“Lucio,” I yell, throwing my arm in the air and waving it like a mad woman to attract the old man’s attention. “Over here.”

Lucio tucks his folded umbrella underneath the arm carrying his briefcase, and joins me at the coffee shop on the edge of Boston Common. He pulls a pair of black leather gloves off his hands, cups them around his mouth, and blows warm air against his fingers to warm them up.

“You’re looking pale, Sofia,” the old advisor tells me. He speaks in an almost reproving, worried tone.

I punch him in the arm; it’s so light, it’s just a kiss of affection. “What kind of way is that to talk about a lady, Lucio?” I ask, tucking a ten dollar bill underneath my empty coffee cup. I wait for the waiter, and stand up. “Walk with me.”

“This is becoming a habit, Miss –,” Lucio pauses to correct himself, “Sofia; a nice one, but nevertheless, a habit.”

I glance around the empty park. It’s early in the morning, and the only people in sight are people walking their dogs, and the odd homeless person asleep on a park bench. If any of Mickey’s men are following me, I would already know about it. They aren’t known for their subtlety. Lucio tracks my gaze.

“A good habit,” I reply. “I find it’s better to be cautious, don’t you?”

Lucio nods. “That’s a rule your father drilled into me over the course of many long years. It’s a shame your brother doesn’t feel quite the same way.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out to glance at it, even though I know exactly what I’m going to see. Kieran has been chasing me for a week now: ever since we last met at the Ritz. He never sends a text more than once a day, but he does text once every day. Like clockwork, the number of a different burner phone flashes up on my screen every morning.

Like clockwork, I ignore it: every day. That’s a road I’m not ready to take. Not just yet.

I like the attention, but still – something’s stopping me from replying to him. I kid myself into thinking that I'm waiting until I have something to say about the attack on the Byrne family’s pub. The truth is murkier. I keep thinking about that kiss. Not the one he planted on my lips, but the one that happened a few seconds later – when I returned it.

I barely grazed Kieran’s cheek, but, somehow, that feels even more intimate. I keep thinking about that moment, and it scares me.

“Someone special?” Lucio smiles as he stares at me.

I flatten my face immediately, squashing all emotion. “You know me better than that, don’t you Lucio?” I say, dismissing the idea out of hand. I always forget how sharp the old man is. Old age has done nothing to dim the bright intelligence that burns behind his eyes.

“So you say.”

I glance sideways at Lucio, but he’s looking studiously off into the distance, resting both hands on the handle of his umbrella. The tip rests against the frozen ground.

“This is as good a spot as any,” I say, my voice gruff and businesslike. It’s clear that I’m changing the topic. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

Lucio’s face creases with disappointment. The frown further excavates the deep furrows on Lucio’s face: crevices in his skin plowed through long, hard years of stress. I feel a twinge of guilt over rebuffing the old man’s interest in my private life.

But I am a Morello. Lucio, for all his charms, is not.

So my private life is supposed to be just that: private.

“Very well, Miss Morello: as you say.” Lucio sighs.

I ignore Lucio’s barely concealed nod to the reminder I just gave him about our positions in life’s pyramid. Being at the top isn’t easy. It might seem that way, but only to the uninitiated. The reality isn’t just champagne and nice weddings; it’s constant fear that someone’s coming to take your spot. It’s the loneliness – the deep, abiding loneliness – of being in command.

In order to lead, you need to separate yourself from your emotions. You need to maintain a distance between yourself and your employees – like I just did with Lucio. A leader’s life isn’t easy.

Your brother,” Lucio – ever the professional – continues without a beat, “is up to something.”

“Thank you, old friend,” I grin with wry amusement, “for stating the obvious. But if I’d wanted analysis like that, I’d have asked Tony Bianchi for help…”

“Sofia,” Lucio chides me, “your father would have told you to always examine your assumptions. In this case – of course – you were right. Your brother is scheming. But your gut won’t always carry the day. It is better to avoid throwing the first punch than to beg forgiveness for your mistake. Your soldiers will forgive your errors: but only honest ones.”

