Damian had to force himself to leave the garden.

To leave Aria.

He wanted to throw her over his shoulder, take her somewhere far away where she couldn’t be hurt by what was going to happen.

Because she would be hurt. That was a certainty.

The only thing left to determine was whether it would be as collateral damage to his war with Primo or at the hands of her brother and Malcolm Gatti.

He got in his car, slammed his fist against the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

He took a few deep breaths, looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the embarrassing outburst. Then he put the car in gear and screeched into the intersection, cutting off a cab that was forced to slam on its breaks. The cabbie laid on his horn and Damian resisted the urge to stop in the middle of the street, go back and beat the man just for daring to exist when he was becoming increasingly pissed at the complications of having someone new in his orbit.

Namely, Aria Fiore.

He kept his foot on the gas and navigated the car toward the Upper West Side and his meeting with Farrell Black, none of which removed the image of Aria, somehow both strong and fragile, in the shed at the garden. She’d been in worn jeans and a tank top covered by a flannel shirt. Her hair had been loose, her cheek smudged with what looked like oil.

He’d never been so attracted to a woman in his life.

He’d also never been so frustrated by one.

She wasn’t stupid. He didn’t know her well, but he had seen the intelligence in her eyes, had heard it in the argument she’d made for more time when she’d come to his office. It had been a risky strategy, one she probably hadn’t made lightly. Which meant that she knew she was in danger but was willing to accept the risk for Primo.

It was an impulse Damian didn’t fully understand. He didn’t have any siblings.

He didn’t have anyone.

There had only been his mother before her death, and while he would have done anything for her, the nature of the parent/child relationship meant that she had shielded him from much of the danger associated with their situation, downplayed it in an effort to make him feel safe. It didn’t always work, but her efforts had blunted the worst of the impact.

Was there anyone he would risk his life for now? His men, of course, but that was duty, a more selfish kind of loyalty. That left Cole, although he wondered if his willingness to risk himself for Cole had more to do with the fact that he owed the other man his life.

He wanted to think of himself as courageous, but it would have been a lie. He was motivated by one thing: a desire to build his criminal empire as a fuck you to his father. He couldn’t change the fact that his father had amassed a fortune on a foundation of lies, but he could cast a dark cloud over his memory with a criminal legacy.

Aria was different, willing to sacrifice her personal safety out of love and loyalty for her brother when her own interests would be better served by running. It wouldn’t be hard. The Fiore’s must have money stashed. A lot of it. She was smart enough to tap into it, get a new passport, disappear.

And yet she stayed.

The enigma of her loyalty only made him want her more, adding a layer of mystery — and yes, admiration — to the attraction he’d felt for her since he’d first seen her at Platinum, although attraction was beginning to feel like too mild a word for the way she set his blood on fire.

Still, that’s what it was. What it had to be. He didn’t know her well enough to feel anything for her, and that was assuming he even had the capacity for such feeling.

It took him nearly forty minutes to get across town. By the time he reached The Plaza the sky was dark, the streets alive with the lights and energy of the city at night.

He pulled up to the valet, handed over the keys, and made his way into the hotel bar. He’d been surprised when Farrell had suggested The Champagne Bar, but this is what it would be like if he took the Syndicate up on their offer — meeting guys like Farrell Black at the drop of a hat, asking how high when Farrell or Nico or the others told him to jump.

Not appealing to say the least.

He strode across the lobby’s expansive marble floors, chandeliers twinkling overhead, and made his way to the bar. He spotted Farrell right away, dwarfing the frame of a diminutive wing chair and still managing to look perfectly at ease in an obviously bespoke suit. Damian lifted a hand in greeting, then detoured to the bar for a drink. When he had it in hand, he crossed the room to the area Farrell had claimed.

He didn’t rise as Damian approached, and Damian took the seat across from him without ceremony. He took a drink from the glass in his hand and looked around, taking in the high ceilings and paneled walls, the too-precious furniture and objet d’art.

“Interesting choice,” he said.

Farrell took a drink, rattled the ice in his glass. “I fucking hate this place.”

“You picked it,” Damian said.

Farrell grew silent, and Damian had the feeling he was deciding how much to say.

“I have company,” Farrell said. “Can’t have my wife and daughter at a two-bit hotel. Won’t leave them alone in this city for long.”

Damian nodded, trying to picture the woman who was married to Farrell Black. Trying to picture Farrell playing with a child. It was virtually impossible.

He understood Farrell’s concern. New York wasn’t under the control of any one family. Some of the organizations vying for a foothold didn’t play by the rules of the old school mob — Fiore being one of them. Farrell was one of the most notorious crime bosses in the world.

And one of the most dangerous.

He and his family would be a target in the city until the Syndicate got it under control. Still, he wasn’t surprised that Farrell would allow his wife and child to come to New York. He didn’t strike Damian as a man who bowed to fear. More likely had occupied an entire floor of the Plaza and outfitted it with enough guards to take down an army.

“Anything I can do?” Damian asked.

“Yeah, you can take out that fucker Fiore so we can get this city in hand.”

“I’m working on it,” Damian said. “You got the plans?”

“I did,” Farrell said. “You sure you’re ready? You pulled it together fast. There are a lot of targets. It’s a big operation.”

“No choice. The timeline had to be escalated. But yeah, we’re ready. The initial strike won’t be the hard part. They won’t see it coming. Not on a scale like this. It’s the aftermath that will be dangerous.”

“Not if you do it right,” Farrell said.

Damian set his glass on the table between them. “We’ll do everything right, but Fiore and Gatti will go into hiding as soon as they realize what’s happening. It’s possible we’ll find them. It’s also possible they’ll go deep underground. Then it will be a matter of how many of their men survive and how quickly and effectively they strike back.”

“You prepared to flush them out?” Farrell asked.

“Yes.”

Farrell nodded. “Anything else you need from us?”

“Just the extra men noted in my report.”

“Staging at the old Vitale headquarters in Brooklyn as we speak,” Farrell said. He reached into his suit pocket, withdrew a card. “Leader of the task force is Marco. That’s his number. He’s been instructed to follow your orders.”

“Thank you.”

Damian was surprised to realize he meant it. He hadn’t planned to come after Fiore this soon, but now he understood that doing so was critically important to his operation. He tried not to think about Aria. About her haunted eyes and the loyalty that would probably get her killed.

She wasn’t his problem.

Primo and Malcolm Gatti were his problem, had always been a problem; he’d just been putting off dealing with it. Farrell’s offer had forced Damian to look more closely at the Fiore organization. Turns out there was more there than met the eye.

And he wasn’t just talking about Primo’s sister.

“So tomorrow’s the day,” Farrell said.

Damian nodded. “That’s right.”

He’d spent the first half of the day getting Carol and the women and children from the shelter settled in the Greenwich apartment building and talking to the contractors about speeding up the rest of the work. Extra guards had been placed in the area just in case Primo got any big ideas about hitting them again. Once they were situated, he’d gone back to the office to make sure everything was in order for tomorrow’s strike. They were as ready as they would ever be.

Farrell stood, and Damian followed suit.

“Keep us posted.” Farrell said, shaking his hand. “And try not to get yourself killed.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring,” Damian said.

Farrell shrugged. “We’re not accountants.”

He turned to leave and Damian watched him amble across the lobby, trying to ignore the fact that the meeting had left him strangely reassured. It never hurt to have more men. More resources.

That didn’t mean he was getting all warm and fuzzy about the idea of joining forces with the fucking Syndicate.