He was the most feared man in New York. A ghost who spoke only in whispers of violence. Alessandro Caruso, the capo of the city, was a man no one knew. He was surrounded by soldiers. But he was utterly alone. Every rival, every cop, and every so-called friend waited for him to break.
And in the dead of night, he finally did. Whispering a desperate secret in his native Italian. He thought no one could understand his confession. He was wrong. The barista cleaning the corner, the girl he’d never noticed, stopped and replied in his mother tongue.
The air in the private penthouse office above Cafe Veloce was so thick with tension it was practically solid. Aleandro Sandro Caruso stood with his back to the room, staring through the one-way glass at the bustling New York street below. He was a man built from shadows and silence. At 34, he was the youngest capo the Caruso family had ever known, and he ruled with an unnerving stillness that his predecessors, with their loud suits and louder tempers, had lacked.
His suit was a bespoke charcoal gray, the knot of his black tie perfect. Not a single dark hair was out of place. To his men, he was an enigma, a boss who read financial reports more than he racked shotgun slides, who preferred icy vodka to Keianti, and who most terrifyingly never ever raised his voice. In the room behind him sat two men.
Marcus Thorne, his consiliary, was a tall, unnervingly pale man of Irish German descent. The only non-Italian in Aleandro’s inner circle. He was a creature of logic and law. His presence a sterile balm on the family’s raw edges. The other man was Mateo Visco, Aleandro’s cousin and under boss. Mateo was everything Aleandro was not. Hotheaded, flashy, quick to laugh, and quicker to anger.
He paced the Persian rug, his custom-made shoes scuffing the silk. “Zandro, you have to let me handle this,” Mateo insisted, his voice a low growl. “Patrick Ryan is spitting on our name, hitting our shipments, poaching our bookies. He thinks because you’re quiet, you’re weak. Let me send him a message, a real one.” Aleandro didn’t move.
He watched a yellow cab speed through an intersection. Marcus adjusted his cufflinks. A real message, Mateo, will bring the full weight of the FBI down on our operations. Our legitimate fronts are what fund this family, not the streets. The Ryan problem must be handled with surgical precision, not a sledgehammer. Surgical? We’re surgeons now, Marcus.
We’re butchers. He slightes us. We cut him down. Matteo spat. Aleandro finally turned. His eyes, the color of burnt espresso, landed on his cousin. The room temperature dropped 10°. “No,” Aleandro said. The word was soft, but it carried the finality of a gavel. “Sandro,” Mateo began. “No.” Aleandro walked to his desk. A massive imposing block of black marble. He tapped a file.
The Ryans aren’t the problem. They’re a symptom. We have a leak. A bad one. Our last three high yield shipments were intercepted. Not just hit. Intercepted. They knew the roots, the manifests, the security details. Ryan isn’t smart enough to get that on his own. Matteo stiffened.
A rat in my cruise in our house. Aleandro corrected him, his voice dangerously smooth. Find it. Find who is selling us to the Irish until you do. You do nothing. You don’t look at Ryan. You don’t speak his name. You find the traitor. Matteo’s face flushed with anger, but he nodded, biting back whatever violent retort was on his tongue. As you wish, Kapo.
He turned and left the office, slamming the heavy oak door behind him. Marcus stood. He’s a loyal dog, Aleandro. But he’s a dumb one. He’ll tear the organization apart looking for this rat, accusing everyone. I know, Aleandro said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The first crack in his composure. Let him stir the pot.
The rat will get nervous. Leave me. Marcus nodded, his expression unreadable, and exited, closing the door with a soft, respectful click. Alone, Alessandro let out a breath he felt he’d been holding for a week. The silence of the office was deafening. He was surrounded by men who swore, but he trusted none of them.
He walked back to the window. The pressure was immense. His father had left him an empire, but it was an empire riddled with his father’s oldworld mistakes and now a new world betrayal. He sank into his leather chair and the mask of the capo fell away, leaving only the man.
He was tired, he was isolated, and he was angry. He leaned forward, boring his face in his hands, and the words came out of him in a guttural, desperate whisper, not in the clean, sterile English he used for business, but in the rough, passionate, Neapolitan dialect of his childhood. He whispered to the empty room, “My God, I can’t trust anyone.
My father left me a nest of vipers. How can I find him? How can I?” He trailed off, the frustration and loneliness choking him. He felt like a king sitting on a throne of knives. Downstairs in the cafe Velo, the evening rush was over. Amelia Hayes was wiping down the chrome espresso machine, the smell of burnt coffee and lemon zest clinging to her apron.
At 24, she was painfully unremarkable, and she clung to that anonymity. brown hair pulled into a severe bun, no makeup, plain black uniform. She was just another face in a city full of them, saving every penny from this job and her night gig cleaning offices. The cafe was owned by Aleandro Caruso’s organization, a fact that was New York’s worstkept secret.
The baristas knew it, the cops on the beat knew it, and the customers who liked the thrill of drinking coffee owned by the mob knew it. Amelia just kept her head down. She needed the money and they paid well in cash on time. Her shift ended at 1000 p.m., but the cafe’s manager, a nervous man named S, had asked her to do a deep clean of the upstairs private elevator and the hallway leading to the boss’s office.
