NICCO

Carl's men lock the door after I enter.

It is 7:35 pm.

Bertie Gallagher sits before me in the darkened room. I resist the urge to pity him. Graying, balding, and beer-bellied, he looks more like a washed-up, fifty-six-year-old suburban dad than a crooked asshole who committed countless crimes for the cartel. I know he does not deserve anyone's sympathy. My men and I did our fucking homework on Bertie.

To date, he has funneled millions of pounds of coke money into the Beltráns' shell companies across the UK.

Five years ago, he even killed one of his associates, Chase Hughes, for threatening to rat out their operation.

On record, though, Hughes died of suicide.

Bertie's wrists and ankles are currently bound to the chair. A blindfold covers his eyes. He does not know where we are, who we are, or what we want with him. His screams and protests are muffled by the duct tape on his mouth.

The man looks ready to piss his pants.

Bene.

I want to make an impression on him. Perhaps, this way, he may cooperate without the need to employ harsher interrogation tactics. I will take no pleasure in using Bertie as collateral damage, but I cannot afford to be a gentleman. Not when I am dealing with gruesome fucks like the Beltráns.

They have come to destroy mia famiglia's legacy.

They have violated and threatened my fiancée.

I must show them that every action has a consequence. Consequences that bear broken bones and ruined lives.

I reach over to rip the tape from Bertie's mouth.

He lets out a shriek of pain followed by a fearful stammer, "Wh-Who are you?"

I speak in low tones, an almost-whisper, to mask my voice. "Do not worry about who I may be. The only person you should be worried about is yourself."

"What do you want with me?" he whimpers.

"Your cooperation."

"Fuck off!"

I grab my gun and ram the end of the grip into Bertie' temple. It knocks his head backward. He groans in distress. The blow does not draw blood, but it leaves a dark bruise. Patiently, I explain, "I do not think you comprehend your predicament. Let me speak clearly since you seem to be slow on the uptake. Tell me everything you know about Ted Manning."

He screeches, "What if I don't know shit about Ted Manning?"

Ignoring his hysterics, I relay calmly, "You cannot see it, but there is a table in front of you. On the table, I have prepared a loaded gun. A glass of water with a bottle of antidepressants. A razor blade. And a pen and paper."

This is the exact same setup Bertie presented Hughes all those years ago. According to Monte's sources, Bertie forced Hughes, at gunpoint, to write a suicide note before choosing one of three ways to take his own life. Bertie tenses up. His pasty complexion grows even paler.

Bertie tries to play dumb, but the guilty tremor in his voice betrays him, "You have the wrong guy. I-I really don't know you're going on about. Just let me go!"

"You do not know Manning?"

He makes one last attempt to play dumb, "N-Never heard of him."

Bertie's defiance annoys me, but I suppose it would have been disappointing if he surrendered too easily. I would imagine that men with loose tongues do not survive long under the Beltráns. My jaw tightens. If he wishes to play hard ball, then I will play harder. I barely recognize the cold, soulless timbre in my words when I growl, "That is a shame. I was hoping to wrap this up in an hour or two. Your loving wife and two teenage sons must be eager for you to come home."
He grits his jaw. "Are you threatening my family or some shit?"

"I am simply reminding you of what is at stake."

It is strange how readily these threats keep spilling from me. Maybe I am more like Bisnonno than I thought.

Bertie snarls, "Go to hell!"

My smile is all teeth. "Such a nice little townhouse that Manning set up for you and your family. It is near Brixton, no? On Tunstall Lane? I would hate to see something happen to it simply because you refuse to cooperate."

This finally strikes a chord in Bertie. He appears to be a family man at heart. In strained, high-pitched tones, he relents, "Alright, alright. Fine. Maybe I do know a little about Ted. Just leave my family out of this. Please!"

For the time being, I lower my gun and praise softly, "Good man. I knew you had it in you."

"I'm getting too old for this shit," Bertie mutters under his breath. Then, nervously, he begins to ramble, "Look, mate. I've done some things for Manning that I'm not proud of. I've already left that life behind. For good. If you want me to talk, you'll have to protect me. I'll need safe passage out of this country. Or else Manning will make sure that I'm a dead man, anyway."

Without hesitating, I agree to his request, "Done."

This is a lie, of course. I owe him nothing.

His voice drips with suspicion, "How can I trust you?"

I dig the barrel of my Beretta back into his temple. A dark chuckle escapes me. "My friend, might I remind you? You have no choice but to trust me right now."

"Noted," he grunts with despair.

I spend the next hour and forty-six minutes in Bertie's company. It is time well spent. He answers all of my questions. I collect dozens of damning names and even more damning skeletons. After ten years of service under Manning and the Beltráns, Bertie is a never-ending well of information.

"I swear, mate, that's as much as I know," he whines toward the end of my interrogation.

"I have one more question."

Bertie groans helplessly, "What?"

"What do you know about Rupert Senarath?"

Bertie stammers, "I-I may have heard Ted mention his name once or twice."

Cazzo.

"Was he working for Manning as well?"

"Yes."

"On the Gravinski account?"

"He was the one who helped transfer some of the initial funds."

"What about his daughter? Did she have a hand in any of it?" I demand, doing all I can to keep the desperation from seeping into my voice. I cannot let him know how much his answer matters to me.

"I-I didn't know Rupert had a daughter. He never mentioned anything about his family."

Relief sinks in. "So... she has never worked for Manning?"

"Not that I know of."

Thank fuck.

Bertie has not proven Aria to be innocent, exactly, but, at least, he did not confirm her guilt. My sense of relief turns into hope. Hope—that my trust in her has not been misplaced. In contrast, I have mixed feelings about Aria's father. The more I learn about him, the less I want anything to do with him.

