"These shipping manifests," I said, tapping a document with my index finger. "They don't match what our guy at the port reported."
Luca leaned forward, brow furrowed as he examined the paper. At thirty-two, he was two years younger than me but looked older—stress and suspicion had carved permanent lines around his eyes.
"They're moving more than they're declaring," he confirmed, voice low and measured. "Question is, what and where?"
Dante would have known immediately. But Dante was in Europe with Emilia, touring some estate tucked in the hills ofLausanne. Ivy on the walls, private schools down the road—one of those places built for legacy. She never said anything directly, but she didn’t have to. I don’t think she’s pregnant. Not yet, at least. But she’s thinking ahead. And while they map out a future, I stayed behind to clean up the present.
"Weapons," Marco suggested from his position by the window. The youngest of us at twenty-eight, he was still eager to prove himself. "Has to be. The Irish have always been gun runners."
I shook my head, picking up another document. "No. Patrick O'Sullivan is smarter than that. Guns leave a trail. Bodies leave a trail." I flipped through the pages, scanning columns of numbers. "This is something else."
The Conti estate library had been converted to our war room years ago—bookshelves replaced with secure filing cabinets, antique furniture giving way to reinforced tables and chairs that could withstand the weight of men and weapons. The only original features were the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the manicured grounds and the crystal decanters of liquor that had belonged to my grandfather.
Old money pretending to be older than it was. That was the Conti way.
"What about their connections to City Hall?" Luca asked, sliding another folder toward me. "The O'Sullivans have three councilmen in their pocket and a judge on the federal bench."
I skimmed the file, committing names and faces to memory. "Political influence is valuable, but it's not enough to explain these numbers." I tapped the shipping manifests again. "They're moving something big. Something worth killing for."
The unspoken hung in the air between us. Something worth betraying us for.
Giovanni's body had been found floating in the harbor that morning. The official story would be a mugging gone wrong—another tragic statistic in the city's crime reports. The truth was messier, as it always is.
"What about the sons?" Marco asked, moving to the table and picking up a photo. "Sean O'Sullivan runs their street operations. Michael handles the legitimate businesses. And the youngest?—"
"Connor," I supplied. "Still green. Patrick keeps him close, but he doesn't have real power yet."
Marco nodded, studying the surveillance photo of Connor O'Sullivan leaving a nightclub, a blonde on each arm. "Seems like a liability. Party boy with daddy issues."
"Don't underestimate him," Luca warned. "The quiet ones are always more dangerous."
I moved around the table, examining each piece of intelligence we'd gathered. The O'Sullivans had been a thorn in our side for generations—an Irish family that had clawed their way up from street thugs to legitimate power brokers. They controlled the north side of the city, the ports, and enough politicians to make them untouchable.
Or so they thought.
"What about this?" Luca slid another folder across the table. "Came in this morning from our guy at Harvard."
I opened the file, expecting more financial records or political connections.
Instead, I found her.
The photo was clearly taken without her knowledge—a young woman leaving a lecture hall, books clutched to her chest, blonde hair falling in waves past her shoulders. She wasn't smiling, her expression focused, almost severe. But there was something in her eyes…intelligence, determination, a quiet intensity that seemed to reach through the paper and grab me by the throat.
"Grace O'Sullivan," Luca said, watching my reaction. "Patrick's only daughter. Twenty-five. Harvard Law. Top of her class."
I stared at the photo, taking in every detail. The elegant slope of her neck. The slight furrow between her brows. The way she held herself—straight-backed, chin lifted, like someone who refused to be intimidated by the world around her.
"She's not involved in the family business," Luca continued, flipping through the file. "Keeps her distance, from what we can tell. Uses her mother's maiden name at school. Minimal security detail—just one guy who watches her apartment from a distance."
I picked up another photo. This one showed her at a piano, taken through a window. Her face was different here; softer, more vulnerable. Lost in the music.
Something shifted in my chest. A recognition. A hunger.
"She's their weak spot," Marco said, misreading my interest. "We could use her as leverage."
My hand tightened on the photo. "No."
Both my brothers looked at me, surprised by the sharpness in my voice.
