It’s a good arrangement. For him.
I agreed to it. Knew the terms from the beginning.
Doesn’t mean I have to enjoy watching it play out.
I push the thought aside and turn back to the Martinez files. Shipping routes. Customs inspections. The quiet, precise choreography of moving product without attracting attention.
This is what matters.
This is what keeps everything running.
Around eleven, there’s a knock at my door. Not the hesitant tap of my assistant—this one is confident, familiar.
“Yeah.”
The door opens, and Tony Marchetti walks in.
Tony works for Lorenzo Castellano, one of the smaller famiglia in our network. He’s a thick-necked enforcer with more muscle than brains, but he’s reliable. Loyal. The kind of man who follows orders without asking questions.
He’s not alone.
The woman behind him is blonde. Tall. Beautiful in the manufactured way—perfect makeup, perfect hair, a dress that leaves little to imagination. She knows exactly why she’s here. Her smile is practiced, inviting, promising.
“Mr. D’Amico.” Tony nods respectfully. “Mr. Castellano sends his regards. And a gift.”
He gestures at the blonde like she’s a prize at an auction.
I lean back in my chair.
This isn’t unusual. Lorenzo has been sending me women for years—a gesture of respect, of alliance, of the complicated politics that bind our organizations together.
The blonde steps forward. Her hips sway with every movement, a performance she’s clearly rehearsed. She stops in front of my desk, head tilted, lips parted.
“Mr. D’Amico.” Her voice is honey and smoke. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I look at her.
She’s objectively stunning. The kind of woman who turns heads everywhere she goes. The kind of woman men fight over, lie for, spend fortunes trying to impress.
I feel nothing.
No spark. No interest. No desire.
Just a faint irritation at the interruption.
“Tell Lorenzo I appreciate the thought,” I say. “But I’m busy.”
The blonde’s smile falters. She’s not used to rejection. Women who look like her rarely are.
“I could wait,” she offers. “Until you’re done.”
“No.”
Tony shifts uncomfortably. He knows better than to argue, but this isn’t the outcome he expected. He’ll have to report back to Lorenzo, explain that his gift was refused. There might be questions. Wounded pride.
I don’t care.
“Escort her out,” I tell him. “And close the door behind you.”
