“Jesus Christ, boss.” Lorenzo shakes his head, disbelief shading his words. “Why?”
I’m already trying to figure that out.
Killing Vincenzo gets you a war with the Contis. Killing Victor Sr. gets you a war with the Morenos. Killing both at once—in one room, on neutral ground, on a Friday that everyone in this city’s underworld knew was sacred—gets you both wars and the entire infrastructure burning down around them in the confusion.
Victor Jr. wouldn’t do this. He was already the heir; his father was old. He had nothing to gain. Ordering a hit like this would mark him in five different cities.
That leaves an heir whowasn’talready the heir. An heir whose inheritance was rumored, drunk, soft, mocked. An heir whose father, the previous morning, had refused in front of him to discipline his right hand for an act of murder. An heir who left that meeting humiliated and unsteady and short on options.
An heir stupid enough, desperate enough, small enough.
The fucking moron.
“Nico.”
Lorenzo looks up.
“What?”
“It was Nico.”
I watch the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.
“He’d kill his own father?”
“He’d kill his father, frame the Morenos, light a fire he can move under the cover of, and walk out the other side of the week with a throne.” I stand up. “He doesn’t have the brains to do it clean, but he doesn’t have to. He just has to do it loud.”
“That is—” Lorenzo exhales. “That is idiotic. Even for him.”
“It’s the only thing that fits.”
I look around the room one more time. My fists clench at my side. The chaos that’s about to unfold swirls in bloody visions behind my eyes, but in the center of it all, I can only think about one thing.
Bea.
No. Focus.
I straighten myself. Lorenzo takes a second to gather himself before following suit.
“Listen. The next twelve hours decide this. The family’s going to tear itself in half before the bodies cool. I need to know who’s on which side before they do.”
“What do you want from me?”
“Everyone you can find. Everyone we’ve ever paid. Everyone who took a check from the firm or worked a job through Lorenzo Castellano. I want them sat down, and I want them asked the question.”
“What question?”
“Whether they’re loyal to D’Amico or not,” I snarl.
A pause.
“Not Conti?”
“Not Conti.”
He holds my eyes for a long beat. Then he nods and pulls his phone out of his jacket.
“On it.”
