Chapter 2

Ferraro rests his shoulder against the cold bars of his cell, his strong arms folded across his chest.

What was he doing in this local prison, designed to handle the overflow from the city's out-of-control gangs? He was their king, after all.

And to think, Ferraro had chosen to be here.

A sneer curls his lip as he shakes his head, questioning whether he made the right choice in deliberately getting himself caught, all for the slim opportunity to speak with the warden.

Two police officers approached him. “Ferraro?” one of them asks. “The warden wants to see you.” They cuff him and lead him to the warden’s office.

Ferraro takes a seat in front of him, silent, waiting for the officers to exit.

“So,” Beau says, shutting his file. “I’m surprised you had the guts to come to my turn for a negotiation, Ferraro. That’s bold.”

What the public doesn’t realize is that Warden Beau doesn’t just run this prison; he uses his power to carve out a substantial role in the city’s underworld. He’s as corrupt as the rest of them, and if any rival bosses dare to cross him? He simply locks them up.

It’s a powerful advantage in a world where a stint in prison is one of the few things that can rein in a gangster.

“I’ll be out soon enough,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “But first, we need to talk about Declan.”

“Declan?” Beau studies him intently. “He’s a coward.”

Ferraro shakes his head slowly. “He’s just a kid, trying to make his way into the heroin trade. But being inexperienced means he lacks the toughness and the resources to manage it.” He takes a moment to assess Beau.

“He’s being cornered,” Ferraro presses on, “and it’s turning him ruthless. He’s skipping family meetings and killing without hesitation—made men and wise guys as well. We have to stop him, Beau. If we don’t, he’s going to ruin everything for all of us.”

Beau leans back in his chair, deep in thought.

Ferraro braces himself, locking eyes with Beau. Mason, his cousin and second-in-command, had warned him it was reckless to confine himself for months just to have a conversation with Beau. But Ferraro trusted his instincts; he believed this was the right move. Forming an alliance with Beau against Declan was bound to pay off—big time.

“I get what you’re saying,” Beau replies, exhaling through his nose. “Declan’s gotten a bit too full of himself, hasn’t he? It’s a fragile ecosystem,” he adds, gesturing with his hands like a set of scales to illustrate the balance. “We all have our roles to play. If he oversteps, he risks ruining it for everyone.”

Beau nods, weighing his words carefully before he speaks again. “I have to say, Ferraro, I’m impressed by your determination in this situation. I’ve done a good job of isolating myself and keeping safe, yet you managed to find a way in. Not many would dare to come to my territory and stick around just for a meeting with me. I respect that. You’re a true boss, a solid guy. I’m glad to know this about you.” Ferraro nods in response, silently affirming Beau’s assessment. That’s precisely the impression he wanted to leave. “Declan’s a rabid dog,” Ferraro says. “We need to take him out. I’ll handle the muscle; all I ask is that you stay out of it. As for the rewards… we’ll split them fifty-fifty.”

Beau studies him thoughtfully. “I want eighty-twenty for my agreement to let you take the lead on this.”

Ferraro keeps his frustration in check. Truth be told, he doesn’t care if Beau takes it all—Beau may have influence, but he’s always short on cash, a problem Ferraro doesn’t face. Still, he can’t let himself be steamrolled. “Sixty-forty,” he replies firmly.

Beau shrugs, neither agreeing nor dismissing the offer. “What about the other bosses?” he asks. “Are you expecting any rejection from Jackson?”

Ferraro shakes his head sharply. “Jackson's distracted. His gang is running the game, but he’s caught up with some new lead about his missing kid.” He waves a hand dismissively. “He’s not going to pick a side.”

Beau nods, a small smile creeping onto his face, and Ferraro realizes that Beau is already aware of this. He may not have cash, but he certainly deals in secrets. It’s likely that Jackson got that lead from him in the first place. Ferraro narrows his eyes, understanding that the question is a test.

He doesn’t appreciate being put to the test. “So, do we have a deal?”

Beau shrugs, remaining noncommittal. He swivels in his chair to gaze at a calendar hanging on the wall, featuring a stunning vineyard in Europe. “You know, I enjoyed a lovely glass of wine the other day. From Napa. But I have to say, Ferraro,” he turns to meet Ferraro’s gaze directly, “it left me feeling a bit parched, a little…too dry.”

Beau's lips curl into a chilling smirk. “You wouldn’t happen to know… anywhere else a man could find a finer glass of wine. A truly good drink. Would you?”

Ferraro glances at the calendar once more, suddenly realizing that the image on the wall is of his vineyard, likely a promotional gift for tourists. Beau had anticipated Ferraro's question even before entering the room, fully aware of the price for his cooperation.

“France,” Beau says slowly, narrowing his eyes as he studies Ferraro. Maybe this alliance isn’t as straightforward as it seems. “The best wine in the world comes from France.”

“I’d love to try that wine,” Beau replies, turning back to the picture with an air of innocence. “I’d like to break into the industry too. Maybe even own some property there one day.”

“Consider it done,” Ferraro says. It’s a price worth paying.

It was a productive meeting. Ferraro leaves feeling satisfied.

As they make their way down the hall, one of the officers glances over at him. “We’ve been instructed to take you for your psychological assessment before we return you to your cell,” he says. Ferraro shoots him a glare but remains silent.

The police shrugs. “Standard procedure, Ferraro. Every prisoner has to go through it.”

Ferraro keeps his mouth shut, trailing behind. Beau is pushing it, forcing him into psychological testing when he’ll be out of here by tomorrow. It’s just another attempt to gather more secrets.

Ferraro trails behind the officers to a stone cell at the end of the hallway, spotting his lawyer waiting outside the door. The lawyer rolls his eyes at him and gestures to his watch, signaling that he’ll have Ferraro out of here soon. Ferraro nods, then shifts his focus to the door.

When it finally swings open, he’s taken aback to find a girl inside.

Not a girl, perhaps, but a young woman—twenty-four at most. She stands up, clearly anxious, biting her lip and fiddling with the long red ponytail that drapes over her shoulder. Her mouth falls slightly open as she takes him in.

God damn it, Ferraro thinks, his entire body tensing at the sight of her—those long legs, knocked at the knees with anxiety, her short white skirt, and that ridiculous blazer she wears to command respect from people like him.

From a single glance, he can see that she’s as pure as the driven snow—ambitious yet struggling, eager to make her mark. His gaze sweeps over her, imagining how she would look if he tore that blazer away. He finds himself drawn to her red lips, slightly parted.

A sharp breath escapes him at the sight of those lips and the possibilities they hold.

“Um,” she says, her voice hesitant.

He quickly refocuses on her jewel-blue eyes.

“My name is Molly Wright. I’m here to conduct your preliminary interview for the state psychological assessment.”

Ferraro grits his teeth, fighting the urge to smile at the way her statements come out as questions. She’s perfect—this little angel. The wild, untamed part of him can’t help but wonder what she would look like with a touch of the underworld’s grime smudged across her.

“Hello, Molly,” he says, his voice low and filled with desire as he steps closer and takes his seat. “So, where shall we start?”