The red pin moves closer on Morrison’s screen.
One block away now.
Training takes over - the cold, clinical part of that’s kept the Marvin family alive for generations. The part Katherine’s only seen glimpses of. The part that built my reputation through calculated violence and ruthless efficiency.
"Vincent." My voice is flat - emotionless. "Full lockdown protocol. Now!"
He’s already moving, phone to his ear, issuing rapid commands. "All units converge on grandmother’s house. Everyone is in defensive positions. No one enters without clearance."
Thomas pulls out his own phone and makes three calls in 30 seconds. His n - the ones who’ve protected our family through wars and betrayals - mobilize like a private army.
Morrison and Chen draw their weapons with practiced efficiency. "We need to move you to a secure location-"
"No." I cut her off. "This house is defensible. High ground, limited entry points, reinforced doors from when my grandmother lived through the mob wars." I move to the windows and assess sight lines. "We hold position here."
Katherine stands frozen by the laptop, Elliot’s face still on screen, looking terrified. I cross to her, fra her face with my hands.
"Look at ." I wait until her brown eyes with those gold flecks focus on mine. "I need you to go upstairs. Third floor, back bedroom. Reinforced walls, only one entry point. Take Elliot with you when he arrives."
"Tony-"
"Katherine." My voice is steel. "I can’t think strategically if I’m worried about you being in the line of fire. Please."
She reads my face - sees the mask sliding into place, the cold operator erging, and nods. "Okay, but you co get when this is over. You co get yourself."
"Always." I kiss her forehead, then turn back to the room. The gentle lover disappears, and the mafia boss takes his place.
Vincent returns. "Periter secure. Eight n positioned outside, six inside. FBI backup en route, ETA seven minutes."
"Good." I move to the surveillance monitors, Vincent’s setting up - live feeds from security caras Thomas had installed years ago. "Show approaches."
The screens flicker to life. Four angles covering the street, alley, and both side yards.
And there - a black SUV pulling up two houses down.
"Contact," Vincent says quietly.
Five n exit the vehicle. Four are muscular - moving with military precision, checking sight lines, hands resting near concealed weapons. Professional. Dangerous.
But it’s the fifth man who holds my attention.
Angelo Torrino looks like death walking. Thin, moving carefully like everything hurts, face gaunt beneath expensive clothes that now hang loose on his fra. He’s aged twenty years since I last saw him. Whatever happened during his recovery, it took sothing vital from him.
"He looks sick," Morrison observes. "Really sick."
"Doesn’t make him less dangerous." But even as I say it, I’m reassessing. This isn’t an assault force. Five n for a defended position, holding FBI agents and Marvin’s family security? Angelo’s too smart for a suicide mission.
My phone rings. Thomas.
"Luca Torrino just arrived with twelve ard n," he says. "Says he wants to help."
"Let him in. But disarm them first."
"Already done." A pause. "Anthony, what’s the play here?"
"Don’t know yet. Angelo’s not acting like a man planning violence." I watch the monitors as Angelo slowly approaches the front steps, hands visible and empty. "He’s here to talk."
"About what?"
"That’s what worries ."
Two minutes later, Luca walks into the brownstone like he owns it - all controlled fury and barely leashed violence. His dark suit is immaculate despite the circumstances, but his eyes are wild.
"Where is he?" Luca’s voice could cut glass.
I gesture to the monitors. "Front steps. Waiting."
Luca stares at his father’s image - really stares, like he’s seeing a ghost. "He looks terrible."
"Your concern is touching," I say flatly.
"It’s not a concern." Luca’s jaw tightens. "It’s an assessnt. My father doesn’t cross into enemy territory with five n unless he’s desperate. What does he want?"
The doorbell rings.
Everyone tenses. Weapons drawn, positions taken. Morrison moves to the door, keeping to the side. "Mr. Torrino. You’re surrounded by federal agents and ard security. I suggest you state your business."
Angelo’s voice cos through the heavy wood, surprisingly steady. "Special Agent Morrison. I’m here to negotiate my surrender to federal authorities. But first, I need to speak with Miss Katherine Blaire."
Every eye turns to .
"Absolutely not," I say.
"He won’t co in without her," Morrison points out. "And we can’t arrest him on the street without risking civilian casualties if his n panic."
"So we wait him out."
"Anthony." Thomas appeared in the doorway, and behind him was Katherine. She must have heard everything on the security feed. "Let handle this."
"No." Katherine steps forward, chin up, shoulders back. She’s terrified - I can see it in the slight tremor of her hands, but her voice is steady. "He wants to talk to . So I’ll talk through a video call. Public channel, recorded, everyone listening. Not face to face."
"Katherine-"
"Tony." She ets my eyes. "You trust my judgnt or you don’t. Which is it?"
The question hangs between us. Every protective instinct screams to refuse. To lock her upstairs and handle this myself.
But we agreed. Equal partners.
"Video call only," I say finally. "First sign of threat, then we end it."
"Agreed."
Morrison sets up the laptop at the dining table, positions it so Angelo can’t see our defensive setup. Katherine sits, and I stand behind her - close enough to pull her to safety, far enough to let her lead this.
Morrison opens the front door a crack. "Mr. Torrino. Video call. That’s the offer."
A pause. Then: "Acceptable."
The laptop screen flickers. Angelo’s face appears - older, harder, dying. There’s no other word for it; the man on screen is terminal.
"Miss Blaire." His voice is rough. "Thank you for agreeing to speak with ."
"You have five minutes." Katherine’s voice doesn’t waver. "Then I hang up, and the FBI arrests you."
"Direct. I appreciate that." Angelo coughs, wet and painful. Lung cancer, maybe. Or sothing worse. "I’ll be equally direct. I’m dying. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months if I’m lucky, four if I’m not."
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