The problem with immortality, Rio had discovered across more lives than he cared to count, was that it made everything boring.
Not the dying part—that was usually exciting in the worst possible way. The gunshot, the knife, the fall, the drowning, the—well, he'd lost track of the variations. Death itself was fine. Quick, painful, and then nothing until the next life started with the same inexplicable reset.
No, the boring part was everything in between.
Like right now.
Rio Ceriano leaned against the bar of his speakeasy, watching Tommy Henderson try to work up the courage to ask Mary Castellano to dance. Tommy had been building toward this moment for three weeks. Three. Weeks. At this rate, Prohibition would end before the kid made his move.
"You gonna help him or just watch him suffer?" Sarah, his best waitress, slid past with a tray of bootleg whiskey that smelled like it might actually be quality tonight.
"Watching is more entertaining." Rio polished a glass that didn't need polishing. "Besides, he'll either do it or he won't. My input won't change anything."
"You're a terrible romantic."
"I'm a realistic one."
Sarah rolled her eyes and disappeared into the haze of cigarette smoke that hung in the air like a permanent fog. The four-piece band in the corner played something upbeat that Rio's fragmented memory identified as jazz—new in this life, familiar from another. Or maybe he just knew music. The fragments were like that. Unreliable narrators of his own existence.
The speakeasy was doing well. Better than well, actually. Rio had a gift for reading people, for knowing what they wanted before they did, for defusing tension before it became violence. Skills that came from somewhere he couldn't quite remember but couldn't forget either.
A group of regulars occupied their usual corner booth. Two businessmen making a deal they didn't want their wives knowing about sat at the small table near the stage. Three working girls laughed too loud at the bar, drinks on the house because they brought in customers. Everything was exactly as it should be.
Rio wanted to scream from the monotony of it all.
"Another drink, handsome?" The woman at the bar leaned forward, giving him an excellent view of exactly what she was offering beyond the whiskey.
"On the house." Rio poured, let his eyes linger just long enough to acknowledge the invitation, then moved to the next customer. She was attractive. He knew from experience she'd be enthusiastic. And he'd be bored before it was over, wondering why he bothered.
This is what peace looks like, he reminded himself. Safe. Stable. Successful. No one trying to kill you. Isn't this what you wanted?
Apparently not, if the restless energy crawling under his skin was any indication.
A glass shattered somewhere in the back. Rio's body moved before his brain caught up—sliding around the bar, hand reaching for the weighted blackjack he kept hidden beneath the register, eyes cataloguing exits and threats and trajectories with the practiced ease of someone who'd fought their way out of too many bad situations to count.
"Sorry, boss!" Marco, the newest hire, stood over the broken glass with the expression of a man expecting to be fired. "Slipped right out of my hands."
Rio forced his shoulders to relax. Made himself smile. Tucked the blackjack back into its hiding place. "Clean it up. Happens to everyone."
But his hands were steady as they returned to pouring drinks. His heartbeat hadn't elevated at all. The combat readiness that had flooded his system faded like it had never been there, muscle memory returning to whatever dark corner of his mind stored things he shouldn't know how to do.
Where did I learn that? The question was pointless. He never remembered. Just woke up one day as a kid knowing how to throw a punch that could drop an adult. Knowing how to spot an escape route. Knowing that trust was temporary and everyone died eventually.
The fragments, he called them. Pieces of past lives that surfaced when needed, disappeared when questioned, and made him just competent enough to be dangerous and just aware enough to be tired.
Twenty-seven years old in this life. Owner of a successful speakeasy in Chicago. Good-looking enough that he didn't have to work hard for company. Healthy, wealthy, and profoundly, catastrophically bored.
"You're doing that thing again." Sarah reappeared at his elbow.
"What thing?"
"That thing where you look like you're already dead and just forgot to fall over."
Rio laughed. It sounded hollow even to him. "Poetic."
"I'm serious, Rio. You've been like this for months. Ever since—" She stopped. Some things you didn't say out loud, even in a speakeasy. Even seven years later.
Seven years since the Lagusa family massacre. Seven years since Rio, Angelo, and Corteo survived something that should have killed them. Seven years since everything changed and nothing changed and Rio discovered that surviving didn't mean living.
He'd left that night behind. Moved to Chicago. Built this place. Tried to forget.
