I make my way through the lobby of The Tower. Even before the way everything played out with Neela, I never felt at home here. The Tower is my dad’s refuge, his monument to the old ways. He has burly muscle-heads posted at the elevators and stairs. Women in tight pencil skirts man the reception area, and hard-eyed men come and go. It’s a bustling place, but that’s no surprise. If you’re a criminal in this city, you end up tied to my father eventually, and the only way to communicate with him is to come here. If it weren’t for some hefty bribes, the police would probably shake this place down on a weekly basis. But they’re taken care of, and instead of giving my father shit, they actually help look out for the place and tip him off if the authorities are getting hot on him.

One of the guys at the elevator stops me before I can press the button to call the door. “Mr. Luciani asked us not to let you up.”

“You know who I am?” I ask in a low, warning tone. Technically, it’s a stupid fucking question. Of course they know, or they wouldn’t know I was the one my father wanted kept out. But it’s not a literal question. It’s the equivalent of pulling rank, and it’s a challenge. “Maybe you want to ask yourself who is going to be more pissed, me, if I drove all this fucking way to have to kill some idiot security guard, or my father, if his son finds a way to make it upstairs.

The guy’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he subtly steps to the side, not making eye-contact with me.

“Good boy,” I say, slapping his shoulder before I tap the elevator button.

I take the elevator straight to the thirty-first floor. The penthouse. My father has turned this tower into a goddamn circus since I acquired it nearly ten years ago. The first ten floors are staffed like an office, with men and women working in cubicles to keep track of debts and bring in new clients. He has a few floors dedicated to the management staff, though it’d be more accurate to say they are just the lucky old fucks who have been working with him long enough to lounge around playing cards all day and stuffing their faces. Beyond that, he’s got everything he needs in here. There’s a fully stocked grocery store, a gym, a spa, a casino, and even a shooting range. Then a few floors are reserved for hideout spots that can be leased to criminals who have gathered too much heat and need to lay low, which was my original plan for most of the floors here.

On reflex, I check my weapon, verifying that there is a bullet in the chamber before reholstering it. I don’t often carry a weapon anymore, but I still go to the range to keep sharp. No matter what my father might want the word among the guys to be, I don’t think I’ll need it. I feel better having it with me, though, and if my father does have his guys try something stupid, I intend to take a few with me on my way out.

The penthouse is kept dark, with heavy blinds covering most of what should be an amazing view of the city. The furniture is old, shiny leather and the floor is covered in thick rugs. Faintly sweet cigar smoke hangs in the air like a fog, making the four men who sit in the living room look like ghosts.

“Figured you’d show up,” my father says. His voice is craggy and almost inhumanly deep. When he was still working as a soldier for the his old boss, Enzo Carmello—the guy he named me after—he took a knife to the neck. It severed some of his vocal cords and left him sounding like some kind of fucking swamp monster, but I think my old man actually prefers the effect.

“Yeah, well I’m getting word that you are painting a target on my back,” I say.

I move closer until I can see the four men. My father, Michael Luciani sits in a high-backed chair. He has silver hair slicked back from his head, a prominent nose, and permanently pursed lips that make him look like he’s always considering some tough decision.

The two men to his left are his old friends. A short and stocky old man with a bulldog’s face and a hand with only two fingers. Because of his hand, everyone just calls him The Claw. Then there’s the tall and solemn “Doctor,” who looks more like a college professor than a mafioso. He was my father’s accountant back in the day, and over time he ended up getting absorbed into my old man’s inner circle.

On my father’s right is the one I am keeping the closest eye on. Vince. He has a shaved head, dark features, and a shiny white scar that cuts across his eyebrow. He’s my old man’s young gun, and he’s hardly better than a rabid dog on a thin leash. I’ve warned my father that Vince is going to snap and kill someone he’s not supposed to one of these days, but he still keeps Vince at his side for protection.

Vince doesn’t even bother trying to be coy. He reaches into his jacket and slides his chrome-plated pistol out and rests it across his thigh. The thing is fucking huge, and I know it’d put a hole in me the size of a softball if he took a shot at me. You’ll be the first to get a bullet if this goes south, Vince.

