Chapter Eighty-Nine

“Let’s run through it one more time,” Frankie urged from behind the wheel.

Gen felt the familiar flutter of nerves twist in her stomach with every mile closer the odometer counted down toward their rendezvous with Galante.

“Alright,” she replied, forcing her scattered thoughts into focus. “His name is Galante. If I want to throw him off, I call him Michele—that’ll show how close I am with Accardi.”

Frankie glanced over. “And if he asks why you’re not wearing a ring or a family crest?”

Gen’s lips pressed into a firm line. “I tell him to mind his own damn business. I’ll send him the wedding invite as soon as we shut down whatever’s screwing up the business.”

“And what exactly is going on?”

“Our casinos and racetracks are under attack. Someone’s running massive scams—horse races, card tables, you name it.”

Frankie nodded. “Good. He’s going to bring up Beatrice. Expect him to ask what you know.”

“I know everything about it. How we figured he’s coming for us, how we planted Beatrice just like he planted… um…” Gen trailed off, trying to recall the names.

“Damian and Jorge,” Frankie supplied.

“Right, Damian and Jorge. Damian and Jorge.” She repeated the names aloud until they felt solid in her mind.

“And if he demands something in exchange for handing over Beatrice?”

Gen recited her lines carefully. “Don’t take the first offer. What he really wants will come in the second or third.”

Frankie’s jaw twitched as he slowed the car to a stop at the curb. Through the window, Gen spotted four burly men guarding the entrance, their massive rifles cradled in their arms like extensions of themselves.

A whisper escaped her lips, barely audible. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can,” Frankie said with quiet certainty. “You will.”

He climbed out and circled the car to her side. Gen reminded herself of the instructions: don’t open your own door, don’t make eye contact, act like a goddamn queen. Frankie opened the door, his gaze locking onto two men stepping out from the restaurant. Gen lifted herself from the seat, her four-inch heels giving her a sense of power as she crossed the sidewalk, the formal dress Frankie had insisted she wear hugging her curves.

Her chin stayed high until one of the men blocked her path.

She scoffed, eyeing him up and down. No one was going to intimidate her.

“Move,” she ordered sharply.

The man smirked cockily. “Gotta pat you down, sweetheart.”

His hand reached out, but before his fingers brushed her arm, Frankie grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard. Gen fought the urge to flinch at the sickening snap of bones breaking. Frankie shoved the man against the wall, ignoring the four guns trained on his head.

“First day on the job?” Frankie hissed. “You don’t touch a Donna. You should be damn lucky just to be in her presence, you idiot. Try that again and I’ll put six bullets in your brain—courtesy of my boss.” He released the man, who cradled his broken wrist to his chest, grimacing. Frankie’s eyes swept to the others. “That goes for all of you. Look at her.” He gestured toward Gen, their eyes scanning her skin-tight dress. “Think she’s packing heat down there? Guess I’ll let you find out.”

The other man who’d come from inside rolled his eyes and holstered his gun. “Calm down, Frank. We still have to pat you down.”

Frankie grinned. “You know I don’t mind a good fondling, Stefano.”

Gen tried to keep her expression neutral as Stefano frisked Frankie, pulling out four guns and six knives. Frankie shrugged at her raised eyebrow. Stefano walked off with the weapons, and Frankie motioned for Gen to proceed.

She stepped into the restaurant, her eyes briefly taking in the lavish decor—the rich velvet drapes, the polished marble floors, the scent of expensive leather and faint tobacco smoke. Matteo had wanted this to be their first date spot, but Gen’s focus was elsewhere. She scanned the room until she found the man from the video: Michele. He sat in a shadowed corner booth, shoveling pasta into his mouth with careless abandon. Beside him was the woman from the same video—Beatrice—her wide eyes filled with disbelief.

Don’t look at Beatrice too long, Gen reminded herself. It only makes her seem more valuable.

She tore her gaze away and took the seat Frankie had pulled out for her. He stepped back, staying close enough to intervene if needed.

Michele still hadn’t looked up.

Gen exhaled softly. “You wanted to see us?” she asked, striving to sound bored even though her heart pounded like a drum.

“I wanted to see Accardi,” Michele said, finally lifting his eyes—but they were fixed on Frankie, not her.

“You’ve got her,” Gen replied coolly.

Michele scoffed and returned to his pasta. “I don’t see a ring on your finger. I haven’t gotten any announcements. You’re no Accardi.”

Gen let out a humorless chuckle, grateful beyond words that Frankie had prepared her for this kind of callousness. “I’ll send you a personal invitation to the wedding when we can step away for more than two minutes without some entitled asshole sending us videos begging for attention like a toddler desperate for his mother’s love.”

The clink of silverware on the plate punctuated his next move as he set down his knife and fork. Raising a napkin to his mouth, he leaned back and finally looked at her. Cold. That was the only word for it. His eyes were black pits, endless and empty like a cave. She imagined dropping a pebble into that darkness and never hearing the splash. He threw the napkin on the table, his gaze sharp and calculating. He smirked, and she knew he’d caught a hint of her fear.

