The apartment was quiet when Aria walked in after running errands. She was still spending time at the community garden, but with less and less to do there she was already remembering how difficult it was to fill her time during the off months. She’d spent the morning shopping for groceries and choosing a wedding gift for one of the men who was getting married. She’d set everything up to be delivered, then spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the Brooklyn flea. Primo would never let her use any of the things she found there — his tastes ran to glass and steel, chrome and concrete — but she loved running her hands over the worn wood of old furniture, checking the markings on vintage china to see if she could place them, holding old crystal up to the autumn light. She was lucky she’d talked Primo into the apartment in the financial district. With its prewar architecture, it was more her style than his. She considered the antiseptic nature of his chosen decor a compromise.

She set down her bag and made her way toward the living room.

It was after five and the electronic shades that covered the big windows overlooking the river were already drawn, casting the expansive room in shadow. It took her a few moments to notice the figure stretched out on the couch, one arm folded over a sheath of papers on his chest. She crossed the room quietly, coming to a stop when she reached the sofa.

Primo’s face looked different in repose. Softer and younger. He still slept with abandon, one arm suspended over the wood floors as if he’d fallen asleep while reaching for something on the coffee table. She used to watch him like this when they were kids, hoping for a glimpse into the enigma that was his mind. It hadn’t helped. He was as much a mystery to her asleep as when he was awake.

The papers on his chest were face down, sliding toward the floor. She reached down, pulled them out from under his arm. When she turned them over in her hand, she saw that they were maps of the city, some neighborhoods circled in red. She was still trying to figure out their meaning when Primo stirred.

“You’re back,” he said.

She smiled, set the papers down on the coffee table. “Just got in.”

He pulled up his legs, making room for her on the other end of the couch. “Sit, bella. I missed you today.”

She lowered herself to the couch and lifted his feet into her lap. He’d used the term of endearment often when she was a teenager still reeling from the death of their parents. His kindness had appeared more often then, and they’d spent every Friday night ordering in Chinese and watching movies, always her choice. He’d been indulgent and tender with her. Had made her feel safe at a time when feeling safe was next to impossible.

She rested her hands on his feet, still in her lap. “You can always come with me, you know.”

She said it in spite of the fact that she couldn’t imagine spending that kind of time with Primo anymore. Wandering the flea market, laughing over the ridiculously expensive wedding gifts at Tiffany… it all seemed beyond him now. A world that existed on a shore far from the island of Primo’s madness.

His transformation from protective older brother had been so subtle she hadn’t noticed the breadth of it until it was too late. She hadn’t been a child when he’d taken over her care. Had known even then he was getting into some shady activity.

But it had been for her. For them.

He’d struggled to support them at first, and she’d been too willing to look the other way, to make excuses for him and what he was doing in the interest of her own survival. Her worry had been overshadowed by relief that they could pay the rent without worry, that there was always food in the fridge, that she could afford to go to college. Going to school in the city and living at home instead of the dorms hadn’t even felt like a sacrifice.

The four years she’d spent studying, majoring in psychology, had made it easy to ignore the implications of their increasingly lavish lifestyle. Before she knew it, she’d graduated and Primo had moved them to the luxury apartment downtown. By then Malcolm had already been on the scene, her place as Primo’s number one confidant usurped by a man even Primo seemed to know little about.

“I had work to do,” he said, glancing at his chest as if he’d just remembered the papers he’d been reading when he fell asleep.

“I set them on the coffee table,” she said. “They were on their way to the floor.”

“Did you read them?”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes and her heart clutched in her chest. She knew the expression well. It meant that the switch inside him was on the verge of flipping. That he was perilously close to morphing from her brother Primo to Primo the erratic and dangerous criminal.

She suspected bipolar disorder, and possibly a personality disorder. She’d tried to suggest the benefits of professional help during his more vulnerable and honest moments, but they were always met with a breathtaking anger she recognized as denial. There was no point in having the conversation under those circumstances; people who didn’t want help rarely benefitted from having it pushed on them unless they were hospitalized against their will.

And that was something she could never do to him.

“I just glanced at them when I put them down,” she said. “Why are you looking at maps of the city?”

He seemed to relax back into the sofa. “It’s business, bella. Don’t worry.”

She hesitated, not wanting to break the peace that felt increasingly fragile between them for reasons she couldn’t decipher.

“I do worry," she finally said.

He met her eyes across the gray light of the living room. “Don’t.”

She searched her mind for the words that would explain without setting him off.

“I know what we do isn’t legal.” Her use of the pronoun wasn’t an accident. She might not commit the crimes, but she did more than look the other way when they were committed. She provided support and shelter to the organization that allowed for their perpetuation, for the man who commanded they be done. “I just don’t want to lose you, Primo.”

She held her breath, exhaled in relief when he reached for her hand. “Nothing will happen, Ari. Everything is under control.”

“Don’t you ever miss the old days?” she asked him. “The nights when we ate ramen and scrounged change from the sofa for ice cream?”

His eyes turned steely. “No.”

She swallowed her unease and looked around the living room, her eyes skimming the expensive real estate, the wall of windows with a multimillion-dollar view of the city, the designer furnishings.

“I just want you to know that I don’t need all of this,” she said. “You’re my brother. All that matters to me is you.”

“But it's a good life we’ve made, isn’t it?” Pride was evident in his voice.

“Of course. I would have been lost without you all these years, Primo. You know how grateful I am.”

He squeezed her hand. “There is no gratitude between us. We’re family.”

She smiled. “Always. I’ve just been thinking…”

“What is it?”

“We have money now, don’t we?” she asked. “Money set aside?”

His expression grew guarded. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“I know,” she said. “But what if we put it into something legitimate? A restaurant or real estate or some other business.”

“We have a business.”

“I know we do.” She said it quickly, walking the tightrope between his moods. “But if we went into something legitimate, I wouldn’t worry so much about you.”

“We don’t have to worry about the law,” he said. “You know that.”

She did. There were plenty of police officers and detectives, even a judge, on the Fiore payroll. But there were never any guarantees, and as much as she worried about the law, Malcolm had become an even bigger concern in the days since her strange conversation with him at the club.

“You’ve done a wonderful job of protecting us,” she said. “But it isn’t only the law I’m worried about.”

There was a long moment when he seemed to weigh her words. Then he sat up, rose to his feet, paced to the window.

“Why do you do this, bella?” he asked softly, his back still turned to her.

She stood, crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know his friendship means a lot to you,” she said. “I understand that. I just worry that he’s reckless. That he pushes you to do things that are dangerous for us all.”

“You don’t think I make my own decisions?”

His voice had turned cold. A warning sign if there ever was one. But it was too late now. She knew from experience that he wouldn’t let her back away from the argument now that she’d started it.

“Of course you do,” she said. “But Malcolm is your underboss. That carries weight, and I don’t think he shows your level of wisdom in making decisions.”

It was a gamble. Sometimes stroking Primo’s ego worked.

Other times it just made everything worse.

He turned to face her. “If I’m so wise, you would trust me.”

“I do,” she said. “You know I do.”

“No.” He shook his head, and a trace of childhood petulance settled behind the mask of his adulthood. “If you did, you wouldn’t question my decisions.”

She sighed. “I trust you, Primo. It’s Malcolm I don’t trust.”

“They’re one and the same. If you question Malcolm, you’re questioning me.” He pushed past her and she reached out to touch his arm. He shook her off, turned around, his eyes flashing. “Don’t do it again. Please don’t do it again.”

She watched him leave the room, trying to ignore the feeling that it was a very real warning.

One that would bring very real consequences.