The fragments wouldn't let him.
Sometimes he'd smell bourbon mixed with gunpowder and see blood spreading across expensive carpet. Sometimes he'd hear screaming that might have been from that night or from a dozen other nights across a dozen other lives. Sometimes he'd wake up with his hands positioned to defend against threats that weren't there anymore.
Or maybe never were.
"I'm fine," Rio said, because what else was there to say? I've died before and I'll die again and I can't remember enough to care but I remember enough to be haunted?
"Liar." But Sarah let it drop, moving to serve customers who actually wanted to be served.
The clock above the bar read 10:47 PM. Friday night. The speakeasy would be packed until two, maybe three in the morning. Rio would pour drinks, charm customers, break up the occasional fight with minimal effort, count money, go upstairs to his apartment, sleep dreamlessly, and wake up to do it all again.
Forever.
Or until someone killed him and he woke up as someone else.
Tommy finally asked Mary to dance. She said yes. They looked happy in that temporary way people did when they didn't know how quickly happiness could end. Rio watched them with something that might have been envy if he could still feel emotions that strongly.
The door opened.
Rio noticed because he noticed everything—professional habit from this life, survival instinct from previous ones. Three new customers. Two women and a man. Well-dressed. The man's coat hung slightly wrong. Gun. Left side. Revolver, probably.
None of his business.
Rio went back to pouring drinks.
The new customers found a table. Ordered whiskey. Acted like everyone else. But the man's eyes kept drifting toward the bar. Toward Rio. With the kind of focus that meant something.
Here we go. Rio's instincts whispered warnings in voices he didn't recognize. Trouble. Danger. Get ready.
But he was so. Damn. Bored.
Let trouble come. At least it would be interesting.
The man stood. Walked toward the bar. Every step deliberate. No attempt to hide his approach. Either confident or stupid. Rio had learned the difference lifetimes ago—confident men moved like they owned space, stupid men moved like they didn't know they were about to get hurt.
This one was confident.
"Rio Ceriano?" The man's voice was familiar in the way dreams were familiar—you recognized it without knowing why.
"Depends who's asking." Rio kept polishing the glass. Made it look casual. Made sure his hands stayed visible and his weight stayed balanced and his path to the blackjack stayed clear.
"An old friend."
The man removed his fedora.
Rio's hands stopped moving.
Seven years older. Face harder. Eyes colder. But unmistakable.
Angelo Lagusa stood at his bar like a ghost who'd forgotten it was dead.
"Hello, Rio." Angelo's voice was different. The warmth had been surgically removed, leaving only ice and purpose. "We need to talk."
Everything in Rio screamed warnings. Fragments of past betrayals surfacing. Memories of friends who became enemies. Knowledge that nothing good ever came from ghosts returning.
But beneath the warning, something else stirred.
Interest.
"That sounds like work," Rio said, setting down the glass with careful precision. "And probably dangerous."
"It is."
"Then why would I be interested?"
Angelo smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Because you're bored. And I have something that will fix that."
Damn.
He wasn't wrong.
"Sarah," Rio called without looking away from Angelo. "You're in charge. I'm taking my break."
"Now? It's Friday night—"
"Now."
Rio gestured toward the back. Angelo followed. The two women at his table watched but didn't interfere. They understood this was private.
The office was small—desk, chair, filing cabinet, safe hidden behind a painting Rio had never bothered to actually look at. He closed the door. Didn't lock it. Never locked doors when things might go bad—trapped yourself that way.
"You want a drink?" Rio moved to the whiskey he kept for himself. The good stuff. Not the rotgut he served downstairs.
"No."
"Suit yourself." Rio poured two fingers anyway. Drank. The burn was familiar and meaningless. "Seven years, Angelo. Most people would at least send a postcard."
"I wasn't most people anymore."
"Yeah. I can see that." Rio studied his childhood friend. The boy who'd survived the massacre with him. Who'd disappeared into the night while Rio and Corteo stumbled toward something resembling normal. "You look like shit."
"I look focused."
"Same thing."
Angelo reached into his coat. Rio's hand moved toward the desk drawer where he kept the gun before his brain registered the motion. Fragments taking over. Combat instincts from lives he couldn't remember.
But Angelo just produced a letter. Set it on the desk between them.
"From the Vanetti family," Angelo said. "In Lawless, Illinois."
