Chapter 30 The Provocation
JEREMY
Miguel had stopped screaming around 3am.
By 4am, he was dead.
Luca had called to confirm. "It's done, boss. Body will be in the river by morning."
"Good. And his story?"
"I checked it out. He was telling the truth about the Volkovs. They'd offered twenty grand to clear his debts in exchange for information on our operations."
Twenty thousand dollars. Miguel had been willing to assault Amelia, potentially rape her, for twenty thousand dollars and the clearing of a gambling debt.
Pathetic.
"Make sure the Volkovs get a message," I said. "Their collector tried to use one of our protected assets as leverage. That's not acceptable."
"What kind of message?"
"The permanent kind."
I hung up and stared at my hands. Still clean. I hadn't done the actual killing—Luca had handled that. But I'd ordered it. I watched as Miguel broke down. Listened to him beg.
And I felt nothing.
That's what my world did to you. Made death routine. Made violence necessary.
You became the kind of man who could order someone to be tortured and killed, then go home and sleep as if nothing had happened.
Except I knew I wouldn't sleep.
Not tonight.
I got home around 5am. The sun was just starting to rise, painting the sky in shades of grey and pink.
The Santoro estate was quiet. Most of the staff wouldn't be up for another hour. Only the security personnel were making their rounds as the night shift was coming to an end.
I went in through the side entrance, hoping to avoid my father or uncle.
No such luck.
Antonio was in the hallway, dressed in an expensive suit despite the hour. He probably just got home from wherever he spent his nights. Probably the same place I'd just been—overseeing violence in the name of Family business.
"Jeremy." He smiled that condescending smile. "Out late. Or early, depending on how you look at it."
I moved to walk past him. "Not now, Antonio."
"Where were you? Let me guess—dealing with that girl's problems again?"
I stopped. Turned and asked, "What, girl?"
"The blind one. From Crimson. The one you've been obsessing over for the past two weeks." He leaned against the wall. "You think your father doesn't notice? You think I haven't been keeping track?"
"What I do with my time is my business."
"Wrong. What you do reflects on the Family. And right now, you're making us look weak." He pushed off the wall and came closer. "A Santoro heir pining after some disabled whore from a bar? That's not strength, nephew. That's embarrassing."
My hand moved to my gun before I thought about it.
Antonio noticed. Smiled wider. "Go ahead. Pull it. Show your father exactly what kind of leader you'll be. The kind who shoots family members for telling uncomfortable truths."
I forced my hand away from the weapon. "She's not a whore. And she's under my protection."
"Protection." Antonio laughed. "Is that what you're calling it? How noble. How chivalrous." His voice hardened. "You're getting attached, Jeremy. That's dangerous. Your mother got attached once. Remember how that ended?"
"Don't talk about my mother."
"Why not? She's a perfect example. She cared too much about someone who couldn't help the Family. She got herself killed for it. And now you're making the same mistake." He studied me. "Your father sees it too. He's just waiting to see if you'll snap out of it or if he needs to make other arrangements for succession."
"Other arrangements."
"You're not the only Santoro who could lead, nephew. There are cousins. Distant relatives. Men who understand that business comes before sentiment." He straightened his tie. "Think about that next time you're rushing off to save your blind princess."
He walked away, whistling softly.
I stood there, blood still pounding in my ears, hand was still itching to pull my gun.
He was baiting me. Testing me. He was trying to provoke a reaction from me that would convince my father I was unstable.
I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I went upstairs to my room. Stripped off my clothes—they smelt like warehouse and blood and Miguel's fear. Stepped into the shower.
Let the hot water wash away the physical evidence of what I'd done.
The guilt, the doubt, the growing certainty that Antonio was right about me getting too attached—those didn't wash away as easily.
By 6am, I was dressed again. Clean suit. Fresh cologne. Every trace of violence scrubbed away.
But I could still hear Miguel's screams. Could still see Amelia's torn dress. Could still hear Antonio's voice: You're making the same mistake your mother made.
I needed a drink.
More than that, I needed to...
I grabbed my phone and texted my driver. Crimson. Thirty minutes.
Marco looked surprised when I walked into Crimson at 7am.
"Santoro. Didn't expect you this early."
"Private room available?" I asked, sitting down.
"Always for you." He studied my face. "You look like shit."
"Long night."
"The Miguel situation?"
"I've handled it."
"Good." He said and poured me a whisky without asking. "You want company?"
I should say no. Should go home and get a few hours of sleep before my flight to Chicago this afternoon. I should focus on the family business, as my father wanted.
Instead, I heard myself say, "Send Amelia."
Marco's eyebrows rose. "It's 7am. She's probably asleep."
"Wake her."
"Jeremy—" he said surprisingly.
"I'm not asking for a debate. Send her to room three. Now."
Marco studied me for another moment, then nodded. "Give me ten minutes."
AMELIA
The knock on my door jolted me awake.
Nina's voice called out to me, "Amelia." "You awake?"
I sat up, disoriented. I'd finally fallen asleep around dawn, exhausted from lying awake all night.
"I am now. What time is it?"
"A little after seven. You have a customer."
My stomach dropped. "What? Marco said I wasn't working—"
"You're not. But Santoro's here. He asked for you specifically."
Santoro.
"I don't understand."
"Neither do I. But when Jeremy Santoro asks for something at 7am, looking like he's been to hell and back, you don't ask questions. Get dressed. Something comfortable—he didn't specify anything particular."
Twenty minutes later, I was following Nina down the stairs, my heart hammering.
What did he want? Why now? Was this about Miguel? About yesterday?
"Room three," Nina said, stopping outside a door. "Same one as before."
The one where I'd slapped him. Where he'd passed out drunk.
This felt like a terrible idea.
Nina knocked once. "She's here."
"Send her in."
Nina squeezed my hand once, then left.
I stood outside the door, and I gripped my cane tightly, trying to steady my breathing.
Just open it. Find out what he wants. Get through this.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.