“You disobeyed me. You gave away a hostage we needed. You could’ve landed half this family in jail.”

“I told you,” I say. “Her father wasn’t playing ball. Keeping the girl or killing her made no difference.”

“No?” asks my father dangerously. “The respect of my name makes no fucking difference to you?”

“Fuck respect,” I growl. “Respect isn’t going to keep you out of prison. If we killed the girl, we were only going to piss him off. Letting her go is the only reason he hasn’t pushed the case through.”

“You said he told you to fuck off.”

“He did. And then I told him I was letting his daughter go, but he should remember how easy it was for us to take her, and he should think long and hard before he moves forward with the case.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. I still feel a deep stab of guilt for lying to Neela about that, too. I told him he had to keep the case quiet long enough for my father to forget about Neela, so she’d have a chance to start over.

“And what happens the next time we need to take a hostage?” The Claw questions. He has a voice that always seems too high-pitched for his stocky frame. “People will remember this.”

“No one would know it happened if you had just trusted my judgment,” I say.

“Your judgment?” Vince sneers. “Far as I can tell, you just want to make the family go soft. Why should the boss trust your judgment?”

“I didn’t come here to waste breath on any of you,” I say, locking my eyes on my father.

He leans forward, picking up a cigar and lighting it. He takes his time dragging out a long puff of smoke and blowing it into the air before he speaks. "Whatever happened to The Beast?” he asks, voice full of scorn. “You used to be my Ace, Enzo. You were the wolf I’d release, the one who could handle any problem without flinching. Now look at you. You’re disrespecting your family and the old traditions for some woman? You’ve gone soft.”

I clench my fists at my sides. “I’ll promise you something. If any of your men so much as comes near Neela, I’ll give them a close-up chance to see if I’ve gone soft or not, and I’ll send the bodies back to you so there’s no confusion.”

“You’re my son,” he says, leaning back in his chair and taking a deep, whistling breath through his nose. “For that, I won’t order my men to kill you. And because you’re my son, I’ll tell you this much. I will take the girl from you.” He leans forward now, jabbing his cigar at me as his chair creaks under his weight. “By any means necessary. You want to play tough shit and try to stop my men? Then you just might get caught in the crossfire.”

Vince points his index and middle finger at me in a mock-gun and fires, sneering widely.

Angelo and Gino stop by my rooms at The Spot, which have essentially become my main place of residence until we settle things with my father. Neela is still asleep in her room with her sister. I feel bad the two of them have to share a room, but when I designed this place, I never intended to have a need for more than one guest bedroom. I regret it even more because it means I can’t just sneak into Neela’s room and fuck her when I please, but after the meeting with my father, getting back into her pants isn’t a priority at the moment. I need to find a way to keep her safe.

My brothers and I gather in the kitchen, where we’re less likely to wake the girls as we talk.

“I talked to him last night,” I say.

“The look on your face says it didn’t go well,” Gino says. He’s distractedly working pistachios out of their shells and popping them in his mouth as we talk.

“He’s put out an order to take her, and anyone who stands in the way of his men is fair game.”

“So it’s a war, then,” Angelo says with a grim twist of his mouth.

“Yeah,” I agree. I haven’t killed in years, and when I took my last life, I swore to myself I wouldn't do it again. I still smell gunsmoke and blood when I close my eyes, and I still see the look of betrayal in his eyes. But if I have to kill to protect Neela, I know I’ll do it, even if showing her a glimpse of the monster I was scares her away from me for good.

“You could just take the girl and lay low for a couple years,” suggests Gino.

“Then what?” I ask. “We spend our whole lives worrying one of the old man’s cronies will snag her at the grocery store four years from now? No. This is going to end.”

“What do you propose?” Angelo asks.

“I have an idea, but if you so much as breathe a word of it to Neela, the war with our old man will be the least of your worries. Understand?”

They both nod, listening with grim expressions while I explain my plan.