Page 74 of My Sunfall

My gut coils tight when I think about that fucker’s hands on Chiara. No way in hell will I let that happen. Niccolò has gotten my attention, all right.

“And let’s imagine, we find a common ground. How exactly do you picture this… partnership?” I ask.

He looks at me for a long beat. “What do you know about the Chicago Outfit?”

I tell him what Teo has revealed about his father’s death and his uncle taking over the lead a decade ago.

He seems impressed. “You’re well informed.”

I nod. “And if I had to take a wild guess, I would say that the kiddo is done hiding behind his playboy façade and wants to claim back his legacy. Am I right?”

Surprise fleets over his face but he hides it behind a smirk. “Right again. There seems to be nothing you don’t know.”

I shrug. “That’s what I would’ve done. Hiding, pretending, plotting, and when he has his focus elsewhere, pull the rug out from under him.”

His jaw grinds but he nods once.

“Let’s say I agree,” I go on. “What do I gain from this?”

“You’ll still have your wife, isn’t that incentive enough?”

I curse with a chuckle. Fucker’s too cocky. But he’s right.

“And,” he goes on, picking up his glass and lifting it to eye-level, “this stuff is really good. I want to partner up when things have smoothed over.”

He sure has an acquired taste for his age, I muse. We don’t really need to sell our whiskey as it comes from a tiny distillery in Tennessee, but somehow the kid has tugged at my brotherly side. I’m getting too soft, goddamnit.

“How?” I ask. This sole word carries all the weight of my decision.

“You stall things, make him run in circles. I need his attention here for a few days, a week tops.”

“And what will you do in the meantime?”

“I’ll get things ready. When he comes back, there will be a welcoming committee waiting.”

“You got enough guests on the list?”

He smirks again, but there is a cold glint in his eyes. “Don’t you worry about that, I might look like a slacker, but I assure you that I have been preparing for this party for a long time.”

I can’t help but be impressed. His demeanor is indeed different from the one of the spoiled kid Teo told us about.

“And to prove my good faith, I’ll give you some information,” he goes on. “The docks two days ago.”

I stiffen, hand twitching to take out my gun again. “How do you know about the docks?”

He shrugs. “People talk.”

I lean back, watching him intently for a beat. But his expression remains open, so I ask. “What about the docks?”

“It was him, I’ll bet my life on it.”

I clench my teeth. Careful now. “How do I know you didn’t do it to frame him?”

“Because”—his face darkens—“one man was likely shot in the knee, then in the head. That’s his signature. You will probably also find that they used ten-millimeter rounds imported from Europe. I’d bet my life on it.”

I tense, waiting for him to explain.

“It’ll be the same as the ammo used in the shooting where my father was killed. Ask your tech guy to retrieve the reports of the shooting scene in Chicago, you’ll know.”