Damian parked the motorcycle he’d found in the garage around the corner from Lucky Bar and paid a guy on the street a hundred U.S. dollars to watch it, promising him a hundred more when he got back. It didn’t mean the bike would still be there, but if he made it out of this alive, replacing Locke’s motorcycle would be a small price to pay.

He’d given strict instructions to Sarut not to leave Aria alone under any circumstance. Damian had also given him instructions for getting Aria out of Thailand if he didn’t return alive, telling him to get Aria to the charter terminal in Chiang Mai immediately and to see her on the Cavallo jet himself.

Then he’d headed into the city on the motorcycle.

He considered making a trip around the block before entering the bar, but if it was a Thai Mob stronghold he didn’t want to do anything to alert Juntasa’s men of his presence.

Damian wasn’t expecting a warm welcome.

The city was beautiful at night: lights strung across the trees in outdoor restaurants, motorbikes and scooters whizzing past, the smell of cooking fish and frying oil making his stomach grumble in spite of the dinner he’d just eaten with Aria.

He wished that they were here for some other reason — any other reason. He wanted to hold Aria’s hand as they walked the streets, stopping to perch on chairs in the outdoor markets like any other tourists.

Maybe someday.

He navigated through the throng of pedestrian traffic with his head down and entered a narrow street paved with stone. Lucky Bar was at the end, across from another establishment called The Yellow Bar.

Some of the bars and restaurants on the street had outdoor tables and chairs, and Damian maneuvered around them as he made his way to the end of the street.

The crowd thinned as he got closer to Lucky Bar, and he wondered if the locals knew it was controlled by Juntasa’s men or if everyone in the vicinity was picking up on some kind of vibration that screamed DANGER.

Unlike some of the bars he’d passed that were open to the street without a door to mark their entrance, Lucky Bar was fronted with a dull red door.

He hesitated only a moment before pushing his way inside.

The place was small and narrow. A room at the front led into a narrow walkway next to the bar. Beyond it, he could make out a slightly bigger and darker room, two pool tables in the center, their green felt like a flag planted in the sea of people blocking his view.

He took a moment to look around, scanning the crowd for Juntasa or Gatti before he made his way past the bar to the back room.

He’d reached the end of the bar when he spotted Gatti sitting at a table, a bottle of beer in his hand, a young Thai man across the table from him.

Then he saw Krit Juntasa in the corner, surrounded by men in leather jackets, smoke rising from their cigarettes as they surveyed Damian through watchful eyes.

Malcolm reached inside his jacket, but Damian walked past him, stopping in front of Juntasa’s table.

He half-expected a bullet to hit him in the back, but apparently even Malcolm Gatti wasn’t reckless enough to fire a weapon in Juntasa’s establishment without his permission.

Damian nodded at Juntasa, making sure to keep his hands visible as he spoke.

“Thank you for allowing me in your fine establishment,” Damian said, feeling like he was approaching a tribal chief. “I bring only respect and regards to your organization.”

Juntasa took a drag on his cigarette before putting it out in the ashtray in front of him. “I know why you’ve come, Damian Cavallo.”

Damian nodded. “I seek only your blessing.”

It wasn’t entirely true. He would gun Malcolm down and take out as many of the other men as possible if that’s what it took to make sure Aria was safe even after his death.

But he didn’t want it to go down that way.

“Ours is a family business.” Juntasa’s English was impeccable, laced with a British accent that spoke of an overseas education. “All of the men at this table are my family.”

Was Juntasa making a point about Malcolm trying to buy his way in? A point about Malcolm’s disrespect?

“I understand family,” Damian said. “And loyalty.”

Juntasa studied him. Damian forced himself not to reach for his gun when Juntasa rose to his feet. He waved a hand at the men seated around the table and they all stood.

Half of the men started for the door, followed by Juntasa, who was then followed by the other half of his men. On their way past Malcolm’s table, one of the men reached into Gatti’s jacket and removed his weapon.

Damian watched as they made their way toward the front of the bar, Juntasa secreted between them like an ancient king.

It was only then that Damian realized how quiet the bar had become. Every single person had somehow left — even the bartender.

It was just him and Malcolm now, a strand of multicolored lights blinking into the empty rooms.

Malcolm remained with his back to Damian and took a drink from the bottle in front of him, emptying it and setting it back on the table.

Damian drew his weapon as Gatti stood to face him.

“The Thai value respect,” Damian said. “You might say it’s something we have in common.”

He waited for Gatti to reach for another weapon, to rush him in an attempt to knock him off his feet.

Instead an uncanny smile rose to his lips. He raised his arms at his sides, holding them out like he was the victim of an invisible crucifixion, closing his eyes.

Damian was transfixed as an expression that could only be described as peaceful settled onto Gatti’s features.

For a split second, Damian hesitated, the unexpected surrender throwing him. Then he saw Aria’s face in the hospital, heard the beating heart of their child.

He fired a round into Gatti’s forehead, watched as surprise lit his eyes in the second before his body dropped to the floor.

Damian quickly covered the distance between them. He wanted to tell Malcolm the bullet was for every time he’d disrespected Aria, for all the years he’d manipulated Primo, taking advantage of his mental illness for money and power. He wanted to tell him it was for his child, who deserved to grow up without the specter of someone like Malcolm hovering over his or her life.

But it was too late. Malcolm Gatti was already dead.