I watch him search for a cigar he clearly doesn’t have. After a moment, I open my desk drawer and toss him one.
“Thanks, boss.” He catches it, bites off the end, lights it with ease. “So, as I was saying?—”
“You’re still on his tail.”
That stops him.
His hand clenches around the lighter. “Can’t help it.”
“Yes, you can. When you agreed to work with us, the deal was clear. You build influence stone by stone. The old Castellanos are dead to you. Remember?”
“It’s not about the famiglia.” He leans forward, cigar clenched between his teeth. “They can all go to hell for all I care. This is about blood. My blood.” His voice drops, rougher now. “I mean, if Nico—if your own brother looked you in the eye and put a bullet in your father’s head, then took everything that was supposed to be yours—wouldn’t you want him dead?”
The question hangs.
I sit with it. Properly. Lorenzo deserves at least that much honesty—even if he won’t hear it from me.
“Probably,” I say. “But I’d want proof first.”
“So you don’t trust me?” He sounds genuinely wounded. “I was there, boss. I saw Stefano’s face when he pulled the trigger. I saw him step over the body and shake hands with the guys who were supposed to be loyal to us. My own brother. And now he’s sitting in my father’s chair, running what’s left of the family into the ground, and I’m supposed to just—what? Forget about it?”
“I’ve heard this story.”
“No, listen.” He leans forward in his chair with a gleam in his eye. “This time I got something solid. There’s this guy, Petey, used to run numbers for us before Stefano took over. He saw the whole thing go down. Says he’ll testify if I can get him protection, and I’m thinking we set up a meet, maybe bring some muscle, and?—”
A knock at the door.
Bea enters with a whiskey bottle and two glasses on a tray. She moves to the side table, pours a measure into one glass, and brings it to Lorenzo.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
Bea returns to her desk, leaving the door slightly ajar. Good. I want her to hear this.
“Lorenzo.” I wait until his attention is fully on me. “What exactly do you think happens next? You find this Petey, you drag him in front of—who? The cops? A judge? You think anyone in this city is going to take testimony against Stefano based on the word of a numbers runner and the brother he cut out?”
He opens his mouth. I don’t let him speak.
“You want to build a new famiglia. Fine. But you’re minor family now, so here’s a lesson: there is honor among thieves. You need proof—real proof, not some junkie’s word. You need wills. Paperwork. Reputation. Right now, you’re in a position whereyou could leave Chicago behind entirely. Start fresh here, build something clean. Stefano gets to keep the ashes of whatever your father built—and you get to build something better. I’m giving you that opportunity. Don’t fucking waste it chasing ghosts.”
Lorenzo takes a long drink of whiskey. Sets the glass down harder than necessary.
“Right. And you wouldn’t do the same? You’re the one always preaching about familythis, familythat. Now I’m supposed to just let him walk around wearing my father’s ring like he earned it?”
“That’s not doing it for family. That’s scratching your own itch and slapping a noble name on it.” I hold his gaze. “By that logic, Nico would’ve been in a ditch years ago. But I’m patient.”
“Patient.” He laughs. “That’s one word for it.”
“I don’t want to hear about Petey, or Stefano, or any of this past bullshit again. When Vincenzo brought you in, he brought you in clean. Fresh blood, no strings. You start dragging old vendettas into this business, I’m going to have to question whether you’re worth the trouble.”
The threat lands. I see it in the way his hand flexes around the glass.
“Vincenzo.” He says the name like it’s a joke. “Yeah, the old man’s definitely the guy to lecture me about mafia ethics.”
I don’t take the bait. Just wait.
Lorenzo drains the rest of his whiskey, sets the glass down more gently on my desk, and stands. Adjusts his jacket. Fidgets with his cigar. Looks everywhere but at me.
“Will he even be there tomorrow?”
