Page 63 of Luciano

It was Marco’s mistress. Naked. Smiling. Surrounded by bricks of cash. What Marco didn’t know was Sophia was a plant andhad convince Marco to steal it, then confirmed that they stole it. We needed a reason to take their piece of the pie, and Marco’s dick got it for us.

I saw Ava’s eyes flick from the picture to Marco’s face.

“Now,” I said calmly, “we are no longer the intermediary. We’re selling directly to your people. Or I personally deliver these pictures to your wife.”

Extortion was sloppy, left too many loose ends. Coward’s work. I preferred a firmer hand. But Saint couldn’t afford any more bloodbaths. This was easier. We knew Marco would agree to whatever we said. His wife was the daughter of Giuseppe Gotti.He ran Brooklyn like a private empire—old school, no-nonsense, and madly loved his little girl. He would slit Marco’s throat in his sleep if his daughter so much as cried over another woman.

I smiled like we were just talking business. Like I hadn’t just ripped the floor out from under him.

"Agree," I said, tapping the edge of the photo. "This is a chance to stay alive. One you’ll only get once."

Marco’s father slammed his fork down. “You little—”

Saint cut him off as he tapped ash into his wine glass.

“Careful. Remember, I’m the reason your nephews are sleeping with the fish in Tampa. Would you like to join them?” Everybody knew Saint had murdered his nephews on his father’s orders, but the Russo family wasn’t brave enough to do anything about it even with the connection they had to Gotti.

The table went quiet.

I let the silence stretch until the Russos couldn’t take it and snapped. Then the chairs screeched.

Don Russo stood so fast his napkin flew off his lap and fluttered to the ground. “Figli di puttana!” he snarled, slamming a fist against the table hard enough to rattle the silverware.

Marco muttered something under his breath and kicked his chair back. The younger son lunged toward Saint but was caught by an arm across the chest from his father.

Curses flew. Russo’s voice rose in a storm of spit-laced Italian. Everybody in the restaurant eyed us, then went back to their own business. They knew not to let their eyes linger too long. Nobody wanted to be a witness.

The Russos stormed off.

I sipped my drink.

Saint relit his cigar.

Ava exhaled hard. “That was fucking exhilarating.”

I opened my mouth to respond but saw Aria approaching the table. In a flowy white dress, her belly seemed even more round than just a couple days ago.

Of course she came.

Saint didn’t even look surprised. He stood to greet her, kissed her cheek like he hadn’t told her to stay the fuck home. But I suppose he was used to her doing exactly what she wanted, with no regard for his opinions or warnings.

"Ava," Aria said, making a beeline for our side of the table. She leaned down toward Ava, a rare, genuine smile on her face. "How are you holding up?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something that would’ve crossed the line. I didn’t want Ava anywhere near Aria.

But I owed her—for the reception, for the warehouse. For saving Ava. So I kept my mouth shut. Sat back. Watched.

Ava smiled. "I’m okay. Thanks to you."

Aria’s eyes flicked to me, amusement in them. "See, Luciano, I’m not all bad."

I looked at her evenly, keeping my voice calm. “No, you’re not all bad. You’re just manipulative. Cunning. Unapologetically self-serving. But effective. That makes you valuable.”

I took a slow sip of water. “Let’s not mistake usefulness for virtue, though.”

Aria grinned wider, but it didn’t extend to her eyes. “You never miss an opportunity to tell me how you feel, Luciano. But I thinkwe should change the subject. I’d rather your wife form her own opinion of me.”

She turned her full attention back to Ava.

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