Page 40 of Code Name: Grit

A familiar exit sign sent an unexpected jolt through me as we passed the turnoff for Cold Spring—where my home stood hidden among the trees overlooking the Hudson. For a moment, I considered telling Lumi about the sanctuary I’d never shared with anyone, which I’d built away from the world, maintaining it as the one place untouched by my work. The words formed on my tongue, then faded.

The Belcastro vehicles turned onto Route 9, continuing north until they reached a roadside diner near Peekskill. The location choice made no tactical sense—men who controlled empires didn’t meet at exposed stops off highways.

We parked where we could observe without being obvious, and I updated the headquarters on our position.

“This doesn’t add up,” I said to Lumi, who nodded in agreement.

Through binoculars I’d pulled from the glove compartment, I watched as another vehicle arrived—a sleek black SUV with darkened windows. My pulse quickened as the don himself stepped out.

“That’s Cassio,” Lumi said, going still beside me. “What’s he doing here? This far from the city?” Her voice remained steady, but I caught the intensity in her eyes as she studied the man who’d contributed half her DNA yet had no idea she existed.

“Unexpected,” I agreed, continuing to observe as a third vehicle arrived—a government sedan that sent ice through my veins. When Ethan Keller stepped out, my jaw tightened.

“That’s Keller,” I said. “The man from Galliano’s.”

Lumi shifted closer. “The DOJ agent you identified as working with the Belcastros?”

I nodded, the betrayal like acid in my stomach. “He trained me at Quantico. His reputation for fighting corruption was unmatched.”

“Why would three men, all high-profile, meet in a public diner in broad daylight?” Lumi muttered, her brow furrowed. “It makes no sense.”

“Arrogance,” I replied, but her question planted a doubt I couldn’t shake. There wasn’t anything about this meeting I would’ve predicted going down the way it was.

We maintained position for nearly an hour, photographing their interactions while unable to hear what was said. My phone vibrated with a message from Tank that sent adrenaline surging.

Patriarca family member spotted two miles north. Giovanni Patriarca—known enforcer. Identified from traffic-cam footage.

“We need to pull back,” I told Lumi, starting the engine after showing her the message I’d received.

As we prepared to leave, a black sedan pulled into the lot, parking several spaces away. The driver looked directly at our vehicle with unmistakable intent.

“That’s him,” I said, recognizing Giovanni from intelligence files. “Don’t make eye contact.”

My earpiece crackled with intercepted communications from the Patriarca security team.

“Be advised Rafael wants observation only—no engagement,” came the first voice.

Giovanni’s response was immediate and heated. “This passive bullshit again? We should’ve moved on those docks weeks ago.”

His second-in-command attempted to calm him. “The boss has his reasons.”

Giovanni’s disgust was palpable even through the transmission. “His reason is weakness. Letting the Belcastrosconsolidate while we watch. Tell him I’m making one pass and then heading back.”

Their internal conflict was becoming increasingly visible—Rafael’s restraint clearly at odds with Giovanni’s more aggressive approach.

When the transmission ended, Lumi tensed beside me, and without thinking, I reached across the console and took her hand, squeezing it once.

Her fingers intertwined with mine briefly before she pulled away, straightening in her seat. “Let’s go,” she said, composure intact despite the danger.

I pulled out, taking a circuitous route to ensure we weren’t followed. The Patriarca enforcer’s appearance had significantly altered the op. Two rival organizations converging on a meeting with a DOJ official represented a situation with implications beyond our current investigation.

“We can’t make it back to Tribeca safely,” I said, checking the mirrors. “We need somewhere closer to regroup.”

“There’s another safe house in Dobbs Ferry,” said Lumi. “It’s thirty minutes from here.”

It was justafter fourteen hundred hours when we pulled into the driveway of the place she’d suggested—a modernist structure perched on a wooded hillside overlooking the Hudson—I secured the perimeter while Lumi established communication with the command center. We’d spent over four hours on surveillance between the café and the diner.

“Admiral says to hold position and await further instructions,” she reported. “Tank is tracking both Belcastro and Patriarca movements.”

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