Chapter Three

Damain's POV

The rays of the morning sun had sharp shadows crossing the mahogany polished table and I looked at the faces of my board directors. Not only were they business partners, they were the creators of my legitimate empire, the men who assisted in making blood money into legitimate means of revenue.

"The European markets are ripe for expansion," Harrison, my head of international operations, was saying. His PowerPoint slides showed projected profits that would make most Fortune 500 companies weep with envy. "Our hotel chains in London and Paris are performing beyond expectations, and the art acquisition business is opening doors we never imagined."

Art acquisition. The irony wasn't lost on me. Some of the world's most valuable paintings now hung in my private collection, acquired through methods that would make auction houses very uncomfortable. But money had a way of washing away inconvenient questions about provenance.

"What about the shipping routes through the Mediterranean?" asked Victoria Chen, my logistics coordinator. Her slight frame concealed one of the most ruthless minds I'd ever encountered. "The regulatory changes in Italy could impact our... alternative cargo manifests."

I leaned back in my leather chair, fingers steepled as I considered the options. Expansion meant exposure, but staying stagnant meant eventual death in our world. The families that didn't grow were the families that got consumed by those who did.

"The key is diversification," I said finally. "We can't put all our resources into one region or one method. We need multiple streams, multiple backup plans." I paused, thinking of the Torrino family's recent aggression. "Because our competitors are getting bolder."

That's when my office door opened without the customary knock.

Marcus, my personal assistant, never interrupted board meetings unless someone was dead or dying. The tension in his shoulders told me this wasn't good news as he approached my chair.

He leaned down, his voice barely a whisper against my ear. "Antonio Russo on line three. Says it's urgent."

Antonio Russo. The name sparked immediate interest. It had been months since the Russo family started circling the edges of my territory and testing boundaries and probing weaknesses. Antonio had a daughter who supposedly was an art prodigy of some sort which is ironical given the location of the night.

I stood smoothly, not letting my expression betray the shift in my attention. "Gentlemen, ladies, please continue without me. I'll be back momentarily."

The boardroom was not airtight and secure as was the private office next to it and this was the sort of office where I would be able to do a touch of business which would never show in the company's books. I pressed the flashing button of the phone and answered.

"Russo." I kept my voice neutral, giving nothing away.

"Moretti." His voice carried the strain of a man who'd had a very bad night. "We need to meet."

Interesting. Antonio Russo wasn't the type to ask for meetings unless he was desperate or dying. Possibly both.

"I don't recall having anything to discuss with you," I replied, already calculating what could have driven him to make this call.

"The Torrinos hit us last night. Hard." There was raw anger in his voice now, the kind that made men do stupid things. "They burned our west coast shipment and killed half my crew. Not that it is a matter of territory now, they are attempting to exterminate us altogether."

I smiled, at which he did not see it. The Torrino's family were my useful idiots in the larger game, and they unwittingly drove a wedge between smaller families as I gained power. But if they were getting too aggressive, too successful, they might outlive their usefulness.

"And this affects me how?" I asked.

"Because you're next on their list." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I have intelligence that says they're planning to move against you within the month. They want to control everything from Brooklyn to Manhattan."

Now we were getting somewhere. I'd suspected Vincent Torrino had ambitions beyond his capabilities, but confirmation was valuable.

"Assuming you're telling the truth," I said, "what exactly are you proposing?"

"An alliance. Full partnership. Shared resources, coordinated strikes, unified front." He paused, and I could hear him taking a deep breath. "I'm willing to offer something that would make this arrangement... permanent."

The word hung in the air like bait on a hook. In our world, permanent arrangements usually involve either death or marriage. Since Antonio was clearly trying to avoid the first option, that left only one possibility.

"Go on."

"My daughter Isabella. Twenty-three years old, educated, beautiful. An arranged marriage would bind our families together in a way that business contracts can't."

His daughter. I'd seen photos in the intelligence files, dark hair, striking green eyes, the kind of face that would photograph well for society pages. More importantly, she represented legitimacy, the kind of respectability that would help my transition into completely legal operations.

I let the silence stretch, knowing it would make him sweat. Desperate men made better deals.

"The ViewArt Gallery," I said finally. "Tonight's exhibition. Nine o'clock, private dining room. Come alone, except for one advisor."

"Done. But Moretti—"

I hung up before he could finish whatever plea or threat he'd been about to make. Let him wonder about my intentions for a few more hours.

