The Vanetti mansion looked different in afternoon light. Less imposing. More like a home where a crime family happened to live rather than a fortress of criminal power.
Rio adjusted his collar for the third time.
"Stop fidgeting," Avilio said. "You look nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You've checked your reflection four times."
"I'm ensuring I look professional."
"You look fine. You always look fine." Avilio's voice held something that might have been amusement if he still remembered how. "You could show up in a burlap sack and still charm your way through this."
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
Honest answer? Rio wasn't sure. Meeting Don Vincent Vanetti—the man who'd ordered the Lagusa family massacre, who ran Lawless like a kingdom, who missed nothing—felt significant in ways Rio couldn't articulate.
This was the target. The final boss. The man Angelo wanted dead.
And Rio was about to shake his hand and smile.
The fragments whispered warnings and tactical assessments in equal measure.
"Let's just get this over with," Rio said.
They walked to the front entrance. Were immediately intercepted by Ganzo, who looked them over with professional assessment.
"You're punctual. Good." Ganzo gestured for them to follow. "The don's in his office. He'll see you separately. Avilio first."
"Why separately?" Rio asked.
"Because he wants individual assessments. See if your stories match. See how you handle pressure without backup." Ganzo's smile was sharp. "Standard procedure for new associates who've risen fast."
They were led inside. Through corridors Rio remembered from the party but with different energy now. This wasn't a social gathering. This was an evaluation.
A test they needed to pass.
Avilio was taken to the don's office. Rio was left in a sitting room with expensive furniture and uncomfortable silence.
Ganzo remained, standing by the door. Watching.
"You did good work at the pier," Ganzo said after a moment.
"Thank you."
"Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
The question again. Everyone wanted to know. Rio gave the practiced answer. "Chicago. Rough neighborhoods. You learn to defend yourself."
"That wasn't self-defense shooting. That was professional work." Ganzo's eyes were sharp. "I've seen soldiers, cops, professional killers. You move like them. Like someone with training."
"I pick things up fast."
"Nobody picks up combat instincts that fast." Ganzo crossed his arms. "I don't trust people with mysterious backgrounds, Ceriano. But Nero likes you. Vanno worships you. You're useful. So I'm watching. Carefully."
"I'd expect nothing less."
"See that you remember—the don doesn't trust easily. He'll ask questions. He'll watch for inconsistencies. You lie to him, he'll know. And if he knows you're lying..." Ganzo didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
The door to the don's office opened. Avilio emerged, expression neutral. Unreadable.
"He wants you now," Avilio said to Rio.
They passed each other without speaking. Avilio's eyes held a brief message: Be careful.
Rio stepped into Don Vincent Vanetti's office.
The room was exactly what Rio expected—dark wood, leather furniture, windows positioned for light but not vulnerability. A massive desk that positioned the don as the center of gravity. Art that might be valuable or might just look expensive.
And behind the desk, the man himself.
Don Vincent Vanetti was fifty-eight but carried himself like someone who'd survived decades through will and violence. Gray hair, sharp eyes that had seen everything twice, hands that were steady despite age. The kind of presence that filled rooms without effort.
"Rio Ceriano." The don's voice was measured. Controlled. "Sit."
Rio sat. The chair was positioned slightly lower than the don's—classic power dynamic. He didn't react to it.
"You've made an impression in a short time," the don said. "Information extraction from Carlo. Social observation at my gathering. Tactical work at the pier. Three different skill sets. Unusual for someone who ran a speakeasy in Chicago."
"I'm adaptable."
"You're something." The don opened a folder on his desk. "I had people look into you. Rio Ceriano. Born Chicago. Parents died when you were young—tragic accident. Foster care until eighteen. Opened a speakeasy at twenty-four. Sold it six months ago. Came to Lawless with Avilio Bruno."
The fragments noted details: He knows the surface. But only the surface. The identity holds.
"That's accurate," Rio said.
"Is it?" The don leaned forward. "Because there are gaps. Large gaps. Your foster care records are sparse. Your education is unclear. How you acquired the capital to open a speakeasy at twenty-four is mysterious. And your combat skills..." He paused. "Those don't come from running a bar."