It was a rare request, usually handled by a dedicated cleaning crew, but they’d supposedly been fired. Amelia agreed. It was an extra $100. She rode the silent keyed elevator up, her metal bucket and cleaning caddy rattling softly. She stepped out into a hallway that was more opulent than any apartment she’d ever been in.
Marble floors, dark wood paneling, oil paintings of griml looking men. At the end of the hall was the single imposing door to Aleandro’s office. She began her work, mopping the marble floor, working her way backward toward the elevator. She was quiet, meticulous. She was focused on the rhythm.
Dip, ring, swipe, repeat when she heard the door at the end of the hall slam. She froze, pressing herself against the wall. Matteo Viscovi stormed past her, his face thunderous, muttering curses in Italian. He didn’t even see her. He jabbed the elevator button and disappeared inside. A minute later, the consiliary, Marcus Thorne, exited.
He too barely glanced at her. He just looked thoughtful. He took the stairs. Amelia let out a shaky breath. She was supposed to be alone up here. She went back to her mopping, her heart hammering. She was just the help, invisible. That’s how she liked it. She reached the end of the hall near the boss’s door.
She was scrubbing a scuff mark near the threshold when she heard it. A voice from inside. It wasn’t the cold, flat English she’d heard him use on the rare occasions he passed through the cafe. This was different. It was rough, broken, and full of pain. It was the language she hadn’t heard spoken in 5 years. The language of her nona. Amelia’s handstilled on the mop.
She knew that dialect. It wasn’t the clean textbook Italian she’d learned in college. It was the messy emotional torrent of Naples, the city her grandmother had fled. he continued, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that seemed impossible for the man she’d seen. They are eating me alive. I am alone. Completely alone. Amelia’s heart achd.
She knew that feeling. She lived it every day. She thought of her younger brother, Leo, in the state-run medical facility. She thought of the mountain of debt, the specialist surgery he needed that she was saving for the crushing, suffocating weight of being the only one. She didn’t think. She didn’t plan.
The words left her mouth before her brain could stop them. A whisper almost as quiet as his. She murmured mostly to herself. You are not alone. Inside the office, Aleandro Caruso went rigid. The silence that followed her whisper was absolute. It was heavier and more terrifying than any of the gunfire she’d heard in movies.
Amelia clapped a hand over her own mouth, her eyes wide with panic. The caddy, the mop. She had to run. Before she could take a single step, the massive black door opened. Alessandro Caruso stood in the doorway, not as the composed Capo, but as a predator whose territory had been breached. His suit jacket was off. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his eyes, those dark, piercing eyes, were narrowed to slits. He scanned the hallway, and for the first time, he saw her. He didn’t see a barista.
He saw a threat. What did you say? His voice was a razor’s edge. Amelia’s blood ran cold. She shrank back, shaking her head. Nothing. I said nothing. I I was just cleaning Mr. Caruso. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. She fumbled with her mop bucket. He moved faster than she could have imagined. In two long strides, he was in the hall, his hand clamping around her upper arm. His grip was steel.
He wasn’t rough, but the sheer controlled power in his touch was paralyzing. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice dropping to that lethal quiet. “You spoke. You answered me.” He leaned in, his gaze burning into her. “In my language.” Amelia was trapped. She could feel the warmth of his hand through her thin uniform shirt.
She was terrifyingly aware of how large he was, how easily he could snap her in two. “I I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Look at me.” She refused, squeezing her eyes shut, her eyes snapped open, meeting his. “And in that instant, he knew.” “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Who sent you? Was it Ryan? The Falcone family? How long have you been listening? No, no one sent me. I’m a barista. I I’m Amelia Hayes. I just I heard you. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry. You speak Italian? It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. My My grandmother, Amelia whispered, tears welling in her eyes from sheer terror. My nona, she was from Naples.
She she raised me. She only spoke the dialect. I didn’t I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out. Aleandro stared at her, his mind racing. A barista. A quiet, plain-faced girl who looked like she’d faint if he raised his voice. A girl who had been 6 ft from his office door, listening to him admit his deepest vulnerabilities.
A girl who understood the one language he used when his guard was down. Was she the leak? Was this whole mousy barista act a cover? It was too perfect, too damned perfect. And yet her fear was real. He could smell it. It was the acrid, desperate scent of prey, not the controlled calm of a trained operative.
“You answered me,” he said again, his voice softer, more dangerous. “I said I was alone.” Amelia’s courage born of desperation sparked. “You sounded I don’t know. I just I know what it feels like to be the only one holding everything up.” The words were out before she could stop them.
She was talking about her brother, about her life, but he heard it as a mirror of his own. He released her arm, but he didn’t step back. He studied her, really looked at her. She wasn’t just furniture anymore. She was a person. A security risk. A possibility. Amelia Hayes, he said, testing the name. You’ve been working downstairs for 8 months. You have a second job cleaning offices in Midtown.