Walking back into the boardroom, I found my board still deep in discussion about market penetration strategies. How fitting.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, reclaiming my seat. "I believe I've just found our expansion opportunity."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of profit projections and logistics planning. But my mind was elsewhere, calculating the angles of this new development. An arranged marriage to Isabella Russo would give me access to their East Coast connections while providing the perfect cover for my continuing operations. Plus, it would send a clear message to families like the Torrinos, I was no longer just a player in this game. I was becoming the house.

Seven o'clock.

The ViewArt Gallery was packed with New Yorks elite, politicians, socialites, business people, criminals all mixing and mingling in the type of choreographed arrangements which were the hallmark of high society. Here the borderline between legit and illegit money was dissolved to such an extent, that this place would be ideal to conduct a business deal tonight.

Crystal chandeliers spread the warm light on paintings which are more expensive than most houses. Waiters in starched white uniforms mingled with champagne and canapes, and their polite smiles did not give way even when they saw the face of an offender on the FBI wanted list.

I passed with practised assurance among the crowd, enjoyed a bit of chatter with my man-of-the-people judges whom I had been instrumental in getting elected, and my businessmen to whom I had lent a helping hand. It was my world, not the back-alley get together and shoot out in the warehouses like my father used to do, it was something much more advanced and infinitely more deadly.

A discrete inscription that identified the door as only staff-accessible was adjacent to the door leading to the private dining room. The interior had deep burgundy walls and dim lighting that had the feel of an exclusive gentleman club. And Antonio Russo was waiting already, with a man beside him, whom I recognised as his second-in-command, Marco Benedetti.

Antonio looked like hell. His left shoulder was professionally bandaged, and there were dark circles under his eyes that spoke of a sleepless night and painful decisions. Good. Desperation would make him more agreeable.

"Russo." I nodded to both men before taking my seat across from them. "You look like you've had better days."

"Let's skip the pleasantries, Moretti." Antonio's voice was tight with barely controlled anger. "I'm here to make you an offer that benefits us both."

"I'm listening."

For the next hour, we negotiated like generals planning a war. Antonio laid out everything, the extent of the Torrino’s threat, his family's resources, the strategic advantages of an alliance. The arranged marriage proposal came with detailed discussions of territory sharing, ammunition supplies, and coordinated strikes against mutual enemies.

I let him talk, occasionally asking pointed questions that demonstrated my knowledge of his operations. When he mentioned his daughter's education and refinement, I nodded as if impressed. When he described the social advantages of the match, I pretended to consider them carefully.

In reality, I'd made my decision the moment he'd mentioned Isabella's name on the phone.

"Your daughter," I said finally. "I assume she's been consulted about this arrangement?"

Antonio's smile was thin. "Isabella understands her duty to the family. She'll be an asset to your public image and a valuable partner in legitimate business ventures."

She'll be whatever I need her to be, I thought but didn't say aloud.

"Very well," I extended my hand across the table. "We have a deal, Russo. Full alliance, shared resources, and your daughter becomes my wife within three months."

His handshake was firm, sealing both our fates and his daughter's.

We shared expensive whiskey and talked strategy for another hour, our voices low and our smiles genuine. By the time we rejoined the main gallery exhibition, we were laughing like old friends instead of former enemies.

The party was rocking and I felt the need for some breath before getting back into the act of socializing. The balcony in the gallery presented a view of the lights in the city which offers a moment of respite to turn over the events of the evening.

I reached into my pocket and brought out an encrypted phone and was dialing a previously memorized number.

The voice that answered was professional, emotionless. "Sir?"

"Stand down," I said quietly, watching the traffic flow through the streets below. "Don't engage. Wait for my call."

"Copy that. What about the package?"

I thought of Giuseppe's daughter, the eight-year-old girl who'd been sleeping peacefully in one of my safe houses for the past thirty-six hours. She'd served her purpose, motivating her father to eliminate Isabella Russo as I'd planned. But now Isabella was going to be my wife instead of my problem.

"Release the package unharmed. Make it look like she wandered off and got lost. Have her found three blocks from her school tomorrow morning."

"Understood."

I hung up and put the phone back in my jacket. The sacrifice of Giuseppe was necessary but his daughter was going to live to see another day. I was not a beast, I was a business man who knew the worth of taking advantage of situations.

The laughter and talk came floating out of the gallery as I re-entered the party, already making plans for my next moves in this complex game.

Isabella Russo was completely unaware of what she was getting into and had no clue that her life was just auctioned to the highest bidder.

But she would learn soon enough.