My lips turn up into a smile as I watch her sniff the roses.
One second lurches into the next, and I realize what a fucking idiot I am. I slam the lid of my laptop closed, disgusted at myself. How could I let myself be drawn in by her so easily? I haven’t spoken to Alexis in over a month, yet in a moment of weakness, I’m suddenly buying her flowers?
I need to get a grip. Alexis is my kryptonite, and right now, I need to stay as strong as possible. I check my watch, realizing that I have wasted an hour watching Alexis, and I now only have one hour to prepare for my meeting.
Time flies when you’re busy being a lovesick fool.
I vow that this will be the last time.
I make this vow a lot. I think it is starting to lose its power.
I stare at the faces assembled around the long wooden table, wondering which of them will object most fervently to the strategy I am about to propose. There are my five capos—Mirko Bernadino, Dom Rozzi, Elia Conti, Piero Bianchi, and Thomas Ricci. Of those, I think Mirko and Dom will disapprove the most. Mirko won’t think it’s a good idea. Dom just won’t want to see me get hurt.
My lieutenant Antonio will have misgivings at first, but he is very tired. Any strategy that might give us an edge, which might draw this conflict to a quick resolution, will be welcomed by him.
Silvano…I’m not sure. I know if Vito were here, he would nod through the meeting but pull me aside afterward to try to talk me out of it. He would begrudgingly agree in the end that it was worth trying, and we would have a glass of whiskey together while he talked about how in love he was with his wife.
But Silvano is not Vito, and I am still getting my bearings with him. He seems to possess Vito’s shrewd analytical mind without the familiarity we shared, which might make him the best advisor a leader could ask for. Our bond sometimes clouded Vito’s judgment. After Vito was killed by the Irish, I nearly razed the whole city to the ground.
I clear my throat, and the men sit forward, listening intently.
“I gathered you here to propose a strategy that could help us get rid of a number of Cartel members at once,” I begin. “As you know, they have been getting the Irish to do most of their dirty work, keeping relatively clear of the smaller operations. That’s because they’re holding back, preserving their strength while Lynch bleeds dry.”
They nod along. I take a breath.
“I say it’s time we draw them out.”
“How would we do that?” Silvano asks, eyes narrowed.
“Well, Silvano, it was you who gave me the idea. You said it was too dangerous for me to keep leading the charge, that it might draw attention from the police. But it may have already drawn attention from The Cartel. Given the chance, I think they will try to capture me, and when they do, it will be with their own men—not their Irish lackeys. They wouldn’t risk me falling into anyone’s hands but their own.”
Unease ripples across the gathered faces at the idea of me being captured. Most of the faces, anyway.
“What are you proposing?” Antonio asks, a spark of interest in his coffee-colored eyes.
“I propose we set a trap,” I reply. “One where I am the bait.”
The table erupts with concerned murmurs.
“It’s too dangerous!” Dom objects.
“Traps backfire too easily,” Mirko adds.
Just as expected.
Antonio only nods sagely. Silvano’s lips pull into a thin line, and he scrubs a hand over his face, considering the idea. His eyes light up, and I know that I have him on board.
I stand up, pressing my hands against the cool wood of the table. “Silence!”
The murmur dies, and I have everyone’s rapt attention once more. I look between their faces, expressions reading a scale from concern to excitement.
“I hear your misgivings,” I say, “but this is not up for discussion. We will not survive years of war. We need to lock this city down.”
I sit back in my chair, jaw set tight. “And we need to do it now.”
4
Alexis
My heart is breaking.
Since I first started looking into the purple heroin crisis, I have heard a lot of sad stories. I have seen horrible things. And so far, I’ve been able to numb myself to it. But for some reason, the sad, crumpled woman in front of me is bringing stinging tears to my eyes, and I feel as though I will break down any second.
“This was him at his high school graduation,” Shelley Wallis says, a wistful smile curving her lips as she passes me a framed photo of a young, pale-faced boy. Her smile does not reach her eyes.
“He wanted to be an engineer,” she continues. “He loved bridges. He had a poster of the Brooklyn Bridge in his room, and every time we would pass over one he would say, ‘Mom, look at those cantilevers,’ or ‘check out the thickness of those cable stays.’” She sniffs, dropping her gaze to the hands in her lap. “I don’t even know how a boy like that gets involved in hard drugs.”
I look at the photo of the boy in my hands. His dark hair, his bright blue eyes, his crooked smile. He’s the spitting image of his mother, though her eyes are tired, and her smile is a ghost of what I imagine it used to be.
I sniff as well, trying to maintain a level of professionalism but struggling. Maybe it’s because this kid—Henry Wallis—could be Harry one day. What would I do if Harry started down a dark path? What could I do?
I take a breath and hand Shelley back the photo.
“When did it start?” I ask.
She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. “I think just before his graduation,” she says. “He always struggled to make friends, so when he started hanging out with a new group, I thought it would be good for him. I didn’t know at the time that they were into drugs, not until Henry started staying out late and coming home looking ragged and tired. Money started disappearing from my purse.” She bites her lip, hugging the photo to her chest. “We drove over an amazing suspension bridge on the way to visit my mother, and he didn’t say a word. Nothing.”
My heart hurts for this woman. I wonder if Gabriel has had these thoughts, if he’s worried about raising a child among all the violent delights of this world. I wonder what Gabriel would do if Harry started to sink down into the muck of it.
“Eventually, Henry stopped coming home,” Shelley continues. “He told me that he was staying with friends and that I shouldn’t worry, but I did. I wish—” She chokes, features twisting with agony. “I wish I’d gone and dragged him home.”
I rest my hand on her knee, blinking back tears of my own. “You couldn’t have known, Shelley.”
“I know, I know.” She pats my hand, collecting herself. “At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“What happened next?” I ask gently.
“I got a call from a man,” she says, voice shaking. “He had a thick accent. Latino, I think. He told me that my son’s friends were in deep with the Cartel, that they’d lost the drugs they were supposed to be selling, and that I needed to get twenty thousand dollars to them by the end of the next day. Otherwise they were going to kill my son.”