You live in a walk up in Queens. You have no record, no connections. Amelia’s blood froze. How? How do you know that? I know everything about everyone who works for me, he said simply. But my file on you says nothing about you speaking fluent Neapolitan. Why did you hide that? It’s not fluent and it’s not it’s not something I advertise. It was hers, my noners.
It’s private. She rubbed her arm where he had held it. Please, Mr. Caruso, I won’t tell anyone what I heard. I promise. I just want to go home. Aleandro turned and walked back into his office, leaving the door open. In here, it wasn’t a request. Amelia’s legs felt like cement. What? No, please. Now, Amelia.
She knew she had no choice. She was a mouse in a lion’s den, and the lion had just invited her in for dinner. heart hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it might break. She left her cleaning caddy in the hall and stepped across the threshold into the Capo’s office. The room was vast and dark, dominated by the black marble desk and the wall of glass.
It smelled of expensive leather, old books, and a faint trace of vodka. He was standing by the window again, his back to her. Close the door. She did. The click sounding like a cell lock. You understand what I said? He stated that I have a traitor in my house. I I heard you say you couldn’t trust anyone. She whispered. That’s all. You’re lying again. He turned. You understood everything. You understood the dialect.
That means you know the language of the old ways. the language of secrets. He walked toward her, circling her slowly like a shark. Amelia stood rigid, trying not to tremble. “This presents a problem,” he said, stopping in front of her. “You’re a liability. You’ve heard what no one else is supposed to hear. I should have you removed.
” Amelia’s breath hitched. “Please, I have a brother. He He needs me. I’m all he has. I swear on my Na’s grave, I will never repeat a word. Aleandro’s gaze was intense, analytical. He was weighing her. The brother detail filed itself away, a point of leverage. “No,” he said. “You won’t.
” He walked to his desk and pressed an intercom button. “Marcus, get up here now.” Amelia’s panic spiked. the consiliary, the cold, pale man. He was coming to get rid of her. She looked at the door, calculating. Don’t, Aleandro said, reading her mind. A moment later, Marcus Thorne entered the office, his eyes landing on Amelia with mild clinical surprise. “Boss, Ms.
Hayes is getting a promotion,” Alesandro said, his tone flat. Amelia and Marcus both blinked. Sir,” Marcus asked. She will no longer be a barista. Her second floor cleaning duties are also concluded. As of this moment, she is my personal assistant. She will work up here in this office. Her pay is quadrupled. She will be on call 24/7.
You will handle the paperwork. Find her a car. She’ll need it. Amelia’s head was spinning. What? No, I can’t. I don’t want. It wasn’t an offer. Aleandro cut her off. He walked to his private bar and poured two fingers of vodka into a crystal glass. You see, Amelia, you’re right. I can’t trust anyone. Mateo is a fool.
My capos are greedy. Marcus here. He doesn’t speak the language of my enemies. He turned to her, a chilling realization dawning on his face. But you do, he gestured to a small, isolated desk in the corner of the vast office beside a filing cabinet and a coffee machine. You’re not a liability anymore, Amelia. You’re an asset. You’re going to be my translator.
Marcus Thorne watched her, his expression carefully neutral. But a new calculating light had entered his eyes. A translator, sir? For what? Aleandro took a sip of his vodka. I have a meeting with the Falcone family tomorrow. The old man, Donato, refuses to speak English. He thinks it’s beneath him. My father always handled him.
Now I will. And Amelia, she’s going to sit in that meeting with me. Amelia looked at the desk, then at the two powerful, dangerous men. She had just gone from invisible to indispensable. You understand, Alessandro said, his voice dropping to a near whisper so Marcus couldn’t hear to quest an owna shelter that this is not a choice.
He was using her language, their language. I I have one condition, Amelia said, her voice shaking but finding a sliver of steel. Aleandro raised an eyebrow, amused by her audacity. Oh, my brother Leo, he’s at the St. Jude’s care facility. He’s sick. I need my evenings. I have to be able to see him. And I need my salary. All of it for his treatment.
Alessandro held her gaze. This was her weakness. This was what made her controllable. “You will have a car and drive her.” He said, “You can visit your brother every evening from 7 to 9. As for your salary, you’ll have more money than you know what to do with, so long as you are loyal.
He finished his vodka, the glass clicking as he set it down. Welcome to the family, Amelia. Your old life is over. Amelia’s old life didn’t just end. It was vaporized. The next morning, a black sedan, so polished it looked wet, was waiting outside her run-down queen’s apartment.
The driver, a mountain of a man named Anthony, simply nodded at her and opened the back door. The car smelled like new leather and gun oil. When she arrived at Cafe Veoce, she didn’t use the staff entrance. Anthony guided her to the private elevator. The carpo was waiting. The office was no longer just a room. It was her prison. Her small desk in the corner felt like an observation post. Aleandro handed her a new phone.
This is your only phone now, he’d said. He also handed her a thick file, all in Italian. The Falcone contracts. I need to know where they’re skimming. For the first week, Amelia lived in a state of controlled terror. She sat at her desk translating 18th century vineyard contracts and shipping manifests, her blood running cold at the casual criminality of it all.
