“Because,” I say carefully, trying to find words that won’t make him shut down completely, “he’s the reason I’m here. Your brother is why you kidnapped me, why you’re doing all of this.” I place my hands on my lap, squeezing them together. “I figure I should know something about him beyond just…how he died.”
For a long moment, I don’t think Leo’s going to answer. He just sits there, staring at his plate, his knuckles white where he’s gripping his fork. Then, slowly, he sets the fork down and takes a breath.
“Gabriel was three years younger than me,” he starts, his voice quieter than usual. “He was…reckless. Charming. The kind of person who could walk into a room and immediately make everyone smile. He had this infectious energy, this optimism that none of the rest of us could understand.”
I stay quiet, afraid that if I say anything, he’ll stop talking.
“He didn’twantthis life.” There’s pain in Leo’s voice now, barely concealed. “The family business, the violence, all of it. He wanted to be a chef. He’d talk about opening a restaurant and creating dishes that would make people happy. Our father thought it was a phase, that he’d grow out of it and accept his role in the organization. But Gabriel never did.”
“What happened?” I ask softly, even though I already know the basic facts. My father killed him. But I want to hear Leo’s version and understand what drove him to this point.
“There was a dispute over the Brooklyn ports,” Leo says tightly, his whole body rigid. “Access rights, territory boundaries, the usual bullshit that men kill each other over. Gabriel was sent to negotiate because he was good with people. He could de-escalate situations that might otherwise turn violent. He went to that warehouse thinking he was going to have a conversation and find a compromise.”
Leo’s hands curl into fists on the table.
“Your father shot him in the head,” he says flatly. “Execution style. Gabriel was unarmed. He was there to talk, and your fatherput a bullet through his brain and left him to bleed out on the floor. Connor just left. He walked away and let him die alone.”
The horror of it hits me hard. I knew my father had killed Leo’s brother. But hearing the details—hearing the brutality—makes me feel sick.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it. I really, genuinely mean it in a way that has nothing to do with self-preservation or trying to get on Leo’s good side. “I’m so sorry. That’s…” I grapple for the words, unable to believe my father could be so cruel. “God, that’s horrible. He was so young, and he just wanted to cook, and—” I stop, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Leo says, but his voice lacks conviction. “Sorry doesn’t bring him back or change what your father did.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “It doesn’t. But I’m still sorry it happened. And I’m sorry you lost your brother that way.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the weight of Gabriel’s death hanging between us. Fault and family are too tangled to separate. My father killed Leo’s brother, and now Leo has taken me to make my father suffer. It’s a cycle of violence and revenge that doesn’t have a clear ending or a winner.
There’s only loss. On both sides.
“He sounds like he was a good person,” I finally say, breaking the heavy silence. “Gabriel. Like he deserved better than what happened to him.”
“He was,” Leo agrees, his voice rough. “And he did.”
We don’t talk much after that. The rest of dinner passes in near silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts about brothers and fathers and the terrible things families do to each other.
But something has shifted between us again. Another layer peeled back, another crack in the walls we’ve both built up.
10
LEO
I’m spending too much time with Emma Brennan, and it’s starting to become a problem.
Not just because Dante won’t stop giving me these pointed looks that say he knows exactly what’s happening even if I don’t want to admit it. My mother called yesterday and spent fifteen minutes talking in circles about “matters of the heart” while never actually saying Emma’s name. Valentina has been sending me increasingly aggressive texts demanding to know “what the fuck is going on with you.”
It’s a problem because I’m starting to look forward to it. To her. To the way she argues with me over dinner and how her eyes light up when she’s winning a debate and the way she unconsciously tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s reading.
It’s a problem because two and a half weeks ago I kidnapped this woman to make her father suffer, and now the highlight of my day is when she smiles at something I’ve said.
I’m fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.
Right now I’m supposed to be reviewing security reports in my office, but instead I’m standing in the doorway of the library watching Emma try to reach a book on the top shelf. She’s on her tiptoes, stretching up with one arm extended, and her tee shirt rides up just enough that I can see a sliver of skin at her lower back.
Go back to your office, my mind orders me.Do actual work instead of watching Emma struggle with basic shelf access like some kind of goddamn creep.
But I don’t. Because apparently I’ve lost all sense of self-preservation where she’s concerned.
Emma makes a frustrated sound and stretches higher, the chair she’s standing on wobbling slightly.