I cleared my throat, forcing my expression to remain neutral. "She's more valuable as intelligence. If she's estranged from the family, she might not know anything useful."
Luca's eyes narrowed slightly. He knew me too well. "There's more in the file. Academic records. Known associates. Daily routines."
I flipped through the pages, absorbing every detail of Grace O'Sullivan's life. Her coffee order (black, no sugar). Her class schedule (Constitutional Law on Mondays and Wednesdays, Criminal Procedure on Tuesdays and Thursdays). The fact that she played piano late at night when she couldn't sleep.
Each piece of information felt like a key turning in a lock inside me.
"Some of these reports look tampered with," Luca said suddenly, frowning as he examined a page. "The timestamps don't match up."
I glanced at the document, noting the inconsistency but filing it away for later. "Clerical error, probably. Focus on what matters."
"And what matters right now is...?" Marco let the question hang.
I closed Grace's file, keeping my movements deliberate, unhurried. "We need to understand what the O'Sullivans are moving through the port. And why they felt the need to bomb our warehouse to cover their tracks."
Luca nodded, accepting the change of subject. "I'll put more men on the docks. See if we can intercept whatever's coming in next."
"Do it quietly," I instructed. "I don't want them knowing we're watching."
"And the Giordano meeting?" Marco asked. "Word is, Patrick O'Sullivan is sitting down with Anthony Giordano next week."
My jaw tightened. The Giordanos were old-school Sicilian, territorial and traditional. If they were meeting with the Irish, it meant an alliance was forming. Against us.
"Let them meet," I said, my voice cold. "Let them think they have the upper hand."
"And then?" Luca prompted.
I smiled, the expression not reaching my eyes. "And then we show them exactly why the Contis have ruled this city for three generations."
The meeting continued for another hour, strategies formed and discarded, contingencies planned. Throughout it all, Iwas aware of Grace's file at my elbow, the weight of it disproportionate to its physical presence.
When we finally adjourned, Luca lingered behind as Marco left to make calls.
"You want to tell me what that was about?" he asked once we were alone.
I raised an eyebrow. "What what was about?"
"The girl. Grace O'Sullivan." He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "I saw your face when you opened that file."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit." Luca's voice was quiet but firm. "I know you, Rafe. Better than anyone. And I know that look."
I turned away, pouring myself another drink to avoid his scrutiny. "She's Patrick O'Sullivan's daughter. Of course I'm interested in what she knows."
"Is that all it is? Professional interest?"
The whiskey burned down my throat, a welcome distraction from the heat building under my skin. "What else would it be?"
Luca sighed, pushing himself off the table. "Just be careful. We can't afford distractions right now. Not with Dante away and the Irish making moves."
"I know my priorities," I said, the edge in my voice a warning.
He held up his hands in surrender. "Your call, brother. Always has been."
After he left, I returned to the table and opened Grace's file again. In the silence of the empty room, I spread out the photos, arranging them in chronological order. A timeline of Grace O'Sullivan's life over the past month.
Walking to class. Studying in the library. Having coffee with a friend. Playing piano in her apartment.
