Page 85

And now Rex comes in from the side of the board, a new piece placed where it shouldn’t fit, and suddenly the concept of family takes on a shape that doesn’t belong to the world Valentino built for us.

Valentino. I squeeze my jaw until my teeth ache. My fingers flex once, then curl into a fist.

Not in a hot, reckless way that burns out fast. This is heavier. This sits in my gut and spreads through my limbs until it feels as though my bones were poured full of molten iron. It makes me want to crush something solid with my hands just to hear it surrender.

Don Giacomo killed Rex’s father. Our father. How does he wake up and eat and drink and pretend his hands don’t itch for revenge?

He stands there in that bar, surrounded by his crew, letting crude jokes fly around his head, letting Don Giacomo remain untouchable. I look at him and feel something ugly crawl up my throat. Disgust. Contempt. Weakness, my mind spits, before I can stop it.

You let the man who killed your father live. And you accept that as your life.

I hate him for it.

Then I hate myself for hating him, since the truth behind his eyes makes it clear he didn’t choose his chains. He was born into them, same as we were. The difference is, he never cut them. Or maybe he tried and got dragged back.

I shift in my seat and the leather sighs under me. The engine tone stays constant. The jet keeps moving forward, indifferent to the war in my skull.

Valentino’s mess is still open. That will is still a live wire. It needs sorting first.

Then there’s Don Giacomo. A dead man walking.

I don’t say it out loud, yet the vow forms in me with brutal clarity.

I’m killing him. Not for pride. Not for a reputation.

Retaliation. Justice, in the only language our world respects. For a family erased, then repurposed into assets for other men’s empires.

That Don sits in his city with his hands clean, his conscience buried under tradition and power. Not for much longer.

Rex’s weakness reminds me of a wound, and my instinct is to press a thumb into it and see how he reacts.

I lean forward and finally pick up the whisky. The glass is cool against my palm. I take a swallow. The burn hits and steadies me for a second, then fades, leaving the same mess behind my ribs.

What does having a brother in Chicago mean, anyway?

The word “brother” is supposed to mean loyalty, blood, protection, shared history. It’s supposed to mean you never stand alone.

Yet my history with Rio already fills that space. There’s no room.

And still–there he is. A man with our face.

A man who has lived his life inside a mafia system that killed his father, and he survived it by bending instead of breaking.

I set the glass down too hard. The whisky sloshes, a small wave in amber. My hands clench again. So what is going to be like? Visit each other for Christmas?

The thought hits with such absurdity that it almost makes me laugh.

Christmas. A tree. Gifts. Family dinners. The kind of normal scenes people post online with fake joy and matching pajamas. Fuck that. I have my brother here with me. Rio.

He is the only family I’ve ever recognize. The only constant. The only truth that never shifts under my feet.

Yet the universe doesn’t care what I recognize. The universe deals in facts, and facts are brutal. We were taken from a family. That family was destroyed. Rex is what’s left of it.

My chest tightens again and I stand, unable to sit still. I move toward the back, then toward the small restroom, more for the walk than any need. My shoes sink slightly into the carpet. In the mirror above the tiny sink, my face looks too composed.

That’s what scares me. I look calm. I look controlled. I look ready.

I brace my hands on the sink and stare at my own eyes.