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"Then we tread carefully," she says, resolve hardening her features into something fierce, something I didn't know I needed until now.
"Careful isn't a word in my vocabulary," I admit, but as I meet her gaze, something shifts. Maybe I can learn it—for her, for the kid, for whatever twisted chance we have at survival.
"Can't you just call a truce with them?" Her voice is hopeful, naively so.
A bitter laugh escapes me. "No." The word slices through the air, final and cold. "A truce would be signing my own death warrant. And not just mine. Anyone close to me—they'd be collateral damage."
She flinches at the hardness in my voice, but I can't afford to soften it—not when lives are at stake. My life, I couldn't give two shits about. But others? That's where I draw the line. I won't be the reason someone else ends up six feet under, not again.
Evelyn's eyes search mine, blue and fathomless. She's looking for something, maybe for the man she thinks I might be underneath all this. But she won't find him; he drowned a long time ago in a sea of blood and betrayal.
"Isn't there anyone within the Italian mafia who could help?" Her question pulls me back from the edge of my own dark thoughts, her fingers lightly brushing against my arm. I'm tempted to pull away, to break the contact that feels too intimate, too much like comfort.
"Sure, I can get guys." I shrug as if it's nothing, as if mustering a small army isn't a thought that keeps me awake at night. "But how to use them—that's where I'm stuck. The Irish will be waiting for us to make our move. We've lost surprise, and without that..." I trail off, leaving the unspoken truth to hang between us: we're at a disadvantage.
Her brows furrow, lips pursing in that way that tells me she's turning over a problem in her mind, looking at it from every angle.
"Would you listen to a suggestion?" she asks tentatively, almost as though she's afraid I'll bite her head off for daring to step into my world.
Surprise flickers through me—surprising because I realize I'm actually considering it. Evelyn Moretti, the woman who wants nothing to do with the filth I wade through daily, offering to help me navigate these treacherous waters. "Yeah," I say, more gruffly than I intend. "I'll listen."
She's got that look in her eye, like she's about to lay down a card I didn't even know was in play.
"Constantino," her voice is a whisper, but it carries weight, "you need to bide your time."
I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms as I lean back on the rickety bedpost, its creaks a familiar soundtrack to this oldmansion's secrets. The moonlight spills over her like molten silver, and for a moment, I'm caught up in the image.
"Let them think they've won. Let rumors spread that you're giving up the family, just like your brothers. Make Declan believe he's finally gotten control of everything." Her eyes are steady, her resolve clear.
"Meanwhile, we gather intel on where they meet. And when they least expect it, you move in on one of their meetings. But you have to kill Declan. Without his death, the whole plan crumbles."
There's a beat of silence as I process her words. It's cunning, it's calculated—it's not what I expected from her. "That's... actually impressive." I can't help the grudging respect coloring my tone.
"Thanks," she replies, nonchalant, brushing off the praise with a flick of her wrist as if it's a fly buzzing too close to her ear.
"Hey, why do you do that?" I push off from the bed and stand, trying to read the enigma wrapped in a tough shell standing before me.
"Do what?" She feigns ignorance, turning away slightly.
"Brush off every damn compliment like it's nothing." There's frustration lacing my words because it is something—it's everything.
She huffs, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she meets my gaze. "If we're going to talk about my past, I'm gonna need alcohol. A lot of it."
"Already know some of it," I say, edging closer, trying to break through the walls I know she's put up, ones that rival the fortifications of this very mansion.
"Yeah, well," her voice lowers, "you probably only know what's on paper. You can't know everything."
"Then tell me," I press, sensing a chink in her armor.
"Fine," she concedes with a smirk. "Let's crack open a bottle and see how much I decide to spill."
And just like that, the hunt is on. The prey tonight isn't Declan or his goons; it's the truth lurking behind Evelyn's carefully constructed facade.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I twist the cap off with a sharp crack, the pungent scent of aged whiskey stinging my nostrils. I don't bother with glasses; this isn't a toast to the past but a raw confession, unvarnished by niceties. The liquid burns down my throat, and I pass the bottle to Constantino, watching his Adam's apple bob as he takes a long pull.
"Must cost a pretty penny," I say, eyeing the label on the bottle—it's the kind of stuff you don't just find at any liquor store.