She was an accessory. Alessandro, however, was a man of his word. At 6:45 p.m. every day, the black car was downstairs. Anthony would drive her to the care facility, wait outside for 2 hours, and drive her back to her empty apartment. Those two hours with Leo were the only part of her life that felt real.
Her brother was 19, but a degenerative neurological disorder had trapped him. He was weak, confined to a wheelchair, his speech slurred, but his mind was sharp. “Wow, Ames,” he’d slurred one night, looking at her new, expensive looking black blazer. Aleandro had given her a clothing allowance. “You represent me now. Stop dressing like a student.
It’s just a new role at the cafe. More corporate,” she lied. You look tired, Leo said, his hand finding hers. His grip was weak. Just working hard, Leo. For you, for the surgery, the Swiss clinic, he whispered. It was their dream. A specialist in Zurich who was pioneering a treatment. It cost half a million dollars.
“I’m getting closer,” she lied again, forcing a smile. She returned to the office that night after 900 p.m. She’d been told to come back as Alisandre was in a late meeting. When she entered, she found him not with his men, but with a young woman who looked remarkably like him. Same dark hair, same intense eyes, but with a warmth Amelia had never seen in him.
“Ah, you must be Amelia,” the woman said, standing up. I’m Sophia, Sandro’s sister. Amelia was taken aback. It’s nice to meet you, Sandro. She’s adorable. You didn’t tell me she was adorable, Sophia said, linking her arm with Amelia’s. He’s such a brute, isn’t he? I’m so glad he finally has someone normal in this office. All these gray-faced men. It’s so dreary. Aleandro watched them from his desk.
a rare faint smile on his lips. “Sophia, stop bothering my staff. She’s not staff. She’s a miracle,” Sophia said. “She’s the only one who can handle him.” Sophia turned to Amelia, her voice dropping. “He’s different.” “Since you’ve been here, he’s still well him, but he’s less haunted.” Amelia didn’t know what to say.
The real test had come two days into her new job, the meeting with Donato Falconee, a terrifying old man with eyes like a dead fish. They’d sat at a long table in a private dining room. So Donato had wheezed in Italian. This is the new Capo, a boy, a boy who doesn’t even respect the old ways. Alessandro sat perfectly still.
Tell him,” he said to Amelia in English, “that the old ways are what cost my father his life.” Amelia’s hands were shaking under the table. She translated her Neapolitan soft but precise. Donato Falcone’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at Amelia, then back at Aleandro, and cackled. He speaks through a girl, a pretty little sparrow.
“What’s next? You’ll have her fight for you, too?” Aleandro leaned forward. Tell him I am not my father. I will not be blinded by tradition. The shipping lanes are mine. He will honor the agreement or I will burn his ships to the waterline. And I will do it while speaking any language I damn well please. Amelia translated it word for word. The old dawn’s face darkened.
He saw the steel in Aleandro’s eyes. heard the threat in his own language from her mouth. The combination was unnerving. He’d signed the new agreement. Aleandro hadn’t said a word to her afterward. But when she’d gotten to her desk, a small, perfect cappuccino from the cafe downstairs was waiting for her. The office became their island. He would work. She would work.
Sometimes hours of silence would pass. Then he’d get a call, a text, or a report. He’d pace, the mask slipping, and he’d start to mutter. Mateo is an idiot. He thinks he can solve everything with blood. And Amelia, without looking up from her translator’s notes, would reply. But he is loyal. Loyalty is rarer than intelligence. He would stop pacing.
He’d just, “Look at her.” He had never had anyone to talk to. Not truly. His men feared him. Marcus advised him. His sister loved him. But no one understood him. The pressure he was under. The legacy he had to protect. The constant gnawing suspicion. She became his confessional. This of course did not go unnoticed. Mateo Vesco, the underboss, hated her.
He saw her as a usurper, a witch who had charmed his cousin. I don’t get it, Sandro. He’d stormed into the office one afternoon, ignoring Amelia’s presence. She’s a barista now. She’s sitting in on Capo meetings. She hears everything. What if she’s the leak? Did you think of that? What if she’s [ __ ] Patrick Ryan? Get out, Aleandro said, not looking up from his laptop. Sandro, I’m serious. It started when she showed up.
I said, “Get out, Matteo.” Mateo stared at Amelia with pure venom, then left, slamming the door. Amelia’s hands were trembling. He He thinks I’m the leak. “He’s a fool,” Alesandro said. But the seed was planted. Marcus Thorne was harder to read. The consiliary was always polite, always professional. You’re doing excellent work, Mrs.
Hayes, he’d say, his pale eyes lingering on her. The dawn is impressed. You have a rare skill. But Amelia felt a coldness from him that was different from Mateo’s hot-headed jealousy. It was analytical. He was watching her. He saw her as a piece on the chessboard, one that had appeared out of nowhere and disrupted his game.
