Chapter 1

The first thing my brother did after returning from his studies in Europe was drag me before the family council.

I worked myself to the bone in the rundown bar our Capo father left me, doing anything to pay for his life in Europe. He always promised over the phone, "Just one last time. I'll pay you back once I marry rich."

But today, a summons from the family arrived at his request, demanding I be stripped of my birthright and forced to hand over the bar and our territory.

This time, I wouldn't indulge him. I glanced at the photo he sent, a brazen shot of him with a woman whose name carried weight, then turned and pried open the hidden compartment beneath the bar.

"Maeve, did you get the summons from the family council?"

Leo's voice came through the receiver. He sounded like someone I didn't know. Cold and arrogant, a high society playboy. A tone I had never heard from him before.

I was standing in the family tavern. I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear and scrubbed hard at the dried blood and vomit on the bar.

At the other end of the bar, a dockworker, drunk into a stupor, was snoring on the table, drool pooling by his mouth.

The tavern's air conditioning had been out for a month. The oppressive July heat, the stench of stale smoke, and the sour tang of stale beer clung to my skin. Sweat slid down from my temples, dripping onto the rim of a glass.

"What summons?" I paused, tossing the stained rag into the sink.

The line was silent for two seconds. Then came a faint, cold laugh. It was soft, but it scraped against my eardrum like a razor.

"The petition to revoke your inheritance rights. The messenger should have delivered it to that shithole bar of yours by now," Leo said, his voice clear, like he was reading a death warrant.

"I'm back in New Roma. With Juliana. She's the Valenti boss's daughter and their Chief Legal Counsel. She says that according to the old ways, your complete control over Dad's territory and businesses is illegitimate. I'm here to take back what's mine."

The whiskey glass in my hand slammed onto the bar. The shatter of glass was piercing in the empty tavern.

"Leo," my voice was so hoarse it sounded like it belonged to someone else. "Are you insane?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Don't make this ugly, Maeve." His voice softened slightly, but it was a transparently false pity. "We'll see each other at the arbitration meeting. Juliana says doing things by the book is better for everyone."

The line went dead.

I stood frozen. The shouts of drunks and the sharp crack of pool balls faded. Everything sounded like it was coming from underwater, muffled and distant.

Six years ago, my father died in a street shootout. He was a Capo in the Conti family. After he died, all he left behind was this barely-scraping-by tavern and a few dilapidated streets on the verge of being swallowed by rivals.

Just three days after the funeral, Leo, his eyes red from crying, gripped my hand tightly. "Maeve, I want to go to Europe. I don't want to rot in this neighborhood. This isn't what Dad would have wanted for me."

I was twenty-five that year. I stayed to run the tavern Dad left us, handling the stock, mixing drinks, and collecting protection all by myself.

"Is the money enough?" I asked.

"To bribe the right people, build a new identity, and cover art school tuition, I'll need a couple million at least." Leo lowered his eyes. "I know Dad's turf is our safety net, but…"

"Go," I cut her off. I would handle this mess.

I figured I could tough it out. I never expected him to stay away for six years. While he lived the high life in Europe, he always had an excuse.

"Maeve, I'm short on cash. Everyone else is throwing parties on yachts, and I can't even afford a ticket to a gala."

"Maeve, I want to get on the board of that gallery. I need to bribe some people."

"Maeve, I want to move to a penthouse. My current neighborhood isn't safe, and those rich kids will look down on me."

He'd drained the inheritance dry.

No, it was far more than that. Every penny I scraped together, from waking up at four in the morning for shipments to scrubbing the bar at two a.m., I wired to him, bit by bit.

Six years. A total of one million, eight hundred sixty-eight thousand dollars. It even included the high-interest loans I took from the family's loan sharks.

I recorded every secret payment in a ledger I kept in a rusty iron box. At the bottom of the box, lay the only photo we had from our father's funeral. In the picture, he was crying on my shoulder. One of my arms was around him, the other clutching our father's old pocket watch.

The wooden door of the tavern was pushed open. The bartender peeked his head in. "Boss, the family's messenger is here. Dropped this off." He held out a black envelope. "Everyone's staring."

He handed me a heavy envelope sealed with a wax stamp. He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eyes. In our world, a summons like this was a life-or-death trial.

"Watch the door," I said, taking the envelope. The imitation leather felt cool to the touch.

It was heavy. I didn't open it. I turned and walked to the scarred mahogany booth at the very back. On the table was an overturned, chipped shot glass. This was my father's glass. He never finished his drink the day he was killed.

My phone buzzed. It was from Leo.

A photo. He was in a private club booth with a woman in a bespoke suit and slicked-back hair.

Leo wore a tight silk shirt, his hair perfectly styled. The woman was sprawled on the sofa, her hand was large on the top of his thigh, her fingers digging into the thin silk. She wore a triumphant smile.

Beneath the photo was a line of text: "A formal introduction: my fiancée, Juliana. The Valenti family heiress and their Chief Legal Counsel. She says legally, my case is a slam dunk. Hand over the bar and the territory willingly. Don't make her use her legal team to crush you."

I stared at the hand gripping his thigh, my eyes locked on it for a long time.

Then I knelt, pried open a hidden floorboard under the bar, and pulled out the iron box. I flipped to the last page of the ledger. The last transfer was three months ago: two hundred thousand dollars. The memo read: Monaco Yacht Club.

That day, he had pleaded with me on the phone, breathless with excitement. "Maeve, there are too many men around Juliana. I have to throw the most lavish party to keep her. Please, this is the last time."

I had just paid the next month's protection, and I only had a few grand left in my account. I went to the loan shark.

"Alright," I had said.

I still remember the sound of his cheering on the other end of the line.

I closed the ledger. I took a burner phone from my pocket, the one I only used to contact him. I opened the voicemail. I had hundreds of recordings saved there.

I played the one from three months ago.

"Maeve, you're the best! I swear this is the last time I'll ask for money! Once I marry into the Valenti family, I'll pay back every cent from the past few years! I'm going to get you out of that smelly bar and give you a real life!"

His voice echoed in the empty booth, sweet, vibrant, and full of lies.