Page 41 of Knight
"Tonight?" His voice is stripped down to its studs. Pure function.
"Tonight."
More silence. I can hear him breathing — measured, controlled, the discipline of a man who trained himself to stay calm while the world burned around him.
"You understand what happens when they find out."
It is a statement shaped like a question and I answer it the only way I can.
"Yes."
"The Marchese will consider it a declaration. Caruso, Bellini, Fontana — they will fall in line behind the Marchese. The Shadow Network will view it as a direct violation of Giovanni's authority. You will have enemies on every side and the only allies you'll have left are the people in this house."
"I know."
"You understand I cannot protect you from this." His voice drops lower, and beneath the tactical precision I hear something raw — something that sounds like the older brother who used to stand between me and Giovanni's fist when I was twelve and too stupid to keep my mouth shut.
"I'm not asking you to protect me, Santino."
Another silence. Longer this time. The city is getting closer, the buildings taller, the streets narrowing as I exit toward the east side. Toward Delancey. Toward her.
Then — quieter. Almost human beneath the armor he's welded onto his bones.
"Make sure she knows what she is agreeing to." A breath. "All of it, Romeo. Every piece. If you ask her to do this without telling her the full cost, you are Giovanni. Do you hear me? You are him."
The words land in my chest like a fist wrapped in truth.
"I hear you."
"Then go."
The line goes dead.
I set the phone on the passenger seat and wrap both hands around the wheel. The leather is warm from my grip and my knuckles are white against it and I realize — with a jolt of something I can't name — that my hands are steady.
For three weeks they've been shaking. At the club. In meetings. Pouring whiskey at two in the morning. A tremor I couldn't kill no matter how much I drank or how fast I drove or how many hours I spent burning myself out in the gym.
Steady now.
The most reckless decision of my life and my body has gone quiet. Like the shaking was never fear. It was indecision. And now… the decision has been made.
I take the Delancey exit.
The Drive to Her Door
The city changes beneath my tires.
Past The River Club where the bass bleeds through the walls and the neon throws sick color across the wet pavement. Past the Rivas territory line where every bouncer and bartender and corner dealer knows my face and steps aside when I walk through. Past the blocks where my name carries weight, where a phone call from me can open doors or close throats or rearrange a man's evening in ways he will never recover from.
Into the east side. Where my name means nothing. Where the streetlights are spaced further apart and half of them aredead and the buildings lean against each other like drunks holding each other upright. Where Nova Vasquez climbs four flights every night carrying whatever's left of herself after six hours on a stage and counts the money that keeps three lives stitched together by a thread she refuses to let anyone else hold.
I park across the street from her building.
Fourth floor. Lights on.
She's awake.
My chest is a war zone. The Marchese letter pressed against my ribs. The cracked Knight in my pocket. Santino's voice in my skull —if you ask her without telling her the full cost, you are Giovanni— and the watch on my wrist ticking like a detonator that's already been armed.
