Chapter 2

I stopped the recording and tore open the black envelope.

The council's summons, the formal petition, a list of terms. Leo's signature was an elegant cursive, a far cry from the little boy who used to tremble behind me. Juliana's family crest was stamped in the bottom right corner, an arrogant flourish.

The claim: 100% control of the territory our father had left.

As for the nearly two million dollars I had fronted to support him, there was not a single word.

I slapped the petition onto the table and used the chipped glass to hold down a corner. Then I knelt and pushed aside a loose floorboard behind the bar.

Beneath it was a tin box with my father's old things. It held a small-caliber pistol. He'd told me it wasn't for shooting people. It was for knowing that when you had no other way out, there was always one last resort.

I took out the ledger, the phone, and the receipts, and placed them on the bar.

At the other end of the tavern, the dockworker was still snoring. I walked over, took twenty dollars from his pocket, tucked it back into his shirt, and shook him awake. "Mickey, go home and sleep it off."

He mumbled a curse and stumbled out the door.

"Hold down the fort," I told the bartender. "Got some business to take care of."

"Got it, boss. You don't look so good."

"I'm not dead yet."

I pushed the door open. The street's neon lights flickered uncertainly, the air thick with the acrid smell of motor oil, weed, and rotting meat.

I walked through the streets I knew like the back of my hand, past the underground casinos, the strip clubs, the back-alley clinics. I ignored the familiar faces I passed along the way.

At the end of the street, I pushed open a steel door to a basement.

"Jason," I said, tossing the iron box on the table. "I need some copies made."

"Big job?"

"All the bills. Three copies of everything."

Jason flipped to the first page. He saw the blood-stained photograph. He looked up at me, swallowed, and didn't dare say another word. The copy machine began to hum. Yellowed pages spat out, some with words blurred by my sweat and someone else's blood.

While I waited, I opened the burner phone. I searched my messages for the word "money."

"I'm twenty grand short. The dirty cop raised his price for staying quiet."

"I need to wear Prada to the gala. Send the money, quick."

"I got into some trouble. Need eighty grand to pay off this gold digger."

"…"

Six years of being bled dry, condensed into a screen of tightly packed numbers. I remained expressionless, taking screenshots of each one and saving them.

"Copies are done," Jason said, handing me a thick file folder. There was a hint of worry in his eyes. "Maeve, what are you doing with all this?"

"To set the record straight," I said calmly.

Leaving the basement, I didn't return to the tavern. I got into my old pickup, its paint peeling in sheets, and drove out of the decaying neighborhood. I had somewhere to be.

The air conditioning in the family's underground bank was blasting. I got goosebumps the moment I walked in. The kid at the counter stood up, a little flustered, a cross necklace hanging on his chest.

"I need a printout of every transfer to Europe I've made through here for the last six years," I said. "Everything. The account name is Leo Conti."

The kid looked troubled. He typed a few things into his computer. "Maeve, six years of records is a lot of small transactions. It'll take a while, and the printout will be long…"

"I don't care how long it is." I pressed the old family signet ring I wore onto the counter. "I'd appreciate it."

While I waited, I sat on the cold leather sofa, watching people come and go from the back rooms.

Some came in with grease-stained hands to pay this month's protection fee. Some begged in low voices for a few more days to pay their interest. A young girl was forced to sign a contract, binding her to a club to pay off her debt.

In this swamp, everyone had their own ledger, everyone fighting to survive.

An hour later, the young man came over, holding a thick stack of papers, sweat beading on his forehead. "It's over three hundred pages. The manager said the printing fee…"

"Put it on my tab. I'll clear it at the beginning of next month," I said, taking the papers. They were still warm from the printer, but the edges were sharp.

The dense pages of overseas transfers felt like a silent mockery. September 2017, two hundred thousand dollars; October 2017, one hundred twenty thousand dollars; December 2017, thirty-two thousand dollars…

Page after page.

I flipped to the last one. April 2023, two hundred thousand dollars. In the memo column, I had added my own note: "Monaco Yacht Club." It was for the party he had wheedled me for, and I had bowed my head to the loan sharks here, taking on a high-interest loan.

I stuffed the damning statements and the iron box into my backpack and zipped it shut. The bag was heavy in my arms, but the weight was reassuring.

It was completely dark by the time I left the basement. That summer night, the city was split by neon into a murky crimson and a dark violet. I leaned against the door of my pickup, took out my phone, and sent a message to Leo.

"I got the summons. I'll be at the arbitration meeting next week."

Almost instantly, he replied. "Maeve, have you found someone to back you up? Juliana said if you're willing to give in and hand over the territory, she can be generous and leave you an out."

Looking at the words on the screen, I suddenly remembered a stormy night six years ago. After our father was buried, it was just the two of us. Leo was curled up on the old leather sofa, hugging his knees, his eyes swollen like peaches. I poured half a glass of warm whiskey and brought it to him.

"Have a drink. It'll help you sleep," I said.

He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "Maeve, I'm scared. Are the loan sharks going to come back and kill us?"

I sat down next to her, wrapped my arm firmly around her shoulders, and held her close. "Don't be scared. As long as I'm here, no one can touch you."

The whiskey went cold. Neither of us drank it.

The next day, I started negotiating with the loan sharks alone, keeping order at the tavern, and dealing with the ambitious underbosses from other neighborhoods who were circling like vultures. Meanwhile, he locked himself in his room, packing his bags for Europe, and didn't come out for three days.

My phone vibrated again. It was a text from an unknown number. "Miss Conti, this is Juliana Vance. Perhaps we should have a private chat about your brother's price before we go to war."

I deleted the message without a second thought.

I found the number in my contacts I hadn't called in years: Nico. My father's most trusted right-hand man.

The phone rang three times before he picked up.

"Maeve?" Nico's voice was gravelly with surprise. "A rare call. What made you think of me?"

"Nico," my voice was so calm it even surprised me. "I need your help."