Chapter 2 - The Rules of the Syndicate
His thumb pressed firmly into the fabric just above my hip, anchoring me to the wood. For five agonizing seconds, nobody breathed. My father cleared his throat loudly from the head of the table, a gravelly sound meant to restore the fragile illusion of patriarch authority.
""Ciro,"" my father said, voice dropping into business pitch. ""Leave the girl alone. She thinks Europe made her immune to pneumonia. Sit down, we have the docks to settle.""
Ciro didn't look back at my father immediately. His gaze remained locked on mine, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity so invasive it felt like he was memorizing every eyelash. Slowly, with terrifying deliberation, his fingers released their grip on my hip, trailing light heat across the silk before dropping back to his side.
""Sit, Leora,"" Ciro said simply, his voice returning to that cool, detached monotone that used to torment me when I was seventeen. ""Eat. Before your father remembers he has three phone calls to make before nine.""
I pulled the heavy coat tighter around my shoulders. It was far too large for me; the hem brushed the floor, the sleeves swallowed my hands, and the warmth of his body heat still clung to the silk lining like a second skin. Instead of taking it off and throwing it back at him, I wrapped it around myself like armor and sat in the chair directly opposite his.
The house was not just our home; it was the nerve center of the Northern Syndicate. While the rest of Chicago slept under layers of snow, the men sitting at this table controlled the shipping containers entering the harbor from Montreal, the flow of steel through Indiana, and the quiet transactions running through offshore shell companies.
A maid appeared, hands shaking slightly as she placed a porcelain plate of poached eggs and toast in front of me before vanishing like a ghost. Ciro sat down, picked up his fork, and didn't spare me another glance. It was that infuriating wall again—the fortress he erected between who he was and who I was.
""The Kozlov outfit made a move on Pier 42 last night,"" my father stated, tearing a piece of rye bread. ""They broke the seal on two containers carrying precision optics. They left one of our watchmen with two broken wrists.""
""Kozlov is testing the waters,"" Ciro answered smoothly, cutting a piece of ham with mechanical precision. ""He thinks because you spent two weeks in Florida treating your arthritis and the girl was arriving from Europe, our attention was divided.""
""And was it?"" my father asked, eyes narrowing over his coffee cup.
""No,"" Ciro said flatly. ""I personally visited Kozlov's lieutenant in Cicero at three this morning. The containers are back in our warehouse. The watchman’s medical bills are paid, along with a twenty-thousand-dollar bonus. Kozlov won't touch the water again until spring.""
I watched his hands as he spoke. They were broad, heavily veined, the skin across his knuckles carrying pale white scars from years when he didn't run the operation from behind a desk. He had done that between midnight and the moment his car pulled into the driveway. He had broken bones or spilled blood in the dark, washed his hands, and walked in here with a clean white shirt to pour espresso.
""Good,"" my father grunted. ""Now, onto the second matter. Leora's degree.""
I stiffened under the weight of the cashmere coat. ""My degree in international logistics and art preservation is my business, Dad.""
""It's family business now,"" my father said firmly, tapping his signet ring against the porcelain saucer. ""You're twenty-three. You had your four years in Portugal playing bohemian student. But you carry the Moretti name. You know how customs documentation works, you understand maritime clearance, and more importantly, you speak three languages. We need a clean face on the board of the maritime import trust.""
""I am not laundering blood money for you,"" I said coldly.
My father’s jaw tightened. ""You will do what keeps this house standing!""
""Enough, Marco,"" Ciro’s voice cut through the air like a razor through twine. He didn't raise his voice, but the entire room seemed to drop ten degrees. My father actually stopped mid-sentence.
Ciro looked up from his plate, his gaze resting squarely on me. ""She won't touch the illegal manifests. The import trust needs an audit anyway to pass the federal scrutiny coming in March. Leora will manage the legitimate European art shipments coming through the cultural exchange foundation. It keeps her clean. It keeps the feds confused. And it keeps her where we can see her.""
""Where you can see me, you mean?"" I challenged, leaning forward, letting the coat slip slightly off one shoulder. ""I'm not a package to be filed in your warehouse, Ciro.""
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A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth—the first real expression I had seen on his face all morning.
""You're in my city now, Leora,"" he murmured, his eyes lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulder before meeting my gaze with unflinching certainty. ""Everything in this city gets filed where I put it. Finish your breakfast. We leave for the docks at ten.""