"I've been in tough situations. You learn or you die."
"So everyone keeps saying." The don studied him. "But I've seen men lie about their capabilities. They talk big, fold under pressure. You're different. You don't talk big. You just perform. That suggests actual experience. Real training. The question is—where?"
Rio held his gaze. Didn't flinch. The fragments supplied the right approach: Partial truth. Give him something real without revealing everything.
"I don't remember a lot of my childhood," Rio said quietly. "Foster care was... difficult. Some places were fine. Others weren't. I learned to defend myself. Learned to read people. Learned that trust was earned, not given." He paused. "The specifics are blur. Trauma does that."
The don's expression shifted slightly. Understanding. Or the appearance of it.
"And the speakeasy?"
"I was good at reading people. Good at managing situations. Someone noticed. Fronted me the money. I paid them back with interest." True, actually. Sarah's uncle had helped with startup costs. "Business was good until it wasn't. Chicago was getting dangerous. Avilio offered opportunity here. I took it."
"Just like that? Left a successful business for unknown opportunity?"
"The business was successful because I made it successful. I could make another anywhere." Rio leaned back slightly. "Besides, staying in one place too long is dangerous. People get comfortable. Comfortable people get sloppy. Sloppy people get killed."
The don smiled. Small. Appreciative. "You're cautious. I respect that."
"You're suspicious. I respect that too."
"Good. We understand each other." The don closed the folder. "Tell me about Avilio Bruno."
The question was a trap. See if their stories aligned. See if Rio would betray his partner for favor.
"He's competent. Cold. Focused. Good at handling problems quietly." Rio chose his words carefully. "I trust him to watch my back. Beyond that, we're not friends. We're associates with compatible skills."
"You're not friends?"
"We work well together. That's different from friendship."
"Interesting. Because the way you two move suggests deep familiarity. Combat coordination like you had at the pier doesn't develop quickly."
Fragments whispered warnings. He sees too much. Adjust.
"We've worked together before. In Chicago. Small jobs. Enough to understand each other's capabilities." Rio met his eyes. "You want people who can work as a unit. That's what we are."
The don was quiet for a long moment. Assessing. Weighing.
"My son likes you," he said finally. "Nero has good instincts about people. Not perfect—he's too trusting sometimes. But good. He thinks you're valuable. That you can be trusted."
"Can I?"
"That's what I'm determining." The don stood. Moved to the window. "This family has enemies. The Orcos want what we've built. Others circle like sharks. I can't afford associates who'll turn. Who'll sell information. Who'll put personal gain above family loyalty."
"I understand."
"Do you?" The don turned. "Because loyalty is earned, Ceriano. Slowly. Through blood and sacrifice. You've spilled blood for us. That's a start. But it's only a start."
Rio stood as well. Met the don's eyes. "I'm not asking for trust. I'm asking for opportunity. Let me prove myself. Give me work. I'll do it well. Over time, you'll see if I'm worth keeping."
"And if I decide you're not?"
"Then I'll leave. Or you'll kill me. Whichever you prefer." Rio smiled slightly. "But I don't think that'll be necessary. I'm too useful."
The don actually laughed. "Confident."
"Realistic."
"We'll see." The don moved back to his desk. Sat. "You're approved as an associate. Provisional. You'll work with Ganzo primarily. He'll assign jobs. You'll do them perfectly. In six months, we'll have this conversation again. If you're still alive and still useful, we'll discuss permanent position."
"Understood."
"One more thing." The don's voice hardened. "If you betray this family, if you sell information, if you work against our interests—I won't kill you quickly. I'll make sure you understand exactly what betrayal costs. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly clear."
"Good. Get out."
Rio left the office. Avilio was waiting in the sitting room. They didn't speak until they were outside, walking down the hill toward downtown.
"Well?" Avilio asked.
"Provisional approval. Six months to prove ourselves."
