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Prologue
Farrell Black staredup at the screen at the front of the conference room, his eyes skimming the angry red dots scattered throughout the city. He’d been trying to find a pattern, his brain stubbornly searching for coherence, to noavail.
He thought about Occam’s Razor, the idea that the most likely solution is usually the mostobvious.
“There is no strategy,” he finallysaid.
“No sense makes the most sense,” Damian Cavallo agreed from his seat across thetable.
Nico kept his eyes on the screen. “I tend to think you’reright.”
Farrell turned his eyes on Christophe Marchand and Luca Cassano, their faces shadowed in the room, most of the lights shut off to make seeing the screeneasier.
“Thoughts?”
“I see no other explanation for the random nature of these hits,” Christophesaid.
Luca shrugged. “Makes as much sense as anythingelse.”
“The question is, what do we do about it?” Nicomurmured.
Farrell hadn’t figured that out yet either. They’d thought eliminating Primo Fiore was the answer to reclaiming the New York territory for the Syndicate. Primo had, after all, been the leader of the Fiore organization, the only impediment to the Syndicate’s takeover once Damian Cavallo had pledged his organization toit.
They’d beenwrong.
Farrell didn’t like beingwrong.
His gaze came again to Damian. He’d always been a man of few words — something Farrell understood well enough — but Damian had grown even more subdued in the wake of his extended bid to recapture the New Yorkterritory.
It had begun with Aria, Primo’ssister.
Didn’t it always begin with awoman?
The question incited no bitterness. His own reckoning had happened at the hands of Jenna, the love of his life and mother of his daughter. It had been his life’s greatest upheaval — and its greatesthappiness.
But it had nearly cost him everything, including his freedom, hislife.
Still, it had been wishful thinking to believe their troubles in New York would end with the death of Primo. True, he had commanded the second biggest operation in the territory after Damian’s. In fact, a few short months ago, the Fiore organization had been the only thing standing between the Syndicate and its rule of New York under Damian’sleadership.
They hadn’t expected Malcolm Gatti, the crazy bastard who’d been pulling Primo’s strings, to return after being run off during the shoot-out that had killed Primo. He’d been working with Stefano Anastos and the Greek Mob during the last conflict between Fiore and the Syndicate, and Farrell had agreed that the likelihood of Gatti launching another attack on New York was slim considering he’d barely escaped with his life the firsttime.
Clearly, they’d been wrong about that,too.
And Farrell really fucking hated beingwrong.
“What do they hope to gain with this strategy?” Christophe asked. “It doesn’t makesense.”
“Chaos,” Damian said softly, his eyes on the screen. “It washes with what we’re picking up on their digitaloperations.”
“Which is?” Lucaasked.
“Nothing,” Damian said. “Absolutelynothing.”
Nico turned away from the screen, settled his unnervingly level gaze on Damian. “Nothing?”
Damian nodded. “There is no digital footprint. Everything we were tracking before — bank routes, encrypted email, flight plans, shipping manifests — has all gonequiet.”
“How can an organization — any organization — exist off-grid in this day and age?” Nicoasked.