As the weeks turned into a month, the atmosphere in the office changed. It was no longer just a boss and his translator. It was two people in a trench. Back to back. One night, they were the last two left. A storm raged outside, lashing rain against the armored glass. Alessandra was on the phone. A brutal call with a contact in Sicily. He slammed the phone down. The fifth one he’d broken that month.
Bastardi, he roared, sweeping a stack of files from his desk. He was losing control. The leak was still there. Another shipment gone. Millions. He was pacing. A caged panther breathing heavily. He grabbed a glass, ready to hurl it at the wall. Stop. Amelia’s voice cut through his rage. He froze, his arm tensed. He turned to her.
She was standing by her desk, her face pale, but her eyes firm. Throwing things won’t find the traitor, she said softly. “And what should I do? Huh?” “What would you do? They are stealing from under my nose,” she replied simply. “I would breathe.” She walked over, not to him, but to the electric kettle by her desk. Her hands were steady. She made two cups of tea, chamomile.
She walked over and placed one on the edge of his chaotic desk. He stared at the cup, then at her. His breathing was still ragged, his fists clenched. “My noner used to say,” Amelia said, her voice quiet. “That anger is a storm. You can’t fight it. You just have to wait for it to pass and then you can clean up the mess. Aleandro looked at her.
Really looked at her. Her simple bravery, her calm. She wasn’t afraid of his rage. She just waited it to pass. He slowly unccurled his fists. He picked up the teacup, his large, scarred hand dwarfing the delicate porcelain. He took a sip. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he whispered in English.
Amelia met his gaze. I am, but I don’t think you’d hurt me. What makes you so sure? Because, she said, “You’re lonely, not angry. There’s a difference.” The admission hung in the air between them, more intimate than any touch. He saw her not as a tool or a risk, but as a woman, and she saw him, not as a monster, but as a man.
The storm outside raged on, but inside the office for the first time there was a fragile, dangerous calm, and in the shadows of the hallway, Marcus Thorne, who had been standing there for the last 5 minutes, turned and walked silently away. His expression dark and contemplative. The fragile peace in the office born of that stormy night shifted the dynamic.
Alessandro began to rely on Amelia for more than just translation. He’d ask her opinion. The numbers on the Port Authority deal look clean, he’d say, but it feels wrong. What do you see? And Amelia, with her meticulous every dollar counts mindset, would scan the reports. This line item, logistical fees. It’s a round number, two round.
It’s a bribe or a slush fund. It’s lazy. He’d found the discrepancy. She was right. He started keeping her in the office later, long after her scheduled visits with Leo. He’d have Anthony drive her at 10 p.m. instead of 700 p.m. “de.” And it was true. Amelia felt the change, too. She was no longer just a prisoner. She was involved.
She’d watch him rub his temples, the weight of his world pressing down, and she’d feel an unwelcome pull of empathy. He was a killer, a criminal, but he was also the only man who had ever truly seen her. And he, in turn, began to see her. He noticed the way she’d chew on her lip when she was concentrating. He noticed the worn photo of her brother. she’d taped to her new computer monitor.
One evening, he was on his way out. She was packing her bag to finally go see Leo. “The clinic in Zurich,” he said abruptly. Amelia froze. “What about it?” “Dr. Alrech, the neurological trial. That’s the one you’re saving for.” “How? How did you? I told you I know everything.” He tossed a thick envelope onto her desk. This is a bonus for the Falcone deal. You earned it.
Amelia opened it. It was cash. $50,000, more money than she had ever seen in her life. It was enough to get Leo on the waiting list to pay for the consultation. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Mr. Caruso, Alessandro, I it’s nothing,” he said gruffly. “It’s business.” But as he walked out, he paused. “Good night, Amelia.
” “Good night,” she whispered. But this new trust was a beacon in the dark, and it drew the vipers. Mateo Vesco was furious. His cousin, the Karpo, was listening to a barista over him. He was being shut out, and Marcus Thorne, the ever rational consiliary, saw his own influence waning. The Kappa was becoming compromised, emotional. He was listening to his heart, not his head.
And the leak was getting worse. A warehouse full of electronics was seized by the feds. A highstakes poker game was raided. But this time, it wasn’t just the Ryans. It was the police. The leak wasn’t just a traitor. It was an informant. The pressure on Aleandro was unbearable, and he made a critical error.
He decided to move his private ledgers, the real ones, the ones that detailed every transaction, every bribe, every contact, all in his father’s coded Italian. From his bank vault to the safe behind the painting in his office. Only three people knew about the move. Alessandro, Marcus, and Amelia. He’d needed her to help catalog the old world script.
This, he’d told her, is the heart of my family. It’s everything. No one can ever see this. I understand, she’d said, her stomach twisting. This was the line. She was now unequivocally a criminal. That’s when the trap was sprung. It was a Tuesday. Alisandra was across town in a tense meeting with his capos.
He’d left Amelia in the office to finish the cataloging. She was alone. Mateo Vesco entered the office not with his usual bluster, but with a cold purpose. He had two of his heaviest soldiers with him. Amelia, the boss needs to see you, he said. Now, but he told me to wait here now.