"Same for me." Avilio's expression was thoughtful. "He's smart. Suspicious. He doesn't buy our stories completely."
"But he's willing to use us anyway."
"Because we're useful. That's all we need." Avilio looked at him. "What did he say about me?"
"Asked if we were friends. I said we were associates. Compatible skills but not close."
"Good. Maintain distance. If they think we're too connected, they'll watch us both." Avilio's voice dropped. "Remember—we're here for revenge. Not approval. Not acceptance. Just destruction."
"I remember."
Did he? The fragments weren't sure anymore.
They spent the next two weeks proving themselves.
Ganzo assigned work—collection jobs, enforcement, message delivery. The kind of tasks that built reputation and tested loyalty.
Rio handled social problems. Negotiations that needed charm. Situations where violence would create more issues than it solved. He read people, found their pressure points, resolved conflicts efficiently.
Avilio handled the darker work. Quiet eliminations. People who needed to disappear. Problems that required cold efficiency rather than social grace.
They were good at it. Disturbingly good.
The Vanetti family noticed.
Nero brought Rio into more social situations—dinners with business associates, meetings where reading the room mattered more than muscle. Rio excelled. Made Nero look good. Made connections that profited the family.
Their relationship shifted. Professional respect became something more personal. Conversations that lasted longer than necessary. Looks that held more than casual interest.
Rio told himself it was just part of the job. Getting close to the heir. Building trust.
The fragments weren't convinced.
Vanno became a constant presence. Sought out Rio and Avilio for jobs, for drinks, for conversation. His enthusiasm was infectious. His loyalty was absolute. His friendship felt genuine.
And Rio found himself returning it.
That was the problem.
Two and a half weeks after the pier, Rio found himself at the main Vanetti speakeasy with Vanno and Nero. Social gathering. Casual. The kind of night where business happened between drinks and laughter.
"You're good at this," Nero said, watching Rio handle a situation with a drunk patron who was getting aggressive. Rio had defused it in thirty seconds with charm and strategic word choice.
"At what?"
"Everything, apparently." Nero sipped his whiskey. "Combat, negotiation, social navigation. Is there anything you're not good at?"
"Cooking. I'm terrible at cooking."
"Finally. A flaw." Nero smiled. "I was beginning to think you were too perfect to be real."
"I'm very real."
"Are you?" Nero's voice was quiet. Curious. "Because sometimes you feel like a ghost. Here but not here. Present but distant. Like you're watching everything from somewhere else."
The observation landed harder than it should have. Because Nero was right—Rio did feel distant. The fragments created that separation. Lifetimes of experience making current experience feel less immediate.
"Deep thoughts for a Thursday night," Rio said, deflecting.
"I have deep thoughts occasionally. Usually when I'm trying to figure out interesting mysteries."
"Am I a mystery?"
"You're the most interesting mystery I've encountered." Nero's eyes held his. "And I'm very motivated to solve you."
The moment stretched. Charged with something Rio couldn't quite name. Interest. Attraction. Danger.
Vanno appeared, breaking the tension. "Stop flirting and help me with this pool game. I'm losing to Bruno and I refuse to accept it."
"That's because Bruno actually aims," Nero said, standing.
"Aiming is for people who can't shoot instinctively."
"That doesn't even make sense."
They moved to the pool table. Rio followed. Watched Nero and Vanno banter with the ease of lifelong friendship. Saw the way Vanno lit up when Nero praised his shots. Saw the way Nero protected his friend from the edges of the criminal world they inhabited.
It was genuine. Real. The kind of friendship that transcended business.
The kind Rio and Avilio were going to destroy.
The thought sat heavy in his chest.
"You're doing that thing again," Vanno said, setting up his shot. "Where you look like you're somewhere else."
"Just thinking."
"About what?"
About how you're all going to die. About how we're planning your destruction. About how every friendship, every laugh, every moment of trust is built on lies.
"Nothing important," Rio said.
"Liar." But Vanno was smiling. "You think too much. Just live, man. Enjoy the moment. We're young, we're successful, we've got good work and good people. What else matters?"
