Damian passed Farrell in the foyer and led the way into the living room at the front of the house. He left the lights off, moving through the partially renovated house on instinct. He knew every inch of it, both from the years he’d spent there with his mother and the ones he’d spent renovating it since her death. He continued to the bar set against one wall and removed two glasses.

“What’s your poison?” he asked, not looking at the big man behind him.

“Whiskey if you have it,” Farrell said.

Damian poured whiskey into both glasses, then turned to hand one of them to Farrell. He was sitting in one of the wing chairs Damian had recently had reupholstered, his enormous frame dwarfing even the oversize chair.

Farrell lifted the glass. “Salut.”

Damian nodded and tossed back the whiskey in one long swallow. He watched as Farrell’s eyes scanned the room.

“Nice place,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Damian didn’t volunteer information about the house. His history with it was complicated: a prison when his father had been alive, a refuge after his death. But his mother had only ever had love for the place, for its long history and the architecture that was original to the 1920s when it had been built. Restoring it was a labor of love, and he was slowly working his way through the rooms, stripping old wallpaper where it couldn’t be repaired, sanding the floors, gutting the kitchen. He did most of the work himself, found it therapeutic and simple when few things in the world were.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“I figured you’d get to it,” Damian said.

Farrell nodded, and Damian wondered if it was his imagination that he saw approval in Farrell’s eyes.

Not that he needed Farrell Black’s approval. As far as he knew, Farrell had never been part of the Syndicate’s New York operation. That had been Nico Vitale, but he’d abandoned the territory when Raneiro Donati turned on him. Word was Vitale was in Rome now, re-establishing the Syndicate’s presence in the city that had once belonged to Donati himself.

“It’s time we take back New York,” Farrell said. “And we want you to run it.”

Damian didn’t know what he’d expected. A demand that he stop his organization’s activities? An order to share his profits? A bullet in the head?

He didn’t know exactly, but it wasn’t this.

Damian sat on the sofa opposite Farrell. “I already run it.”

Farrell smiled indulgently. “Not for long,” he said. “Not if you insist on going it alone.”

“Is that a threat?”

Farrell shrugged. “A threat implies possibility. The Syndicate is back, and while we appreciate your holding down the fort, our return was always inevitable. The territory belongs to us.”

“Belonged,” Damian said. “Past tense.”

“We can argue semantics if you like,” Farrell said. “But I think we have more pressing matters to discuss.”

“Such as?”

“Primo Fiore,” Farrell said.

Damian stood, crossed the room and set his glass on the bar. “I’m not concerned about Fiore.”

“You should be,” Farrell said. “Not because of Primo, but because of Malcolm Gatti.”

Damian kept his face impassive, but the name sent a surge of anger into his gut. Damian had only communicated with Primo Fiore through Cole, his second in command, but he had the impression Fiore was malleable in spite of rumors about his mental illness. Malcolm Gatti had a different reputation. One that included all the income generators Damian wouldn’t touch.

Human trafficking, dealing to kids, even kiddie porn. None of it was off limits for Malcolm Gatti. It set Damian’s blood boiling if he thought about it too much, so he’d kept his head down, focused on building his own organization, reasoning that a strong Cavallo enterprise would enable him to squeeze out Fiore — and Gatti — eventually.

“He’s not the boss,“ Damian said.

“He might as well be,” Farrell said. “And I think you know that.”

His posture in the chair was relaxed, like they were old friends, but Damian had the feeling Black could be on his feet and across the room in seconds. Damian didn’t fear him — he didn’t fear much — but that didn’t mean he was looking for a fight.

“Not my concern,” Damian said. “They have their business. I have mine.”

“How long do you think that will last?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. There had been warning signs — stolen shipments, low-level guys who’d been roughed up on the streets, attempts to expand the Fiore territory — but they’d been small so far and easy to swat away.

Still, it would have been foolish to think it would last forever.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“Exactly.” Farrell rose to his feet and walked to the big arched window that overlooked the sweeping lawn around the property. “Can I ask you something?”

“You can always ask.”

“Why do you do it?” Farrell asked.

Damian wondered what he was looking at through the window. Night had fallen hard and fast; Farrell wouldn’t be able to see anything but darkness.

“Why do I do what?”

Farrell turned to face him, waved a hand dismissively. “This.”

“Why do you do it?” Damian asked.

“I like to hurt people who deserve it,” he said simply. “But you don’t strike me as someone who enjoys violence for the sake of violence. And you’re rich as fuck.”

“So are you.”

Farrell didn’t look surprised. “You did your homework.”

“Part of the job,” Damian said.

“So?” Farrell prompted.