There’s a problem at the construction site. Amelia felt a prickle of fear. I I’ll just call him. His phone’s not secure. Let’s go. One of his men grabbed her arm. No. Let go of me. Matteo’s patience snapped. Take her. They dragged her out of the office down the private elevator and threw her into the back of an SUV. They drove for an hour, ending up at a desolate, halffinish high-rise in the Bronx.
They dragged her up the concrete stairs to the exposed 20th floor, open to the wind. “What is this? What’s going on?” Amelia screamed. “Shut up and wait,” Matteo sneered. An hour later, Alessandro’s car screeched to a halt below. He emerged, his face a mask of cold fury. He came up the stairs alone.
“Mateo, what is the meaning of this? Let her go.” She’s the rat, Sandro. Mateo yelled, his voice echoing in the concrete shell. I caught her. You’re insane. Let her go now. No, you’re blind. You’re blind because you’re sleeping with her. Aleandro’s hand went to the gun at the small of his back. But he stopped. Matteo’s men had their guns on Amelia. Don’t be a fool, cousin. I’m the fool. No, you are.
While you were playing house, I was doing my job. I followed her. I watched her. Matteo gestured to another man in the shadows. Patrick Ryan, the head of the Irish mob, stepped forward, grinning. Evening, Caruso, Ryan said, his voice a grally Dublin brogue. Your cousin here set up a lovely little parlay. Aleandro’s eyes went from Ryan to Matteo and then to Amelia.
The betrayal was so profound he could barely breathe. You You’re working with him? No. Mateo roared. I caught her working with him. I followed her. She met with one of Ryan’s men last night. Handed him a package. What? Amelia cried. That’s a lie. I was with my brother. Then I went home. My guy saw you, Matteo said.
A small diner in Queens handed off a memory stick. It’s a lie. So, I went to your apartment while you were here cataloging and I found this. Matteo tossed a small disposable phone onto the concrete floor full of messages to Ryan’s people, dates, shipments, warehouse locations. Aleandro stared at the phone. He looked at Amelia. Her face was white with terror and confusion.
Sandro, no, she whispered. I don’t know what that is. I swear. I swear on my brother’s life. A beautiful little setup she had, Ryan added, enjoying the show. Got right inside the innocent little sparrow. She’s been feeding me info for months. But this last bit, the ledgers, that was her masterpiece. Ryan’s men emerged from the shadows surrounding them. It was an ambush.
“You see, Sandro,” Mateo said, his voice cracking. “She was playing you. She was going to give him the ledgers. She was going to destroy us. I I had to stop it. I set this up. I told Ryan he could have you in exchange for confirming she was his mole. You set me up?” Aleandro’s voice was hollow. He looked at his cousin to save the family from her. He’s lying. Amelia screamed.
“Alesandro, look at me. It’s a lie. He’s lying.” But the evidence was overwhelming. The phone, Ryan’s presence, the bonus he’d given her. Had that been a payment? Had she been playing him all along? His mind flashed to every moment of vulnerability, every Italian phrase, every shared cup of tea.
Was it all an act? The loneliness he’d confessed, the trust he’d given, the rage that built in him was cold, absolute. It was the rage of a man who had let himself be human for a second, only to be bitten by the snake he’d warmed. You brought the Ryans to a meet with me, Alessandro said to Mateo, his voice dead. To show you.
You broke the code, cousin. No, she did. Firefight, one of Ryan’s men yelled as tactical units suddenly swarmed the lower floors. It was a raid. But who? Chaos erupted. Gunfire echoed as Ryan’s men and Matteo’s men were suddenly scrambling. It’s the feds. Ryan looked furious. “You set me up,” he yelled at Matteo. “I didn’t.
I Sandro!” Amelia screamed as one of Ryan’s men grabbed her. Alessandro moved. He shot the man holding her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her toward the stairs. “Mate, you’re dead to me.” He roared. He pulled Amelia down the emergency stairwell. Gunfire raining down from above. They burst out onto the street where his driver Anthony was waiting. The sedan already riddled with bullets.
“Go, go!” Aleandro yelled, shoving Amelia into the back and diving in after her. The car sped away, tires smoking. They drove in silence for 10 minutes. The only sound, their ragged breathing and the distant sirens. Amelia was sobbing. Alessandro, I didn’t. I don’t know. He Mateo, shut up. The word was like a slap. She looked at him. His face was stone. The man she’d shared tea with was gone.
The carpo was back. The phone, the meetings. Ryan knew your name. He said, “He’s lying. Matteo is lying. It’s a trap. He’s right. It was a trap. And I walked right into it. You and him?” “No.” He leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. You used my language. You used my sister. You used me.
You took my money, my trust. And you were going to give them my father’s ledgers. Alessandro, please, she begged. You have to believe me. Believe you? He laughed. A short, ugly sound. I believed you when you said you were alone. I believed you were like me. What a fool. He banged on the partition. Anthony, stop here.
