I rolled my eyes and sat up straighter as the red neon glow of The Rabbit Hole came into view in the distance, bleeding through the dark like a warning sign.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Olivero asked as he turned off the engine.
Absolutely not.“Yes,” I said instead.
The Rabbit Hole had not changed. The same air of managed vice, the same promise of discretion bought at a very high price. From the outside it looked like any upscale members-only venue. Inside, everyone knew better.
We stepped into a wash of red light, low music, and money.
The hostess at the front desk looked up with professional calm that did not quite hide how quickly she assessed both of us. Well dressed. Armed, though not visibly. Not clients here for indulgence.
“I’m here to see Doyle,” I said.
Her expression did not change. “And who should I tell him is here?”
“Pietro Benetti.”
That got the smallest flicker from her.
She picked up the phone, spoke quietly into it, listened, then lowered it again and rose from her chair. “This way.”
Olivero and I were escorted down a corridor lined in black lacquer and smoked mirrors, the sort of decor that tried very hard to look decadent and ended up looking faintly expensive instead. At the end of it sat a heavy door that the hostess opened without knocking before stepping aside for us to enter.
Killian Doyle was behind the desk.
He looked up from a file as we walked in, and I realized why men underestimated him at their peril. He was pushing fifty now, though he wore it well, and there was enough gray at his temples to catch the eye against the pale blond hair rumor had it he once hated for making him look soft. His eyes, however, ruined any illusion of softness. Pale blue, cold and piercing and far too patient, the sort of eyes that suggested a man who had survived by seeing everything and forgetting nothing.
He closed the file and leaned back in his chair, looking me over for a moment before nodding.
“Pietro Benetti,” he said. “Well. I remember when your father walked into this office. Must have been twelve years ago now.” His gaze sharpened with something like amusement. “I have to admit, the resemblance is unsettling.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Doyle’s attention shifted briefly to Olivero, measured him, dismissed nothing, then returned to me.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
The words were polite. The tone was not. It was a test, and not a particularly subtle one.
I preferred that.
“I’d like to discuss port access,” I said.
That earned me his full attention.
“Interesting. Usually when your family wants to discuss port access, Matteo is the one who calls.” Doyle steepled his fingers.
“Usually, yes.”
“And yet here you are.”
I held his gaze. “Here I am.”
A faint silence settled, not hostile, merely evaluative. He wanted to know whether I was a boy sent on an errand or a man who knew exactly what room he had walked into.
“The delays in Jersey aren’t random,” I said. “Someone is applying pressure low enough in the chain that it creates inconvenience without triggering retaliation. That tells me one of two things. Either they’re testing our elasticity before escalating or they’re trying to force us into rerouting under less favorable terms. Either way, the point isn’t the cargo. It’s the disruption.”