I dip my head in apology. “You’re right, of course Lucio. I’ll keep quiet.” I grin, and zip my mouth shut to show him there are no hard feelings. The difference between my brother and me isn’t so great. If there’s anything to it, it’s my willingness to listen to advice. In this case, as I’ve come to expect from Lucio Ricci, it’s good advice.

“The details, alas, my girl,” Lucio sighs, spreading his arms wide, “are still unclear –.”

My heart sinks with disappointment. I have to hide a twinge of irritation. Why did Lucio call me here, if he had nothing to say?

“But the broad strokes of Michael’s plan are clear. Do you know of a Detective Mackey?”

I nod, buoyed by the fact that Lucio is still talking. “By reputation: he’s hard, but straight, no? Surely he isn’t working with my brother?”

“Honesty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?” Lucio asks again, spreading his hands wide like a traveling priest.

“Lucio…” I chide, hardening my tone with warning. “If you have a point, get to it.”

I wrinkle my nose, looking around. I just caught the most awful smell: like rotting trash cans in mid-summer. Lucio raises an eyebrow in my direction, but wisely chooses to stay silent.

“I apologize. Your father had a taste for the theatrical…”

“You’ll find, Lucio,” I say, biting down on a wave of nausea that threatens to double me over, “that I am not my father.”

“No,” Lucio smiles, “and that’s a very good thing, young lady. You are much better looking than your old man. What I meant to say is that Detective Mackey, in his own eyes, is honest.”

“But you just said that he’s scheming with my brother,” I protest, still not understanding.

“I did,” Lucio nods. “But Michael isn’t paying him off.”

“Then what –?” I grumble, still fighting the nausea.

“What does your brother want?” Lucio asks. “He’s the same as any man – he wants power. Ambition is the curse of many a man, and Detective Mackey is no different. He has spent his entire career failing to bring down Boston’s families –.”

Lucio is too polite to qualify what he means. I grin, doing it for him.

“You can speak plainly with me, Lucio. I know my family’s business. We’re criminals: the Mob; Mafiosi.”

The old man inclines his head. “As you please; it changes little. The detective has spent more than a decade failing to get anything done. His department is a backwater. Perhaps he is a laughingstock amongst his colleagues.”

“But what does that have to do with my brother?” I ask, still not getting it.

“Simple,” Lucio smiles indulgently. He reminds me more of a math professor at college than a long-serving mafia caporegime. I guess that’s why my father liked him so much. “Mickey offered him the one thing he simply could not refuse –.”

“A case to crack,” I groan, tipping my head back. “Of course; that’s –.”

It’s Lucio’s turn to interrupt me. “Smart,” he nods gravely; “Truth be told, I didn’t believe Michael had it in him.”

“So he plans to serve the Byrnes up on a silver platter,” I say, working through Mickey’s plan in my own head. “It might work.”

“Might,” Lucio echoes, “is the operative word. It’s a risk: a huge risk. There are five Byrne Brothers. He might bring down one, perhaps two – but all five? I think not. Even if he did, the family blood runs deep. There must be a dozen cousins: more perhaps. None would give up without a fight.”

“If they get wind of this,” I mutter, massaging my temples with frustration at my brother’s rash plan, “they’ll rip this city apart; and they’d be right to do so. This is a different kind of betrayal. It’s –.”

“Dishonorable,” Lucio mutters gravely. I can tell how much Mickey’s plan galls him. The old man is old-school. In his day, there was one rule that no mobster broke: never trust a cop. Mickey’s plan must be turning his stomach …

… just as it is mine.

I shut my eyes. The nausea is almost overwhelming now. I’m too hot in my winter coat. I start to unbutton it, but it doesn’t help. The heat builds, and builds; I no longer feel the cool winter air on my face.

“Are you well, my dear?” Lucio asks. I don’t have the energy to answer him. I’m using everything I have to avoid –.

Throwing up.

But it’s too late. I sprint to the side of the path, hand clapped over my mouth, stomach heaving. I couldn’t hold it any longer. A thin, reedy stream of vomit escapes my mouth – stained black by the espresso I drank not twenty minutes before.

I stand, coughing, my hands resting on my knees. Lucio rushes over.

“Sofia – are you –?”