The car pulled over on a dark, rains sllicked street corner. Get out. Amelia stared at him. What? Get out of my car. But I have nowhere to go. He’ll kill me. Ryan will kill me. Mateo. That’s your problem. Alessandro said, his eyes as dead as the Donato Falconees. You’re lucky I don’t kill you myself. The ledgers, Alessandro, I didn’t.
The ledgers are safe, he said. I never moved them. That was your final test to see if the information about the move itself would leak. And it did to Ryan, to Matteo, and to the Feds. You hit the trifecta, to Sorro. He’d tested her, and she’d failed. No. No, please. He opened the door and shoved her out onto the wet pavement. She fell, scraping her hands.
The $50,000 I gave you, consider it your severance. If I ever see your face again, if you go near my office, near my sister, near this family, I will kill you. I will kill your brother, and I will enjoy it. Capishi. Amelia looked up at him, rain and tears mixing on her face. the man she had. She had started to He slammed the door. The car sped off, leaving her alone on a dark street, her life in ruins.
The first 24 hours were a blur of terror. Amelia was no longer just a barista. She was a target. She was the woman who had supposedly betrayed the Caruso family and set up the Irish mob for a federal raid. She was a pariah with a target on her back from every side. She ran. She grabbed the emergency cash she’d hidden under her mattress.
The bonus money was still in her bank account, an account Alisandra could surely freeze at any moment, and took a bus to a Sidi motel in New Jersey. She paid in cash using a fake name. She sat on the lumpy cigarette burned mattress, the world spinning. He’s lying. Mateo is lying, she whispered to the empty room. But how? How did he get the phone? How did he know about a meeting with Ryan’s men? I followed her.
She met with one of Ryan’s men last night, handed him a package. Amelia’s blood ran cold. She had met someone last night. She’d been so worried about Leo’s declining health that she’d been desperately searching for alternative, cheaper options. She’d met a broker in that diner, a man who claimed he could get her black market experimental drugs from Europe.
She’d given him a package, a $5,000 cash deposit. It wasn’t a memory stick. It was cash. Had that man been one of Ryan’s? Had Matteo been watching her, seen a clandestine meeting and assumed the worst? Or was it more? The phone? He said he found it in her apartment. She’d never seen it before. He must have planted it. Mateo had framed her.
He’d used her desperation, a secret meeting against her. He saw her growing close to Aleandro and set her up to be the fall guy for the real leak because the leak was still out there. She was filled with a new cold fury. Aleandro hadn’t just fired her. He’d exiled her. He’d threatened her brother.
He’d thrown away the one real connection he’d ever had because he was too blinded by his own world of betrayal to see the truth. He had left her with nothing, and in doing so, he’d made her dangerous. She had nothing left to lose. “You’re wrong, Alessandro,” she whispered to the peeling wallpaper. “You’re wrong about me, and I’m going to prove it.
” She couldn’t go to the police. “She was complicit in too much. She couldn’t go to his rivals. Her only path was back through the Caruso family. She needed an ally, Sophia. Amelia bought a cheap burner phone. She knew Sophia volunteered at a specific high-end charity gala every Tuesday. Tonight was Tuesday. She’d have to go back into the city.
She disguised herself, a cheap blonde wig from a party store, a garish red dress from a thrift shop. She looked like a different person. She took the bus back to Manhattan, her heart in her throat. She paid the entry fee to the gala, $1,000 of her precious money, and scanned the ballroom. She found Sophia near the silent auction, looking radiant in a blue gown.
Amelia cornered her by the restrooms. “Sophia!” Sophia turned, her polite smile fading into confusion, then dawning horror. “Amelia, what are you? You can’t be here, Sandro. He said you. He’s wrong, Amelia said, her voice low and urgent. He’s been lied to. Mateo framed me. What? Mateo? No, he’s family. He’s jealous and he’s stupid. But I don’t think he’s the real traitor, Sophia. He’s a porn.
Someone else is pulling the strings. Someone who wanted me gone. Sophia looked at her, her eyes wide. What are you talking about? Sandro told me the ledger move was a test. He told three people. Me, Mateo. Mateo wasn’t told. Sophia said. I was there. He told you. And he told Marcus. Amelia froze. Not Mateo.
Marcus? Her mind raced. Marcus, the cold, logical consiliary. The one who never spoke Italian. The one who watched her with those flat analytical eyes. The one who had the most to lose from Alejandro, trusting his heart over his head. “Sophia,” Amelia said, grabbing her arm. “The raid at the construction site.
It wasn’t just the Ryans. It was the Feds.” Mateo isn’t smart enough to coordinate a three-way ambush and a federal raid. He was set up, too. He was made to look like he was betraying Sandro to Ryan. All while someone else called the cops. “Marcus,” Sophia whispered, her face pale. “He he’s been with our family for 20 years.
He was my father’s most trusted man.” “Your father is dead,” Amelia said brutally. “And Aleandro is trusting a barista over him. He’s been sidelined. He’s angry. He wants control.” I I can’t believe it. You don’t have to. Just help me.
