Page 25 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

I watched the slight narrowing of Leonardo’s eyes, the way Giacomo’s fingers tapped once against the table.

Matteo remained perfectly still. “It’s a coup… a trap.”

“Exactly.”

“Explain,” Giacomo ordered, leaning back in his chair and cocking his head.

I leaned forward, dropping my voice just enough that everyone had to focus to hear me. “None of these operations are real. But we’ll leave here tonight pretending they are.”

The room went still. Even the air seemed to stagnate.

“We feed different versions of sensitive intel to different circles within our organization,” I explained. “Each detail specific enough to be believable, unique enough to be traceable. When Rocco makes his move—and he will—the operation they target will tell us exactly whose lips have been loose.”

“Interesting.” Leonardo steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, thinking, processing.

“It’s not as direct as what I would’ve done, but that’s why I’m not the boss,” Gio relented. “I like it. It’s cunning as fuck.”

“We’ll create four separate operations. The weapons shipment from Belarus, scheduled for Thursday at midnight, coming through the north harbor. That’s one.” I lifted a finger. “The counterfeit olive oil operation through our front in Little Italy, set for Friday afternoon. That’s two.” Another finger raised. “The Russian meeting at the abandoned Parkview Hotel downtown on Friday at 9 PM. Three.” A third finger joinedthe count. “And finally, a cash transfer of two million from our casino, supposedly happening at the old ice factory at dawn on Saturday.” I lowered my hand, letting the weight of what I was proposing settle over the room.

“Four operations,” Emilio nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Four potential leaks.”

“Precisely. They’re all smoke. But to our rat, one will look like a golden opportunity.”

Gio nodded slowly beside me, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “And when they bite...”

I nodded, knowing he understood my methods. “We’ll know exactly which rat took the bait. And then, we’ll bury them.”

Matteo leaned back, a reluctant smile twisting his lips. “Clever. Very clever.”

“Who gets what information?” Giacomo questioned, looking to Emilio for answers. But my father kept his gaze firmly on me, letting me answer. Letting melead.

“I have a list of possible suspects. We’ll feed different information to each one. Luckily, they all run in different circles.” I explained, rising from my chair to pace the room slowly. “It won’t take long to ferret out the traitor.”

It was a quiet, cerebral kind of warfare—exactly my style.

Together, we hashed out the rest of the details, shaking hands when we were done. As the meeting broke, Emilio caught my eye, tilting his head toward his private study. The gesture was subtle—imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t spent a lifetime learning to read his silences.

I nodded once, hanging back as the others filtered out.

Gio caught my arm at the door. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“Won’t be long,” I assured him.

He searched my face for a moment, then squeezed my shoulder. “Good work in there, D. Dad was right to put you in charge of this.”

I watched him go, feeling the weight of his approval settle on my shoulders. Soon enough, I’d be the one in charge—the one making the final call. But knowing I had brothers I trusted implicitly, who weren’t afraid to call me out when I was wrong and back me when I wasn’t, made the idea of leading feel a hell of a lot less daunting.

I headed into Emilio’s study, and the heavy oak door closed with a solid thunk, leaving just my father and me in the room. My father moved to the carved sideboard and poured two fingers of whiskey into crystal tumblers. The amber liquid sloshed as he handed me a glass, then lifted his own in a sign of acknowledgement.

“Smart play tonight,” he stated proudly. “Not what I expected.”

I nodded and took a sip from the glass, letting the smooth spirit burn down my throat. “I thought about charging straight into their stronghold, guns blazing.” I swirled the whiskey, watching it catch the light from the desk lamp. “That’s what Gio wanted. It’s what I wanted too, after seeing Tommas bleeding out. After watching Kit—” I cut myself off, not wanting to show that particular vulnerability, even to my father. “But that’s what Rocco expects. He’s counting on our rage.”

Emilio nodded, the silver at his temples gleaming as he moved to sit behind his desk. “Rage is a luxury we can’t afford. Not when we’re bleeding from the inside.”

“No,” I agreed, remaining standing. I’d learned long ago that my father granted respect, not comfort. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

He studied me over the rim of his glass. “You’re not just thinking like a soldier anymore. You’re thinking like a boss.”

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