Around 9 pm, I have Nils Junior drop him off, unbound but still blindfolded, in an alleyway near his home on Tunstall Lane.

On my way back to Aria's flat, I call up Monte and inform him in Italian, "Bertie sang like a bird."

"Does this mean everything is going to plan?" Monte inquires.

"SÌ," I reply. "As we speak, Carl's men are preparing a secure VPN to contact Manning's entire network. At midnight, each and every one of them will receive the same email recounting their dirty deeds from the past ten years. The message will be anonymous and untraceable, of course."

"Well done, Nicco."

"How long do you think it will take these bastards to turn on each other?"

He gives a pause on the other end of the line. "I give them one week."

"Your faith in human nature is commendable."

Surprised, he asks, "How long would you give them?"

"No more than a day or two," I drawl. "When devils like them are under threat, they will devour each other like cannibals."

Monte questions me like an old dog questioning a young pup, "What do you know of devils?"

"More than you think," I murmur with a grimace. "In case you have forgotten, Mamma and Papà sent me to the finest schools with the spawn of devils. Sons of politicians. Daughters of CEOs. They were my classmates, and I know their brand of treachery quite well."

"I am glad to hear that your education was not wasted, after all."

"I am sorry that it took me this long to come around," I mutter, "but I finally understand what I must do. As a son, a man, and a Vitale."

"Does it frighten you?"

"SÌ," I answer tightly, "but I am ready for war."

***

ARIA

Once Nicco leaves to meet his friend for dinner, I give it twenty minutes before taking the elevator up to the twelfth floor. Guilt sits in the pit of my stomach even though I've done nothing wrong. I need to tell Nicco everything. Soon. I really should.

It's 7:35 pm when I find myself walking into Manning's office. I'm greeted with the warmth of an arctic breeze.

"Good evening, Ms. Senarath."

The sharpness of his tone cuts through the air like a blade.

I gulp. "Hello, Mr. Manning. It's good to see you again."

He gives me a critical once-over. Chilling blue eyes bore into me the way a snake might regard a rodent.

"You're Rupert's daughter, correct? I see traces of your father in you," Mr. Manning remarks in a manner that doesn't sound complimentary at all. "I hope you will prove to be as dependable as he has been."

It's confirmed then.

Appa has been working for Manning.

Fuck.

I smile to mask my fear. "You know what they say. Like father, like daughter. You can count on me, sir."

Manning scoffs as though he doesn't believe me. "Your father has always been a loyal man. You, though? I'm not blind. I know you've been spending a lot of time with Vitale outside of work hours."

I fire back calmly, "I'm Mr. Vitale's personal assistant. It's my job to assist him even if I have to work overtime."

"I hope he's paying you," Mr. Manning retorts crudely, "for the extra late-night services you've been... providing."

I fight the flush that's rising up my neck. It seems that Manning knows something about the sex tape, and this possibility absolutely mortifies me.

"I don't understand what you're trying to insinuate, sir," I murmur with fists clenched at my sides, "but isn't it more beneficial to our cause if Mr. Vitale trusts me?"

"Of course it benefits us for Vitale to trust you," he snaps. "Vitale's trust in you, however, isn't the issue here. It's your loyalty to us that I question."

I keep smiling, using it as a shield against Manning's accusation. "It doesn't matter how you feel as long as Jaime trusts me. At the end of the day, I answer to him and not you. Jaime instructed me, specifically, to get as close to Mr. Vitale as possible for the sake of the Gravinski account. I'm simply following the boss' orders."

Manning shoots me a death glare. "That mouth of yours is getting too smart for my liking."

"In that case, why don't you do all the talking?" I offer coolly. "I understand you have some important information to share with me regarding the Gravinski account?"

He glares at me for a few more seconds before giving in to my request.

"Take a seat." Manning gestures to one of the armchairs in front of his desk. "This could take a while."

Afraid to stop smiling, I sit down. "Well, then. Shall we get started?"

I spend the next two hours with Manning, learning the ins and outs of the infamous Gravinski account. He tells me about the shell companies that serve as a bridge between Jaime's money, Payton Llooyd, and Jackson & James. Their end goal is to cleanse ten million pounds worth of assets by merging several smaller accounts under the Gravinski account. Apparently, the manager who was previously in Nicco's position, Thomas Bleekman, resigned because he didn't want to play along with their underhanded tactics.

"Where's Mr. Bleekman now?" I dare to ask.

"There was an unfortunate accident shortly after he left Jackson & James," Manning informs me with all the relish of a sociopath. "I believe the poor fellow is currently in a coma."

I gasp. "Did Jaime—"

Manning cuts me off, "Bleekman should've played along when we gave him the chance."

Right now, they need Nicco's approval on several contracts to move things along, and they're hoping to take advantage of his inexperience and indifference toward work in general.

"Just find a way to get Vitale's signatures on the documents I've sent him," Manning commands.

"Of course." I smile and nod through the whole ordeal, but what Manning doesn't know is that for every detail I've been collecting, I've also been making a mental note on how it can be used to sabotage them later on.

Around 9:30 pm, we part ways with a handshake. But, as I try to retract my hand, Manning doesn't let go right away.

"Don't disappoint us, Ms. Senarath," he drawls in a sing-song voice, tightening his grip around my wrist. "Remember what I told you about Mr. Bleekman. I'd hate for something similar to happen to your father."

My eyes narrow.

That's a threat if I ever heard one.

"Don't worry, Mr. Manning," I assure him. "I understand what's at stake here. You can trust me."

He loosens his hold on me. "Good night, Ms. Senarath."

I remove my hand from his clutches and offer in pleasant tones, "Good night, Mr. Manning. I'll be in touch."

As I turn away from him and head toward the door, only then does the smile fade from my face.