Page 235 of Arrow

Luca turned in my arms, his small hands cupping my face with surprising gentleness.

“Don’t cry, Mama. Uncle Luca is with the angels. Daddy said so.”

I pulled him close, holding him tight enough that he squirmed in protest.

“You’re right, baby. He is.”

I stood slowly, lifting my son onto my hip. With my free hand, I touched the gravestone one last time.

“I’ll come back soon,” I promised. “And I’ll bring him with me every time. So you can watch him grow up. So you can see what came from all this darkness—something pure and good and innocent.”

As we walked away through the rows of graves, Luca waved over my shoulder.

“Bye-bye, Uncle Luca!”

I didn’t look back. If I did, I’d never be able to leave.

But I carried my brother with me anyway—in my son’s name, in my memories, in the determination to build something better than what we’d been given.

The cemetery gates closed behind us with a soft clang.

And somewhere in the distance, I could have sworn I heard my brother’s laugh in the wind.

50

FIFTY

ARROW

The pain in my chest was a dull, persistent ache that never quite went away.

I shifted in my chair, feeling the pull of scar tissue beneath my shirt—four raised ridges that mapped the trajectory of bullets meant for my wife. The doctors had called it a miracle that I survived. I called it stubbornness and spite. Death could wait. I had too much to live for.

“The shipment arrives Thursday,” Orion said, spreading a map across my desk. “We’ll need to move it through the northern route. The Feds have been watching the docks.”

I nodded, studying the routes he'd marked in red. Orion had always been meticulous—a trait that made him invaluable in this business. Where I was the hammer, Orion was the scalpel.

“What about the Albanians?” I asked, my voice flat and controlled. “They’ve been quiet since Giovanni’s death. Too quiet.”

“They’re regrouping,” Orion confirmed. “Word is they’re looking for new leadership. Someone who can unite the fractured families.”

I leaned back in my chair, ignoring the sharp twinge that shot through my ribs. The wounds had healed, but they’d left their mark, both physically and mentally. Sometimes I still felt the impact of those bullets, the way my body had jerked with each shot, the warm spray of my own blood across Harlowe’s face.

Worth every goddamn second of it.

“Let them regroup,” I said coldly. “We’ll be ready when they make their move.”

I absently touched my chest through my shirt, fingers finding the ridge of the highest scar—the one that had come closest to my heart. The doctors said another inch and I would have bled out before the ambulance arrived.

Another inch and I would have left Harlowe alone.

Another inch and my son would have grown up without a father.

“You good?” Orion asked, his sharp eyes catching the gesture.

“Fine.” I dropped my hand. “Continue.”

He was about to speak when I heard the sound of the front door opening, followed by the bright, clear voice of my son echoing through the foyer.