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Prologue
Farrell Black watchedDamian Cavallo walk through the door and knew they were in trouble. The other man stalked into the room wearing his anger like a massive boulder on his shoulders, his body coiled so tight Farrell half expected Damian to unleash his fury on Farrell and the other men intheroom.
“Damian, thank you for coming,”Nicosaid.
“No need to thank me,” Damian said, his voice shortandflat.
Nico nodded and gestured to one of the empty seats at the conference table. Farrell was grateful for Nico’s calm head. Farrell’s instinct with any man carrying a chip on his shoulder was to knockitoff.
It’s not that Farrell didn’t understand. He knew more than anyone how a woman could get underyourskin.
Hell, theyalldid.
He let his gaze scan the men around the table. Nico had sacrificed an empire for his wife, Angel. Christophe had sacrificed his brother for Charlotte Duval — although the argument could be made that Christophe’s brother, Bruno, sacrificed him first. Luca had almost been killed by a Columbian drug lord to save Isabel and her littlesister.
And Farrell… well, he had sacrificed his pride, had opened his heart to Jenna and their daughter, Lily. Until them, there was nothing he valued more than his independence, his utter dismissal of anyone who might try toknowhim.
It was fucking terrifying — even now — to love someonesomuch.
The point was, he understood Damian’s feelings, even though he usually thought feelings were bullshit. He knew that Damian probably couldn’t sleep at night for his worry over Aria since her kidnapping in Italy. Knew that the other man probably drank himself into a stupor to avoid thinking about what could be happeningtoher.
It didn't matter that Aria was the sister of Primo Fiore, the man Damian had been hired to take down in an effort to bring the New York territory under control of the newSyndicate.
Farrell could see that the other man was too far gonetocare.
Still, Farrell knew firsthand that emotion could get you — and everyone around you — killed. He would need to keep his eye on Cavallo. Assuming Damian could bring the New York territory back under their control, Farrell was glad he’d agreed tojointhem.
But that didn’t give him a free pass to endanger the restofthem.
“Let’s get started,” Nico said, taking a seat at the head of thetable.
All of the men at the table — minus Damian — were equals in the new Syndicate, partners in the organization that had risen from the ashes of the one run by Raneiro Donati before Nico put a bullet inhishead.
Even so, Farrell, Christophe, and Luca were usually more than happy to let Nico act as their figurehead. Violence was still Farrell’s preferred method for solving problems, Christophe was sometimes too cool for his own good, and Luca had always preferred being in thebackground.
Nico was born to be a leader, even if it wasn’t technically his title. There was a kind of poetry to it; after all, the long and winding story that had brought them together in the sleek offices towering over Manhattan had startedwithNico.
Farrell took a seat to Nico’s right and let his eyes travel again over his partners at the table. They’d become more than hisfriends.
They were hisbrothers.
He would take a bullet for any of them and he rested secure in the knowledge that they would do the sameforhim.
Damian was another matter. A wild card.Still.
“Can I get you anything?” Nico asked Damian. “Coffee? Water?Whiskey?”
“Let’s just figure this out,”Damiansaid.
Nico nodded, picked up the iPad in front of him. They all had one at their place around the table. They would all be wiped clean after themeeting.
“The documentation about the raid has been sent to each of you,” Nico said. “Let’s start at thebeginning.”
Farrell reached for his tablet as the other men did the same. He opened the files that had been sent to them through the combined efforts of Christophe’s cyberlab in Paris and Damian’s inNewYork.
Farrell didn’t give a shit about cyber anything — technology was always second to brute force — but he was getting used to Nico’s modern, high-tech vision for the organized crime empire known as the Syndicate. It was a good vision, one Farrell knew he would have to embrace if he wanted to keep his organization relevant inLondon.
“You can see that the apartment is in Omonoia,” Nico began as Farrell stared at a photograph of a narrow, gritty street. Aging buildings rose high on either side, blocking out most of thedaylight.
