Chapter 59: You Got The Girl

“Are you sure you can still win this battle, Cassidy?” Luca asked mildly, tilting his head.

Cassidy swallowed hard. His throat burned. His pride lay in ruins at his feet, trampled beyond recognition. “You win,” he said hoarsely. “You win. You got the girl.” His shoulders sagged, exhaustion flooding in now that resistance was pointless. “Now let me go.”

Luca smiled. “Not yet,” he said.

He circled Cassidy once. “Ground rules,” Luca continued. “You will be watched twenty-four seven. Every call. Every step. Every breath.” He stopped in front of him again. “If you even breathe ten centimetres around the police, you’re a dead man.”

“Vee does not love you,” Luca went on, each word precise, designed to land where it hurt most. “Not when she has me. Someone who can actually protect her. I have more power in my little finger than you could ever rack up in your entire skeletal system.”

“You were never a contender,” Luca finished. “You were just something she outgrew.”

Cassidy closed his eyes, the last of his resistance collapsing inward.

Luca turned away without another glance, the dismissal absolute. He lifted two fingers in a small, economical gesture, and his man moved instantly. A hood was yanked down over Cassidy’s head, the fabric rough and smelling faintly of sweat. Cassidy sucked in a sharp breath, disoriented, panic flaring too late to matter.

The ropes binding his wrists were cut next. Freedom delivered.

“Strip him and dump him on the streets,” Luca ordered flatly, already walking away.

Cassidy was no longer a person in Luca’s mind. He was debris. Luca exited the cell through the false wall, the mechanism sliding closed behind him.

He hadn’t taken three steps into the corridor when one of the men approached. “Julian is waiting in your office.”

“Shit,” Luca muttered.

He rolled his shoulders once, irritation settling in his spine. He was not in the mood for Julian. He already knew how this would go. Julian would be smug, righteous, rehearsed. Julian would talk about optics and tradition and consequences while coveting everything Luca touched.

And worse, Julian would have reported last night’s events to their father.

That part surprised Luca more than he cared to admit. The senior Genovese hadn’t called yet.

You do not hurt family.

That was the Genovese mantra. It wasn’t written anywhere. It didn’t need to be. It was carved into bone. You hurt family, you die. Luca had lived his entire life inside that rule.

He strolled back to his office.

Julian was already seated when Luca entered, legs crossed comfortably in Luca’s chair. Julian had always had a talent for occupying space that wasn’t his. He was built leaner than Luca, sharper features, carefully cultivated charm.

“What’s the problem, Julian?” Luca asked, not bothering with a greeting, not slowing his stride as he moved to the desk.

“Father sent me,” Julian drawled, settling deeper into the chair. “You could have saved me the trip if you’d agreed to talk to me last night. But instead, you tried to stab me with a knife.”

Luca scoffed, a short, ugly sound. “Awww… poor baby.” He tilted his head, mock sympathy dripping from every syllable. “Did you run to Father already?”

“In time, Luca. In time.” He rose slowly from the chair. “Father will eventually see that you have no idea what you’re doing with the Genovese legacy.”

Luca straightened. “What did Father ask you to tell me, Julian?”

Julian exhaled. “He wants me to oversee the Bastardi exchange.” He paused deliberately. “The Bastiones are making filthy moves in Italy. Father wants them cut down.” His eyes flicked up. “So he needs those schematics. And he doesn’t want anything to go wrong.”

“What could possibly go wrong?” Luca said.

“Judging from the last exchange, Father doesn’t want to take any chances.”

“Fine,” Luca said finally. “The exchange is happening Friday. Marco will text you the details of the meet.”

“No can do.”

Luca’s eyes darkened. “Excuse me?”

“I have to be with the package before it leaves the safe house,” Julian asserted. “Father’s orders.”

“Fine,” Luca snapped, the last shred of patience burning out of him. “Do whatever you want. If that is all, get the fuck out of my office.”

Julian paused at the doorway, one hand resting casually on the frame. He turned just enough for his smile to be visible. “Enjoy the view from the top, Luciano,” he said smoothly. “You will fall soon.”

“You are so damned lucky,” Luca said, “that you have the rules of the familia to hide behind. So damned lucky.”

Julian chuckled. “And you,” he replied calmly, “are lucky to be the golden son.”

They never pretended otherwise. The disdain between them had never been subtle, never dressed up as rivalry or misunderstood brotherly tension. It was open, corrosive, mutual. Luca disliked Julian because Julian had never liked him. That truth sat heavy and unresolved.

They shared the same father, but that was where the similarities ended. Different mothers. Different origins. Different expectations. Julian was the first son, born in Italy, raised steeped in tradition. Luca came later, American-born, his mother a citizen, his accent unmarked, his instincts shaped by New York concrete and ambition.

That single fact had tipped the scales in Luca’s favor long before either of them understood what it meant. The New York familia needed an American face. An American passport. Someone who could move through banks and boardrooms without leaving a trail of suspicion. Luca had privilege Julian never would.

And Julian had never forgiven him for it.

“Goodbye, Julian,” Luca said coldly. “I really don’t have time for chitchat.”

Golden son. The phrase echoed bitterly as Julian left.

He had paid for that title in blood. In sleepless nights. In choices that hollowed him out piece by piece. Julian saw the crown, not the weight of it. Saw the power, not the constant threat.

Julian’s involvement in Valentina’s exchange complicated things in ways Luca didn’t bother pretending to underestimate. He watched too closely, reported too faithfully.

The original plan had been simple.

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