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To the way she looked at me like I was something other than what I was. To the feeling that I left something unfinished in that house in Riverdale.

I spent my entire adult life being careful. Being smart. Being the man who didn’t make mistakes, who didn’t let emotion cloud his judgment, who did what needed to be done without hesitation or regret. And in the space of one afternoon, one conversation, one moment of eye contact with a woman I barely knew, all of that had crumbled.

I was vulnerable now. Exposed. Compromised.

And I couldn’t bring myself to care.

The city lights came on as darkness fell, and I kept walking, a man who knew he was digging himself into a hole he’d never climb out of, and doing it anyway.

Because some mistakes, I was learning, were worth making.

Even if they destroyed me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Luciano’s loft was in SoHo, tucked above a gallery that sold overpriced furniture to people with more money than taste. I climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor and knocked on the paint-splattered door.

“It’s open!” His voice came from somewhere inside, muffled and distracted.

I pushed the door open and stepped into what could only be described as controlled chaos. Canvases were stacked against every wall, some finished, some half-done, some just sketches of color and shape. The smell of oil paint and turpentine hung thick in the air. Classical music played from a speaker somewhere—something Italian, operatic, dramatic.

Luciano stood in the center of the room in front of a massive canvas, a paintbrush in one hand and a palette in the other. He was wearing jeans covered in paint and nothing else, his dark hair pulled back in a knot at the base of his neck. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“If you’re here to tell me the piece isn’t ready, I already know,” he said, adding a stroke of deep blue to the canvas. “If you’re here to tell me I need to eat something, I already ate. If you’re here to tell me I look like shit, I already know that too.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re still alive,” I said.

He glanced over his shoulder, and his face broke into a grin. “Sal! What the hell are you doing in New York?”

“Business. Thought I would check on my little brother while I was here.”

“Business.” He turned back to the canvas, his brush moving in quick, confident strokes. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

“That’s what it’s always been called.”

“Right. Business.” He stepped back, tilting his head to study his work. “How’s Giovanni?”

“Same as always. Stressed. Paranoid. Wondering why one of his little brothers insists on living in a city full of people who want to kill us.”

“Nobody wants to kill me. I’m an artist. I’m neutral.”

“You’re a Valentinetti. There’s no such thing as neutral.”

Luciano shrugged, unbothered. He had always been like this, separated from the family in a way Giovanni and I could never be. Our father had let him go, had let him chase his art instead of the life the rest of us were born into. I had never been sure if it was mercy or favoritism or just pragmatism. Luc had never had the stomach for violence. He would’ve been a liability.

But he was still our brother. And that meant he was still a target, whether he wanted to believe it or not.

“Are you eating?” I asked.

“I told you, I ate.”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Maybe the day before.” He waved the paintbrush vaguely. “Time gets weird when I’m working.”

I walked to the small kitchen area and opened the fridge. It was mostly empty except for a carton of milk that was probably expired, some takeout containers, and a bottle of wine. I grabbed one of the containers and sniffed it. Chinese food. Still edible… barely.

“Eat this,” I said, setting it on the counter.