Page 158 of Pietro
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you, you controlling bastard."
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
LORENZO
The brass handle of my office door feels heavier than usual tonight. Three AM and I'm just getting to Rosso's. My flagship restaurant in River North.
My footsteps echo across the floor as I make my way past the bar.
The office door clicks shut behind me, sealing out the world. I pour three fingers of whiskey.
My phone buzzes. Pietro.
"You make it back?" His voice carries that edge that means someone's about to die.
"At the restaurant." I take another sip. "The situation's handled."
"For now." Papers shuffle on his end. "They hit our shipment at the docks. Three hundred grand worth of product, gone."
My jaw tightens. "Insurance will cover the legitimate cargo."
"It's not about the money, Lorenzo. It's about respect. They're testing us."
Testing us because they think we're weak. Because Riccardo's been dead and they smell blood in the water. Every two-bit crew in Chicago wants a piece of what we built.
"I'll set up a meeting with their consigliere," I say, already running scenarios. "Neutral ground. See if we can?—"
"No more meetings." Pietro's voice drops. "We tried your way. Now we do mine."
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone, then drain my glass. Pietro's way means bodies. Bodies mean cops. Cops mean investigations into our legitimate businesses.
My laptop sits closed on the desk, hiding spreadsheets that would make any forensic accountant weep.
Twenty-three restaurants across Chicago and the suburbs. Each one a perfectly legal enterprise that happens to wash money better than industrial bleach. Each one requiring my constant attention to keep the feds from sniffing around.
The whiskey bottle calls again. I resist. Can't afford fuzzy thinking, not with everything balanced on a knife's edge.
I roll my shoulders, trying to release the tension that's been building since dinner. The Torrino situation started with a simple territorial dispute. Their trucks in our neighborhoods. Our response was measured. A warning, nothing more. Should have ended there.
But Francesco Torrino's got a new enforcer. Some Russian psycho who thinks Chicago's rules don't apply to him. Tonight's hijacking proves they're not backing down.
My fingers drum against the desk. In six hours, this place will fill with lunch crowd. Lawyers from nearby firms, tourists wanting authentic Italian, couples celebrating anniversaries. They'll eat my grandmother's recipes, prepared by chefs I personally trained, never knowing their money flows through systems that fund an empire built on blood and concrete.
The irony isn't lost on me. I create beauty to hide ugliness.
Feed people while my family starves others of breath.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
SOPHIA
The November wind cuts through my coat like it's made of paper. My teeth won't stop chattering, but I can't tell if it's from the cold or the terror that's been eating at me for ten days straight.
