal weapons. Guns, ammo, and explosives, all of which were strictly black market. Costa has been preparing for a war, and he has been stupid enough to leave his stockpile unguarded.

I run my fingers over one of the guns, the metal cold and deadly under my touch. Costa has smuggled this shipment in through his usual channels, greasing the palms of customs officials and port workers to ensure it could pass through without a hitch. But now it’s in my hands, and I know exactly what to do with it.

“Millions of dollars, easy,” one of my men mutters, shaking his head as he surveys the contents of the crates.

“And now it’s worthless,” I reply, a cold smile curling my lips. “Set it on fire. I want Costa to know exactly what happens when he crosses me.”

The men don’t hesitate, dousing the crates with gasoline we find stored in the warehouse. The acrid smell fills the air as the liquid soaks into the wood, pooling around the base of the crates.

I stand back, watching as one of the men strikes a match and tosses it onto the gasoline-soaked wood. The flames roar to life, climbing higher and higher as they consume the crates. The fire spreads quickly, licking at the walls and ceiling, turning everything in its path to ash.

Costa’s shipment—his entire investment—is going up in smoke. And with it, any leverage he thinks he has over me.

I watch the flames dance, the heat searing against my skin, but it’s not enough to quench the fire burning inside me. Costa has hurt one of my own, and this is just the beginning. He will keep doing things like this until he gets his way, or we kill him.

Costa has taken something from me. Now, I’m going to take everything from him.

The fire roars behind us as we drive away, the smoke billowing into the night sky like a beacon. I know it wouldn’t be long before Costa gets word of what I’ve done. And when he does, the message will be clear: I’m not someone to be fucked with.

As we make our way back to the city, I pull out my phone and dial Franco’s number. He answers on the first ring.

“Everything secure at the penthouse?” I ask, my voice steady, though my heart is still racing.

“Secure,” Franco confirms. “Sophia’s safe. She doesn’t know anything about what happened yet.”

“Good,” I reply, feeling a small measure of relief. “I’m on my way back. We need to discuss our next move.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and then Franco speaks again, his tone quieter. “You did the right thing, Angelo, but Costa won’t forget this.”

“I don’t want him to,” I say, my voice hardening. “I want him to suffer.”

And with that, I end the call, leaning back in the seat as I stare out the window. The city lights blur past, a stark contrast to the darkness that still simmers in my chest.

This isn’t over—not by a long shot. Costa has made his move, and I’ve answered. But I know, deep down, that this is only the beginning.

And I’m ready for whatever comes next.

Chapter Eleven

Sophia

The morning sun filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long shadows across the polished marble floors.

I’ve been up for hours, pacing the living room as I try to keep my mind from spiraling. Coming back to New York has dredged up so many memories—some sweet, most of them bitter—and the weight of it all is starting to feel like too much.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I walk over and open it to find Angelo’s right-hand man, Franco Pesci, standing there. He has the kind of intense, watchful presence that tells you he’s always assessing, always on guard. It makes me nervous when he turns that sharp gaze on me, but strangely, I also feel safer now that he is here.

“Franco,” I greet him, trying to keep my voice steady. “Is everything okay?”

He nods, his face blank. “Angelo asked me to check in with you. He had to take care of some business, but he’ll be back shortly.”

“Of course he did,” I mutter under my breath, not entirely surprised. Angelo is nothing if not thorough, and having me watched is probably just another one of the things that he thinks of as his duty. “Well, as you can see, I’m still here, safe and sound.”

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