Page 44 of Dance of Ruin

"Well?" I snap, jaw clenching.

The Wolf exhales heavily. "Look, man. I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say we’re sorry about what almost happened to your sister. But this isn’t Court business."

My eyes darken.

"Fuck you," I spit. "Of course it is."

"It’snot," The Bull says flatly. "Look, we’ve all got families. This life is dangerous. If we got involved every time someone took a swing at a family member, the Court would be at war every day, and that’s not what we do here.”

"That’s bullshit."

Carmine's hand lands heavily on my shoulder. "He’s right,” he mutters. "This thing with the Obsidian Syndicate is a Barone issue. Until they make it about The Court, then The Court stay out of it."

I glare at the middle of the table. My cigarette burns low between my fingers.

“This Obsidian Syndicate… They’re the ones sniffing around the Court," I press. "Theyhaveto be. I mean, we’re looking for who’s prying into us, and it’s not Kir, nor anyone we already know in New York. Well, here’s a powerful, well-connected group with the sort of reach where they’re working for U.S. fuckingCongressman, right here in our city.” I tap my fingertip hard on the table. “There’s our connection.Nowit’s fucking Court business.”

The Bull shakes his head. "We get what you’re saying, Raven. But until we have proof it’s them,I’m sorry. This is your family’s fight, not ours."

Carmine places a hand on my arm. The message is clear:stand down.

* * *

I leanagainst my bike outside the Barone mansion, mostly oblivious to the late-night 5thAvenue traffic zipping past me.

It’s funny: growing up here, our parents always made sure we felt like any other kids growing up in New York. That’s not some “aww, poor kids who grew up with a shitload of money and Central Park right across the street” bullshit. I’vealwaysknown that I was born into a seriously privileged life.

A huge part of it was the relative peace in the mafia world when we were growing up. Dad was right when he was losing it in Bianca’s hospital room, saying “this isn’t how it’s done anymore”.

It isn’t—and it wasn’t when we were kids, either. Vito and Giada let us play on the front steps, like millions of other kids playing on stoops in the Lower East Side or Brooklyn. They took us to soup kitchens to help out on weekends. Dad always made a point of personally delivering a couple of U-Haul trucks full of toys and turkey dinners with all the trimmings to about a half dozen less-then-affluent neighborhoods around the city every Christmas.

In short, we grew up aware of our privilege. And our parents made goddamn sure we understood that with privilege comes responsibility to help those around you.

I look at the front steps of the house, smiling when I remember skipping down those same steps with Vito dressed like fucking Santa Claus, about to make a whole neighborhood’s Christmas Eve.

Then my gaze drops to the street under my feet, and my smile fades like smoke.

The concrete is still scorched—dark black lines spidering outward from a flashpoint, like the road itself tore open and bled.

That’s where the car incinerated. Where Bianca almost died.

My little fucking sister.

I want to hit something.

No, someone. I want to chase down these Obsidian Syndicate motherfuckers and gut them one by one until I find the waste of oxygen who wired that car—and then do all it all over again.

Instead, I just stand here. Waiting.

The low, throaty growl of a V12 engine cuts through the dark, and a second later Carmine’s black Lamborghini slides around the corner. The headlights wash over me and my bike, reflecting off the scorched street like fresh blood in moonlight. He pulls up to the curb and kills the engine.

I speak first when he steps out.

“What the fuck was that?”

Carmine shuts the door and exhales sharply. “That,” he says tiredly, “was The Court making the right call.”

I step toward him. “The right call? Doing fucking nothing is the right call?!”

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