Damian considered his response. He was used to being alone. To keeping his own counsel. On the rare occasions when he wanted another opinion, he consulted Cole, but never about anything personal. He didn’t talk about his parents. Didn’t talk about his mother or his childhood. He didn’t talk about the house he was restoring or the long nights when he prowled its corridors, wondering what it was all for when no one but him would ever be around to enjoy it.

But Farrell’s answer had felt sincere, and he was surprised to find that he wanted to return the favor.

“The work is honest,” Damian said.

He didn’t say the rest. That he hated the way his father had made a living, shuffling other people’s money around, taking his fees even when he cheated them out of their savings and retirement. That he hated the front his father had maintained for the rest of the world. Hated that everyone thought he was respectable and admirable when he was a cowardly wife-beater behind closed doors.

Damian was a thief and a criminal but at least he was willing to own it.

Farrell’s expression was thoughtful. “We have more in common than you might think.”

“How’s that?”

“I’m sure you know the Syndicate is being rebuilt,” Farrell said. “What you might not know is that it’s being rebuilt with a new honor code — no hurting women, no pushing to kids. Honor, respect, all that other bullshit.”

“If you think it’s bullshit, why are you doing it?” Damian asked.

“It’s just good business. We can’t move the organization into the twenty-first century with an outdated model. And I’ve never sanctioned the hurting of women and children.”

HIs tone turned hard and flat with the last sentence, and Damian had a feeling it was an understatement.

“Makes sense,” Damian said. “But what does it have to do with me?"

“Vitale’s in Rome now. It’s an important location in terms of tradition. Makes everyone feel like the Syndicate is in good hands and still represented by old school leadership. I’m in London. We have representation in Miami and Paris and in a few other territories. But after Rome, New York is the most important. Always has been.”

“And?”

“And we think you’re the man for the job,” Farrell said.

Damian laughed. “I’m not.”

“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that.”

Damian leveled his gaze at the other man. “I don’t think so.”

Farrell studied him for a long moment before speaking. “I understand working alone,” he finally said. “I worked alone for a long time.”

“What happened?”

“I learned that some things are easier with help.”

“Some things are harder,” Damian countered.

“You may be right, but this isn’t one of them,” Farrell said.

“By this you mean…?”

“Our business,” Farrell said. “Fiore is already pushing you, testing your boundaries. That’s only going to get worse. Eventually you won’t be able to ignore it. You’ll be in an all-out war with the Fiore organization. Innocent people will die, as innocent people always do in a war.”

“Joining forces with you isn’t going to change that,” Damian said. “If you’re right, Fiore will come anyway.”

Farrell’s nod was slow. “But he’ll have to get through us, and our resources are not insignificant.”

Damian had no interest whatsoever in the Syndicate’s resources. Not as they applied to his business. But getting rid of Primo Fiore and Malcolm Gatti was another story entirely.

He’d known he would have to deal with them eventually. Had known that day was swiftly approaching. He believed he had the edge — more men, smarter and more rational men, a business plan and financial analysis that made it possible to allocate funds to streams of income with maximum ROI.

He still believed it, but Farrell was right; Malcolm Gatti was the wild card.

The guy had a record a mile long, and while Fiore was reported to be unstable, Gatti was notoriously cruel. Dispensing with him would bring the entire Fiore organization down on Damian and his men. They might win, but Farrell was right.

It wouldn’t be a cake walk.

“What kind of resources?” Damian asked.

Farrell gave a small shrug. “Men, weapons, a cyber operation that rivals the NSA.”

“I’m not willing to commit to a group of men I don’t know,” Damian said. “But I’d be willing to consider the Fiore takedown as a trial run.”

Farrell raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t offer a trial run.”

“I know.”

They stared each other down across the darkness of the room.

“What’s in a trial run for us?” Farrell asked.

“You get to test me out too,” Damian said. “If we succeed and I decline your offer, there’s one less rival for you to defeat to take back the territory. But either way, I retain the option to walk away. No harm, no foul.”

He had no intention of walking away from his business. Unlike the money he’d inherited from his father and the Foundation that had existed since before he was born, Damian had built the Cavallo criminal organization with his own two hands. He’d learned the business the hard way — by getting the shit kicked out of him when getting the shit kicked out of him was what he’d needed. By losing money before he made it back times a hundred.

By dealing with scum like Malcolm Gatti.

But they were playing chess, and the name of the game was removing pawns from the board, exploiting the strengths and weaknesses of his opponents until he could pick them off. This was the best play he had right now. He would make it and see what the game revealed along the way.

“No one walks away from our business,” Farrell said. “You know that.”

“Vitale did.”

A flicker of interest passed over Farrell’s face in the moment before he crossed the room, passed Damian without comment. He was halfway through the door when his voice drifted back to Damian.

“I’ll take your offer to the others. In the meantime, I’d suggest watching your back.”