"I gave her the money, the plane ticket. Everything she needed to vanish."
Yes. This part I knew. But notwhyhe had paid off some woman. Not that this woman was a witness to Rico's murder. No that Giovanni was the one who murdered him. Not that he created this impossible equation where Rico's death equals this woman's life.
"And yet… here she is, Giovanni. Dangerous. A fucking bomb ready to detonate. A goddamn bunker buster. I mean?—"
"Shut. TheFuck. Up!" Giovanni roars. "Do you think I don't know that? My fucking God, Jino. I get it. It was a mistake. But I don't fuckingcare!"
Giovanni straightens his spine. The tiredness evaporates, replaced by something cold and immovable. "I'm going to protect her. Keep her, if I can." His eyes meet mine, challenge embedded in every syllable. "And there's nothing you can do or say to stop me."
I blow out a breath. The air passes through my lips slowly, deliberately, carrying away the rage that threatens to blind me. The rage that would end with one of us bleeding out on this concrete floor. Again.
I look down at the far end of the dungeon, at the closed door where the woman sits, ignorant of the fact that her life is being weighed in the balance.
The peace between Bavga and LaRiccia is at stake here. The fragile tissue grown over a wound that never truly healed. A wound named Arianna. A wound that spilled enough blood to fill the Three Rivers. Salvatore’s sister. Giovanni’s aunt. Former wife of Luca LaRiccia.
Until she cheated on him and he killed her.
I look back at Giovanni. Thinking.
Giovanni waits. Almost expectantly. Because he sees it. I have an idea.
It's a really fucked up idea.
But desperate men agree to shitty deals every day.
"There might be a way," I start. But I don't finish.
Let the sentence hang between us like the blade of a guillotine.
Let him feel the weight of what must follow.
Giovanni stares, waiting. His posture shifts—minute adjustments in his stance that betray desperation. I recognize them because I've cataloged every physical tell he possesses since we were children. The slight lean forward. The fingers that don't quite curl into fists. The deliberate control of his breathing.
I remain silent, calculating. Measuring.
"Well?" Giovanni snaps finally. He begins pacing, each step a precise rhythm against the concrete. "Are you going to share this miraculous solution, or just stand there looking like a fucking priest at confession?"
I run the numbers through my mind. The variables. The contingencies. This isn't merely a problem of protection—it's a matter of containment. The woman beyond that door is no longer a person but a vessel of dangerous knowledge. A walking confession.
Giovanni's patience splinters. His pacing quickens, turns sharp at the corners. Each glare he gives me carries mounting frustration.
"For fuck's sake, Jino. If you have something to say?—"
"Make her a slave," I state.
The words drop between us, heavy and real.
Giovanni scoffs, his hand panning toward the basement around us—the implements, the platform, the kneeling mat. "What the fuck do you think we're doing here? Playing house?"
I shake my head. This isn't comprehension. This is surface-level understanding, and Giovanni has always been too impatient to see layers.
"No. Not this." I gesture dismissively at the training setup. "Lock her up. Here. She never sees the light of day again."
Giovanni's face twists. "You're fucking crazy."
"Perhaps," I concede. "But crazy keeps us alive. If she learns her lessons well enough..." I allow myself a small incline of my head. "Maybe, one day?—"
"You're a psycho," Giovanni cuts in, disgust coloring his words. "An actual fucking psychopath."