Nia
Lucas De Santo's estate, minutes after the gunfight
"It's handled," Lucas said, and shut the door with that slow, deliberate click that told me nothing was actually handled.
His chest was slick with sweat. Blood—someone else's—spattered his ribs. The gun hung loose at his side. I couldn't decide if I wanted to grab him or shove him away.
"Handled how?" I asked.
His eyes cut to the window. "Put the robe on. Stay out of sight."
He didn't wait for an answer. Another click, and he was gone.
The room felt too small for the air inside it. I dragged the silk robe off the chair, tied it with hands that wouldn't stop shaking, and crept to the window. I peeled the curtain back an inch.
The courtyard below looked like a crime scene dressed up as a party that went wrong—casings flashing under the security lights, men limping, two bodies on the gravel groaning and clutching their legs. The iron gates stood open. Beyond them, red and blue washed over the hedges and stone lions.
Sirens. Then uniforms. A flood of them.
They poured out of three cruisers, guns up at first, then slanting down as they took in the field—De Santo men already backing off, weapons lowered, faces set to that blank, nothing-to-see-here look.
At the front of the pack was a man I knew down to the weight of his footsteps.
Detective Raymond Jones.
My father.
My breath hitched high in my throat. He looked the way he always did at three a.m.—jaw shadowed, tie crooked, eyes harder than his badge. I hadn't seen him in days. Not since the fight, the slammed door, the words I threw like knives so I wouldn't cry.
Now he was standing in Lucas's world while I stood in Lucas's bedroom.
Lucas moved into the wash of light like he owned it. Bare arms, tattoos alive on his skin, a cut blooming along his jaw. To his left, a taller figure stepped out of the shadow—Matteo, lips curved in that lazy, dangerous way that never reached his eyes. On Lucas's right, Martino—older, heavier in the shoulders, the quiet gravity of a man used to being obeyed.
All three together. Wolves pretending not to bare teeth.
"Drop your weapons!" a young officer shouted.
Lucas raised empty hands, easy as a shrug. "Relax, Officer. We were blowing off steam."
The words were so ridiculous I almost laughed. Gravel glittered with brass. Somebody bled onto the stones. This was "steam" the way a hurricane was "wind."
Matteo followed the script, palms out, voice smooth. "Bit of roughhousing. Family drama." He flashed a smile at the nearest cop. "You know brothers."
Martino didn't smile. He didn't have to. "You can holster those," he said, like he was asking for the check.
Some of the uniforms looked at one another—unsure, irritated, a couple of them already thinking about forms and write-ups they didn't want to do. But the younger ones kept their fingers near triggers.
My father didn't move. He watched. He listened. He let silence do the work.
Lucas met his eyes and tipped his chin. "Detective Jones."
"Mr. De Santo." My father's voice carried clean and flat across the stones. "Want to explain why we had reports of automatic fire from your property?"
Lucas's mouth tugged. "Faulty generator."
A few of his men chuckled. It died quick.
Raymond didn't react. "We'll take statements."
"Of course," Martino said. "Inside? Coffee?" It sounded like a dare.
The sirens wound down to idle. Radios crackled. One of the cops muttered, "This is going nowhere," low enough to think nobody heard. Everyone heard.
"Secure the perimeter," my father said without looking away from Lucas. "No one in or out." He tilted his head. "Especially your boys."
Lucas spread his hands again, gracious host. "By all means."
Boots spread out along the drive. The younger officer who'd shouted first swallowed hard and stepped back from the De Santos by two paces, like distance could fix what it meant to stand that close.
From up here I could see it—the thin line everyone was pretending not to notice. Law on one side. Power on the other. All that moved between them was breath and lies.
One of Lucas's men said something I couldn't catch. Luca's head turned a fraction. He gave the tiniest shake—stand down—and the man silenced like he'd swallowed the rest of his words.
"Looks like a misunderstanding," Martino said, calm as a priest.
My father looked from Lucas to Martino, then to Matteo, who wore his smirk like a knife. "A misunderstanding with bodies on the ground."
"Not ours," Matteo said.
"Not yet," Martino added softly.
A sergeant trotted up to my father's shoulder, trying to keep his voice low. "Sir, unless we have a willing complainant—"
"We have reports, we have injuries, we have—"
"We have a judge who sleeps on De Santo money," the sergeant said under his breath. "You want the raid, you get the warrant first. Otherwise we leave with nothing and they laugh."
The sergeant wasn't wrong. I hated that he wasn't wrong.
Raymond didn't look at him. "We're not here to play court," he said. "We're here to send a message."
He stepped forward one pace. The three brothers didn't step back. Wind tugged at my father's coat. For a second, everything in the courtyard went quiet—no radios, no chatter—just the hum of engines and the weight of eyes.
"Gentlemen," my father said, crisp now, cop-voice rising, the one that made rookies straighten, "we'll be back with paperwork. And when we come back, we won't knock."
He turned slightly. "Pack it up," he told his team.
Uniforms started to peel toward cars. Radios squawked. Doors thumped. It looked like a retreat. It wasn't. Raymond had done what he came to do—take the measure, stake the claim, let the De Santos know the line had shifted.
Only he didn't leave.
He watched his people move. Then, when their backs turned and the courtyard th
inned, he stepped past the last cruiser's light wash and walked straight toward the brothers.
Alone.