“I heard you’ve got a sharp tongue,” he said.

“And I heard you have something of mine,” she shot back, deliberately not looking at Beatrice. He’d try to change the subject, to disarm her, to make her doubt herself. She forced him to stay on point.

Michele sighed and glanced at Beatrice, curling his index finger as he traced a slow line down her arm. Gen had to admire the woman’s strength—bloodied and beaten, yet unshaken. She didn’t flinch or shiver. The only sign of pain was the narrowing of her eyes into thin slits.

“He almost had me fooled with this one. Such a beauty. Even got me into bed. Luckily, my second-in-command, Stefano—you met him at the door—is more cautious when it comes to women I fancy. He did his due diligence. Saved me from a temptress.”

Michele backhanded Beatrice, sending her crashing to the floor. Frankie stepped forward, but Gen raised her hand to stop him. He’d hit her once, maybe twice, just to gauge her reaction. Don’t give him that satisfaction. She wished Frankie would take his own advice.

Michele’s eyes flicked from Gen’s face to her raised hand, then to Frankie, ready to strike.

“Take two steps back, Frankie,” Gen commanded, her voice steady.

“Donna…” Frankie started.

“Now.”

Frankie sighed but obeyed.

“Good for you,” Michele said, nodding at Gen. “Tell me, did you use clicker training or the electric collar? I prefer electric.”

“What do you want, Galante?”

Michele chuckled darkly. “You can’t give me what I want.”

“Try me.”

“I want the club.”

Gen burst out laughing, no need to fake it. “That dingy old place? I wish I could dump it in your lap. Think of how much we’d save on cleaning alone…” She whistled softly, amusement flickering across her face. Then her smile faded. “Unfortunately, you know I can’t do that. Damiano built it. Valentina’s place is next door. You know how sentimental the Accardis are.”

Michele raised an eyebrow, and Gen was thankful Frankie had shared Matteo’s father’s real name. It clearly made an impression. Michele pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Gen couldn’t help but smile—he was ready to talk when he started smoking. It was his tell. He inhaled deeply and flicked the ash onto Beatrice.

“I feel betrayed.”

“We all do at some point,” Gen said evenly. “What do you want?”

“An apology,” Michele finally said.

Gen sighed, leaning back in her chair. She tapped her nails along the table, eyes drifting around the room. An apology. If he was asking for that, they were in serious trouble. An apology wasn’t just words—it was a challenge. A duel, like something out of the 1700s. The betrayed party could pick the weapon, and the two men would face off in a field. Primitive, but the easiest way for him to challenge Accardi and come out on top. If he won, he’d claim everything Accardi owned. That was the real prize.

Gen decided to throw the script aside. Her gaze locked with his. “Did you kill his family?”

Michele’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Antonio and Valentina. You had them killed, didn’t you?”

He scoffed. “There’s no proof of that…”

“So you did. If you didn’t, you’d say so without hesitation. You killed your cousin’s family—your own blood—all to own a few casinos?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Look here, bitch…”

“No, you look here,” she shot back, leaning forward, her instinct driving her on the offensive. “You murdered my in-laws and then had the nerve to blame another family. You orchestrated the attacks on our clubs and casinos…”

Michele’s narrowed gaze told her she was wrong about at least one thing.

You scheme and walk the path of a coward, hurting and abusing a woman who was only giving you something I bet most men have to pay for. You trusted the wrong woman. Congratulations, you’re just like most men on this planet. If you think I’m going to sit here and let you take a free shot at my future husband, you’ve got another thing coming. I’m taking Beatrice to a hospital. You can make your deal with Accardi when he returns from his trip. In exchange for Beatrice, I’ll give you your apology.

Ignoring the heavy weight of fear dragging at her legs, Gen knelt and helped the battered woman to her feet, then turned back to face Michele.

“I’m so terribly sorry you didn’t get your last taste of her before she couldn’t stomach the taste of your cum and outed herself, Michele,” Gen said, voice dripping with sarcasm before she spat on the floor.

She turned her back, a shiver crawling up her spine, but she focused on walking with grace toward the exit, supporting most of Beatrice’s weight.

“You fucking bitch!” Michele roared behind her. “You think you’re leaving here alive?”

Gen stopped abruptly as the men at the door blocked her path. Her heart hammered wildly. She heard scuffling, Frankie cursing for someone to let him go. A gun cocked, and then she felt the icy barrel of a gun pressed to the back of her head.

“Maybe we can come to an agreement, so I get that one last ‘cock suck,’” Michele sneered, twisting her stomach with disgust.

Then, a second gun cocked.

“You really want to die, Michele?” a voice growled—definitely not Frankie’s.

Gen’s body went slack with relief.

“Put your fucking gun down now, or Conor takes over your family by morning,” Matteo snarled.