Everything. Nothing. Rio didn't know anymore.
He drank his whiskey. Watched Vanno make an impossible shot and celebrate like he'd won a war. Watched Nero shake his head with affectionate exasperation. Watched them both look at him with trust and friendship.
And wondered when exactly he'd stopped being able to feel nothing.
Late that night, back at the brewery, Corteo was waiting with bad news written all over his face.
"We have a problem."
Avilio looked up from his perpetual weapon cleaning. "What kind?"
"The kind where I might've gotten us in trouble." Corteo's hands shook slightly. "There's a man. Frate Vanetti. The don's younger son. He's been asking questions."
Rio's fragments supplied information: Frate. The complicated one. Ambitious. Resentful. Dangerous in different ways than Nero.
"What kind of questions?" Rio asked.
"About you two. About where you came from. About why you're so good at things you shouldn't be good at." Corteo's voice was strained. "He came to the brewery today. While you were out. Started asking about our connection. How I knew you. How long we've worked together."
"What did you tell him?"
"The truth. That I knew Avilio from before. That he brought you. That we're business associates." Corteo met their eyes. "But he didn't believe me. I could tell. He kept pushing. Asking about Chicago. About our histories. Like he was looking for inconsistencies."
Avilio's expression darkened. "He's suspicious."
"He's more than suspicious. He's actively investigating." Corteo poured himself whiskey with shaking hands. "If he digs too deep, if he finds something—"
"He won't," Avilio said. "Our covers are solid."
"Are they? Because he seemed very interested in the fact that you two appeared right when the Orco family started making aggressive moves. Like maybe you're connected to them somehow."
Rio processed that. The fragments supplied tactical assessment: Paranoia. Or intelligence. Frate sees patterns. Connections. He's either crazy or dangerously perceptive.
"We're not connected to the Orcos," Rio said. "Anyone investigating will find that out."
"Will they? Or will they find gaps in your stories? Questions without answers?" Corteo's fear was palpable. "I can't lie well. You know that. If Frate keeps pushing, if he brings Ganzo or the don into it—"
"Then we deal with it." Avilio's voice was cold. "We've passed every test. Done every job. There's no evidence against us because there's nothing to find."
"Except us," Corteo said quietly. "Three survivors from a family the Vanettis killed. Working our way into their organization. That's not nothing."
"They don't know we're survivors."
"Yet."
The word hung in the air.
Rio thought about Frate—the cold observer at the party, watching everyone with calculating eyes. About his position as the second son, ambitious but overshadowed by Nero. About how dangerous resentful people could be.
"We need to be more careful," Rio said. "More consistent with our stories. No mistakes."
"And if that's not enough?" Corteo asked.
"Then we adapt."
"How?"
Rio didn't have an answer.
The fragments whispered about past infiltrations. Past moments when covers were blown and violence became inevitable. About the thin line between success and catastrophe.
They were walking that line now.
And Frate Vanetti was pushing them toward the edge.
Sleep didn't come easy that night.
Rio lay in the dark, listening to the brewery equipment hum below, thinking about Frate's suspicions and Nero's trust and Vanno's friendship.
About how all of it was built on lies.
About how it was going to collapse eventually.
About how many people would die when it did.
The fragments offered no comfort. Just memories of other failures, other betrayals, other moments when everything fell apart.
This is what you do, they whispered. You infiltrate. You betray. You survive while others burn. This is who you've always been.
Maybe.
Or maybe he was just someone who kept making the same mistakes across different lifetimes, hoping for different results.
Either way, they were too deep to turn back now.
The Vanetti family trusted them. The Orco family was escalating. Frate was suspicious but hadn't acted yet. Angelo's revenge plan was proceeding exactly as designed.
Everything was going perfectly.
Which meant, Rio's instincts whispered, that everything was about to go catastrophically wrong.
He just didn't know how yet.
The fragments had opinions but no certainties.
All Rio knew for sure was that he cared more than he should about people he was supposed to destroy.
And that caring was going to get someone killed.
Probably him.