I need access to the office, the security footage from the hallway from the day Matteo found the phone in my apartment. If he planted it, I can prove it. Sophia was trembling. If Sandro finds you, he’ll kill us both. He’ll kill me. He’ll just disown you. Sophia, please. He’s in danger. He’s alone again, and this time the Viper is right next to him, whispering in his ear.
He trusts Marcus completely. He needs us. Sophia looked at Amelia’s desperate, pleading face. She saw the truth in her eyes. “I I have my own key to the elevator,” Sophia said. “He’s in Sicily for the next 2 days. A summit. Marcus is running things here. The office will be empty tonight.
Meanwhile, Alessandro was in a Sicilian villa, the air thick with cigar smoke. He had just concluded a brutal negotiation with the Sicilian copy. He felt hollow. The victory meant nothing. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours. Her face haunted him. “No, no, please,” her tear streaked face as he’d shoved her out of the car. “I swear on my brother’s life.
No one in his world invoked their family in a lie. It was the one unspoken rule. Had he been wrong? His cousin Mateo was in the wind, having escaped the raid, a traitor, and Amelia, a spy. He was once again completely alone. Non Solo. Her whisper in the hallway echoed in his mind, a bitter mockery. He poured another drink. the amber liquid doing nothing to dull the ache in his chest.
He was surrounded by vipers just as he’d said, and the one person he thought was different. She was the worst of all. He’d never felt so empty. The cafe Velo was dark. Sophia’s key granted them access to the silent private elevator. “Anthony and the guards are with Marcus at the ports,” Sophia whispered. The penthouse is clear. The office was cold and still.
The safe, Sophia said, moving to the large oil painting. The combo is my birthday. Inside, Amelia accessed the security hub. I need the day I was fired. And the day before, she murmured, her fingers flying. She cross-referenced hallway footage from her apartment building with the penthouse feed. There they watched, horrified. At 9:30 p.m.
the night before the ambush, while Amelia was at the diner, a man whom Amelia recognized as Marcus’ personal driver used a key to enter her building. He planted the first phone, Amelia whispered. The one Matteo found at my apartment. She switched to the penthouse footage from the day of the ambush just minutes after Matteo had dragged her away. The empty office.
The elevator doors opened. Marcus Thorne walked in. He moved calmly to her desk, pulled a second burner phone from his pocket, and slipped it into a drawer for Matteo to find later. Then he sat in Aleandro’s chair, and made a series of calls. His face a mask of control. He He set it all up, Sophia gasped.
He framed me to get me out, Amelia said, saving the clips. Then he used Matteo’s jealousy to set a trap for him, Ryan and Alessandro. He wanted them all dead, leaving him to take over. As the file finished copying, they heard the click of the elevator arriving. The office door opened. Alessandro stood there back a day early from Sicily, his eyes hollow with exhaustion, landed on Amelia, his face contorted in a mask of black suffocating rage.
You, he breathed, his hand instantly going inside his jacket. You dare? The trap was set at Il Corvo. Marcus Thorne walked in, his face a mask of composed sympathy, only to freeze when Matteo Visco entered behind him. What is this? Marcus demanded. Before Aleandro could answer, Patrick Ryan and his men burst in, guns drawn. You, Ryan roared, glaring at Marcus. You said he’d be alone.
He played you, too, Ryan. Aleandro said, his voice cutting through the tension. On a screen, the security footage played. Marcus planting the phone, making the calls. The betrayal was absolute. Seeing he was trapped, Marcus lunged, grabbing Amelia and pressing a small pistol to her temple. Your weakness, Aleandro, you should have let her die. But Amelia didn’t scream.
She met Alessandro’s gaze and spoke in clear, calm Italian. Mateo, to your left, the waiter. Marcus didn’t understand. Shut up. Now, Sandro, Amelia whispered. Now, Alessandro roared. Mateo tackled Ryan. The waiter, a Caruso sniper, fired and the room erupted in gunfire.
When the smoke cleared, Marcus was bleeding on the floor. Aleandro stood over him. “You were wrong,” he said. “She wasn’t my weakness. She was my voice.” He turned his back. “Mate, take out the trash.” ignoring the sounds behind him. Alessandro walked to Amelia and held out his hand. She took it and he led her from the chaos.
Back in the penthouse, Alessandro offered Amelia 2 million dulos for your brother, he said. A new life. You’re free. He called himself a monster, saying she was too good for his world. Amelia looked at the check, a ticket to safety, and tore it in half. I don’t want your money, she said, stepping close. I want a choice and I choose this. She met his gaze, her own unwavering.
Who else will translate for you, Capo? You’re not alone. Not anymore. He rested his forehead against hers, the war in his mind finally still. Okay, he whispered, and that’s where we leave them. For now, Aleandro and Amelia, a king and queen on a chessboard of their own making.
But in the world of the mafia, happily ever after is never guaranteed. What happens when Leo’s surgery has complications? What happens when Mateo’s loyalty is tested again? And what will the other families do now that they know the Caruso Kapo has a new brilliant and dangerous partner? If you want to find out and you loved this story of drama, karma, and unexpected love, then please show your support, hit that like button so I know you want more.
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