“Water,” I hiss, sticking out my hand. My mouth feels disgusting – but strangely, I feel much, much better.

I hear Lucio fumbling in his briefcase, and a second later the old man presses a small bottle of lukewarm water into my hand. I wash my mouth out with the contents, and spit the debris onto the frozen grass.

I lever myself to an upright position. Lucio’s brown eyes are wide with concern – and if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of intrigue. I’m too tired to try and figure out why. I hand him the water bottle back – or try to, but he shakes his head smiling.

“Thank you, my dear, but I’ll let you hang on to that,” Lucio chuckles. “What brought that on?” He asks while his beady eyes light with interest.

My forehead wrinkles. “Hell if I know,” I mutter, washing my mouth out one last time. “I guess that’s the last time I only have a coffee for breakfast.”

Lucio nods. I can tell that he doesn’t believe, for a minute, that’s the whole story. I consider protesting, but in the end I don’t bother. There’s no point.

“We can’t let my brother go ahead with this,” I say, my mind racing. Lucio looks surprised for a second – but forty years working alongside my father must have trained him well. “Mickey’s plan might lead to the end of the Byrne family, but it’ll ruin ours as well. The only people who will do well out of this are the cops…”

“And the Templars,” Lucio agrees, setting his briefcase on the frozen ground. “The Mexicans are just waiting for a change in the balance of power between the two families. The moment they sense weakness…” He shrugs. “That’ll be the end.”

“I need you to do something for me, Lucio.”

“Anything, Sofia; I’m at your command.”

I shoot him a look of deep thanks. I wish I could give the old man more. He’s the only one I have by my side. But all I have to share – for now at least – is the power of a smile.

“I need you to keep your ear to the ground. I need to know who Mickey is meeting, and when. I need to know who, out of our soldiers, is with him until the end, and who could be persuaded their interests lie elsewhere.”

“You’ll have it,” Lucio nods gravely, “or as much as I can give. But your brother doesn’t trust me, Sofia. He never has. I remind him too much of his father’s disappointment.”

I scowl. “Papa would be more than disappointed. He’d be disgusted.”

Lucio sighs heavily. “We live in trying times, Sofia. Your brother isn’t a bad man; he has just lost his way. It is a shame that his enthusiasm was never tempered by the restraint you have shown.”

I fix the old man with a stare. “You think he can be brought back from the brink?”

Lucio shrugs. “You know him better than I do, Sofia. I can’t help but think that all men – and women, of course – ” he rushes hurriedly, “can be redeemed. Whether Michael will be, however, I cannot say.”

A long silence develops between us. “Thank you, Lucio. I’m afraid that you might be sick of my face by the time this is over.”

“Never,” the old man smiles gallantly.

“I’d shake your hand, but,” I smile regretfully, glancing at my hands, “you saw what just happened. I wouldn’t want you to catch something from me.”

Lucio takes that as his cue to leave. I walk on my own through the common, lost in thought. My boots crunch against the frosted blades of grass beneath them.

After what the old man just told me, I’m spinning. I feel like I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I know – in my bones – what Mickey is doing is dangerous; so dangerous it might destroy the Morello family entirely. But I don’t know what I can do to stop him.

To act against my brother would be a betrayal all by itself. It’s a step I’m not sure I’m ready to take. I can hardly go to Kieran and ask for help – he’d either laugh in my face, or tell his brother.

I wouldn’t blame him for it, either. That’s just the way of the world: our world.

Mickey isn’t the only problem. I know in my heart that the nausea I just experienced isn’t just “nothing” – like I keep telling myself. I’m sick, I must be, but I don’t want to look that demon in the eye. So I just go on pretending like it doesn’t exist.

I chew my lip.

“You need to get a grip, Sofia,” I mutter. Thankfully, no one hears me, or stares at the crazy lady talking to herself in the park. I run my fingers through my hair, coming to a decision.

I’ll do the only thing I can – wait. Wait, and watch. The second I see Mickey crossing a line that shouldn’t be crossed, I’ll act.

I just don’t know how.

Now, how to handle the nausea? That’s another question entirely. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about that. Not yet.