Page 3

“Arms out.”

I complied, letting the man pat me down. I’d left my gun in Chicago. Even I knew bringing a weapon into Nolan Kelley’s house would be suicide. The man’s hands were thorough and professional, checking all the places where someone might hide a knife or a wire.

“Clean,” the man said finally. He stepped back. “Follow me.”

I walked into the house and immediately started counting.

Two men in the hallway. One in the living room to his left, pretending to read a newspaper. Another at the top of the stairs, not even pretending. Four men, minimum, probably more. All armed. All watching me.

The house smelled of vanilla and something underneath it, something sour and rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun. The walls were covered in expensive wallpaper, the floors were hardwood, and the furniture was the kind you saw in magazines. Everything screamed respectability, but I knew better. You couldn’t wash blood out of a house like this. You could only cover it up.

The muscle led me down a hallway lined with family photographs. I glanced at them as I passed. Kelley with a thin, pale woman who looked like she was fading away. Kelley shaking hands with men I recognized from the Boston families. A wedding photo where both the bride and groom looked like they were attending a funeral.

No children.

Interesting.

We stopped at a heavy oak door. The muscle knocked twice, then pushed it open without waiting for a response.

“Valentinetti,” he announced.

I walked into Nolan Kelley’s office and felt the trap close around me.

The room was designed to intimidate. Big desk. High-backed leather chair. Bookshelves lined with law books and first editions that Kelley had probably never read. A window behind the desk overlooked the garden, which meant Kelley would be backlit, his face in shadow. Two exits. The door I had just walked through, and a second door to my right that probably led to a bathroom or a closet. No windows except the one behind Kelley.

One way in. One way out.

Nolan Kelley sat behind his desk like a king on a throne, and he didn’t stand when I entered.

I had anticipated that. It was a power move, a way of saying you’re in my house, you play by my rules. I didn’t react. I simply stood there, hands loose at my sides, and waited.

Kelley was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick through the middle, with a face that might once have been handsome but had curdled into something mean. His eyes were the color of dirt, and they assessed me with the kind of cold calculation that only came from years of violence. The faint scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of whiskey from a glass on Kelley’s desk. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked steadily, its sound scarcely audible beneath the heavy silence.

“Valentinetti,” Kelley said. Not Mr. Valentinetti. Just my name, flat and dismissive, like a verdict.

“Mr. Kelley,” I replied. My voice was even and respectful. I didn’t offer my hand. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my face neutral. I refused to let Kelley see an ounce of fear.

“I was expecting your brother.”

“Giovanni sends his regrets. He had business in Philadelphia that couldn’t wait.” The room felt close, the air thick against my skin. I could feel every second stretching out, taut as wire.

“Business.” Kelley’s mouth twisted. “That’s what we’re calling it now?”

I didn’t take the bait. I stood there, waiting. I shifted my weight, every nerve tuned to the possibility of sudden movement.

Kelley stared at me for a long moment, then waved at the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

The leather of the chair creaked as I sat down. I didn’t cross my legs or lean back. I kept my posture open but alert, my hands resting on the arms of the chair. I was keenly aware of the door behind me, of the men in the hallway, of the fact that I was alone in a room with a man who had every reason to want me dead. I wondered, just for a moment, if he would.

“You want access to my ports,” Kelley said. It wasn’t a question. His voice echoed against wood-paneled walls, the glow from a dusty lamp casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere outside, the muffled wail of a distant siren barely pierced the thick glass. The faint aroma of cigar smoke drifted heavy, tangling in the air, mixing with the sharper scent of whiskey.

“We’re exploring options for mutual benefit,” I said. I kept my tone measured and steady, refusing to betray the anxiety behind my words. If Kelley shut me down here, months of planning would evaporate, along with any hope of keeping our operation afloat. I reminded myself to stay calm, not to rise to his provocations; a slip could cost far more than pride.

“Mutual benefit.” Kelley snorted. “You mean you need an alternative route because the Feds have your balls in a vise, and you think the Irish are stupid enough to help you?” He shifted in his chair, knuckles whitening as he gripped the armrest, eyes narrowing with a predator’s patience.

“I think the Irish are smart enough to recognize an opportunity when they see one.” I watched his hands for any sudden movement, my senses tuned to the smallest shift in his demeanor.

“An opportunity.” Kelley leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking loudly in the silence. The room seemed to shrink, shadows lengthening as he studied me. “You come into my house, into my city, and you call it an opportunity. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”