Luca's question died in his throat, strangled by the frost in my voice. The moment the black sedan rolled to a stop before the apartment tower—his tower, never mine—I ended the call without ceremony.
The night air carried the scent of coming rain as I stepped onto the pavement. My phone buzzed incessantly, the Family's internal network flooding with notifications. I opened the thread to find over ninety-nine unread messages, all spawned from a single photograph Celina Vitale had posted at the top.
The image showed Luca Haskins on his knees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, repairing electrical wiring and plumbing in what appeared to be her modest quarters.
"Who else has a Boss this generous with his time?" she had written beneath it. "I'd pledge my life to this Family. Can I take a blood oath right now?"
The comments cascaded beneath her post like offerings at a shrine—envy dressed as admiration.
"I've never seen the Boss lower himself like this. Doesn't the staff say he won't touch anything beneath his station? This doesn't look like a man with standards."