Page 47 of Tide of Treason
Dominguez spoke low in the Fed’s ear, smiling wide enough to show the gold molar he’d had installed in Miami. I’d bet money he was whispering something about flaying him like a fucking fish. Dom had a creative streak. Too much time spent watching cartel executions on the dark web and treating it like YouTube tutorials. The Fed released the kid with a curse, and I made a note to bump the rookie’s pay. He was an idiot, but guts were a rarity these days.
By the time I pulled into Il Cigno, the sun had dipped below the cliffs, everything edged in the vicious colors of a dying day. The driveway was crowded with the usual: black SUVs, Flavia’s vintage Alfa Romeo, and a Ferrari I was pretty damn sure Francesco had swiped purely because theft amused him. No impulse control, that man.
I killed the engine and sat there for a beat, watching agardener lug a crate of lemons through the side gate.
Checked my phone.
No new messages.
Which meant Lieve was fine. Safe. Sleeping soundly at Marisol’s, tucked into a bed that smelled like lavender and something softer than I was capable of giving. That was good. That was better. Because if I found out my two-year-old goddaughter so much as sniffed in the direction of trouble, I’d turn this whole fucking city inside out.
My thumb hovered briefly before tapping into the monitor app. Static hissed, then the camera steadied, framing Lieve curled beneath a baby-blue blanket, chest rising in tiny, peaceful beats. Marisol had left a pacifier next to her pillow, just within reach. Lieve didn’t take pacifiers anymore, but her mother still left one out. Just in case. Some people thought grief had an expiration date. That it stopped at the one-year mark, or the second, or whenever you were done pretending to be okay. But grief didn’t listen to clocks.
Satisfied, I shut off the monitor and shoved my phone in my pocket. Stepped out of the car. The manor opened its doors and swallowed me whole. Tonight’s entertainment was over, judging by the silence. Brando had either passed out or was still crying into the marble. Either way, I didn’t care. His existence barely registered in my orbit.
My destination was simple: whiskey, solitude, and some goddamn peace. Instead, fate decided to fuck with me, dropping Francesco—and worse, Lola—right in my path. The former was nursing a beer. The latter was curled up in his laplike a content housecat, wearing nothing but his shirt and a pair of lace panties. They both looked up when I walked in, and I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing Lola bite into a strawberry and moan.
I shook my head, heading directly for the liquor cabinet. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Lola stretched, running her hands through her red hair. “If you’re here to rain on our afterglow, I’d recommend fucking off.”
Pouring a generous measure, I downed the whiskey and I leveled Francesco with a dark look. “Why do you keep letting her talk?”
“She’s hot when she’s mouthy.”
“Then you must be hard twenty-four-fucking-seven.”
He chuckled.
I let out a breath, took another sip, and let the whiskey sit on my tongue before swallowing. Francesco Sforza had always been a sick fuck, but his taste in women was particularly suspect. If you asked me, Lola was as insufferable as she was hot, which was to say: extremely.
Lola eyed me thoughtfully, lashes lowering in mock flirtation. “Want me to set you up with one of my girls?”
“Hard pass.” I pushed off the counter, taking my drink with me.
Most of the house was blissfully absent, off attending some event at The Pierre for whatever charity they were laundering money through this month. Viviana had disappeared with a canvas tucked under her arm, which meantKayla had been busy, pulling strings or cutting throats to indulge her sister’s whims. Both scenarios equally plausible. Equally compelling.
Usually, I’d stay at my snug two-story in Staten Island. It was closer to the Cartel’s port, easier to move in and out of business without being under a roof of Italians. It had a view of the bay, a fridge full of Modelo, and an open garage where I spent more time than inside the actual house. Some men drank to clear their heads. Some fucked. I cracked open an engine, greased up to my elbows, and wrenched my demons apart with my bare hands. There was a ‘69 Chevelle in there now, stripped down to its bones, waiting on parts I was too busy to install. A few of the guys brought their rides by when they wanted them tuned, and I let them, because there was something cathartic about fixing machines when you spent your life breaking men.
But here’s the thing.
I’d convinced myself a penthouse was a necessity. Rationalised it with every other lie I told myself. It was practical. Efficient. The hours burning between Staten Island, Long Island, and Manhattan weren’t sustainable. If I was going to spend half my life handling business in the city, then maybe I deserved something a little nicer than a glorified pitstop. But Marisol saw straight through me. Knew I wanted them somewhere I could keep an eye on them, and she made it clear she didn’t need my money. Said I didn’t owe her.
Tough shit.
I wasn’t sure what twisted my gut tighter: the fact I was letting sentimentality drive my decisions or that, deep down, I knew I wouldn’t take it back. Not even if I could.
The broker had tried to sell me on extravagance, throwing around words like “imported travertine” and “Amalfi coast limestone” as if it mattered. He might as well have been talking about fucking linoleum. I’d stood there, stone-faced and unimpressed, measuring doorways, mapping sightlines, counting escape routes. In my world, luxury didn’t mean a damn thing unless the place could withstand gunfire. I needed to know exactly how many seconds it took from the front door to Lieve’s bedroom, exactly how thick the walls were.
He’d been droning about skyline views—“breathtaking,” “gorgeous exposure,” he’d said—when I interrupted him.
“How thick are the walls?”
“Excuse me?”
“The walls.” I gestured impatiently. “Are they soundproof?”
A shift on polished loafers. “Well, to an extent, I suppose—”
