Page 77 of Broken Honor

“Should we pay him a visit?”

“No.” I shake my head. “If he knows anything, a visit will spook him. We need to make him feel comfortable. Like we’re not looking.”

A long pause. “How do you want to play it?”

“I’ll handle Lapo myself.”

I end the call and sit back, piecing it together. Lapo’s name is on the guest list for the dinner. That weasel never misses a chance to rub shoulders with power. He’d crawl across broken glass to be seen on the arm of a don.

The dinner will be the perfect place to test him. If he has something worth hiding, it’ll be in the way he talks. The way his hands twitch. The way his voice strains when diamonds are brought up casually in conversation. And if he’s holding something—anything—I’ll squeeze it out of him.

Lapo was a talker. A bragger. Always had to remind people how clever he was. And clever men loved to flaunt what they shouldn’t have.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the desk.

All I need to do is bait the hook and let the idiot bite.

Let him open that mouth.

And when he does—I’ll be there.

******

The cufflinks click into place as I straighten the sleeves of my jacket. My reflection stares back—sharp suit, cleaner than usual shave, tie neat.

I walk into the hallway from my study where I got dressed. My brothers are already lined up like a bad movie cast, dressed in Brioni.

“Look at you bastards,” I mutter, lips curving slightly. “Almost look human.”

Alfio adjusts his tie and smirks. “We heard you're bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

“You mean captive,” Omero throws in.

Riccardo snorts under his breath and Enzo—of course—just sighs and glances at the ceiling like he’s been blessed with a higher level of patience than the rest of us.

I arch a brow. “This is a big night. I need you idiots to behave.”

My gaze cuts to Riccardo.

“What?” he barks like a kicked dog.

“Don’t pull anything. Don’t start anything. Keep your eyes peeled. Bellandi’s going to try baiting us—he’ll test the waters, make digs. Let him. Tonight, he’s our loving uncle. Like a father to us. You understand?”

Alfio rubs his neck and mutters, “Sure.”

Omero grumbles a sound that could pass as agreement.

Riccardo stretches his jaw and looks away.

The grandfather clock chimes once—clean, regal. Nine p.m.

I roll my shoulders back. “Wait in the cars. Load your pieces and slide them in clean. No bulges.”

Riccardo groans. “We’re also supposed to act like we know your toy?”

“Like she’s your future sister-in-law,” I deadpan.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grits out.

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