The name hit Rio like bourbon mixed with gunpowder. Fragments screaming recognition. The Vanetti family. The ones who'd ordered the hit. The ones who'd killed everyone except three children who were smart enough or lucky enough to run.
"Why do you have a letter from them?"
"Because I made them think I'm someone useful." Angelo's voice was flat. Dead. "Someone they want. Someone named Avilio Bruno who doesn't exist outside of the identity I built."
Rio's mind raced. Fragments supplying information he shouldn't have. Organized crime structures. The way families operated. The value of infiltration. The profit in revenge.
"You're going after them."
"I'm going to destroy them." Angelo met his eyes. "From the inside. Slowly. Carefully. Until everything they built burns and everyone they love is dead."
"That sounds like suicide."
"Probably."
"Then why tell me?"
"Because I need help. And you're the only one I trust."
Rio laughed. Couldn't help it. "Trust. That's a strong word for someone who disappeared for seven years."
"You want me to apologize?"
"I want you to be honest. You don't need help. You need a tool. Someone with skills you can use. Someone expendable."
Angelo didn't deny it. Points for honesty, at least.
"What about Corteo?" Rio asked.
"He's in. Reluctantly. But in."
Of course he was. Corteo never could say no when it mattered.
Rio should say no. Every instinct he'd honed across lifetimes screamed at him to refuse. This was a suicide mission wrapped in revenge fantasy tied with the bow of inevitable betrayal. He'd seen this pattern before. Lived it. Died from it.
Going with Angelo meant violence. Danger. Probable death.
Staying meant safety. Stability. This comfortable, suffocating, mind-numbing existence.
The choice should have been easy.
"Why Lawless?" Rio asked instead of refusing.
"Because that's where they are. The Vanetti family. Don Vanetti himself."
"And you think you can just walk in and join them?"
"I think I have skills they need. And a friend who's even more valuable." Angelo's eyes fixed on him with laser focus. "You're good with people, Rio. Always have been. You read them. Manipulate them. Make them trust you. I need that."
"Manipulation and murder. You really know how to sell a vacation."
"I'm not selling. I'm asking." Angelo leaned forward. "I need you for this. Corteo can make the liquor they'll want. I can be the muscle. But you—you can be the one they let in. The one they trust. The one they never see coming."
The fragments stirred. Memories of infiltration. Of moving through organizations like smoke. Of reading power structures and exploiting weaknesses. Skills Rio shouldn't have but did.
Skills that were very, very good at getting people killed.
Including himself.
"No," Rio said.
"Rio—"
"I said no. I survived that massacre. I built this place. I have a life. Boring maybe, but it's mine and it doesn't involve getting shot by the mob."
"They killed our families."
"They killed yours. Mine was already dead." The words came out harsher than Rio intended. "I don't remember them, Angelo. I barely remember that night. I've moved on."
Lie. Complete lie. He remembered fragments. Enough to hurt. Not enough to care properly.
"You're bored," Angelo said again. "I can see it. You're dying here, Rio. Just slowly."
"Better than dying quickly in Lawless."
"Is it?" Angelo stood. Placed a slip of paper on the desk next to the letter. "That's where I'll be. If you change your mind."
"I won't."
"We'll see."
Angelo moved toward the door. Stopped with his hand on the knob. "You know what the problem is with guys like you, Rio? You've survived so much that you forgot how to live."
The door closed.
Rio sat alone in his office, staring at the letter he hadn't touched. The address written in Angelo's new handwriting. The promise of violence wrapped in the guise of justice.
He should throw it away.
He picked it up instead.
Read it. The Vanetti family needed skilled associates. Angelo—Avilio Bruno—had impressed them. Had connections. Could be valuable.
The fragments whispered. Organized crime. Power structures. The way families work. You know this. You've done this.
But when? Where?
He didn't remember.
Downstairs, the band played something slow. Couples dancing. Sarah managing the bar like she'd been doing it for years. Tommy and Mary laughing together like they'd be happy forever.
Rio had this. Safety. Success. Peace.
It felt like drowning.
Next time, he thought, staring at Angelo's address, I'm staying out of other people's revenge plots.
He knew even as he thought it that he was lying.
Because Angelo was right about one thing.
Rio was bored.
And boredom, he'd discovered across countless lives, was more dangerous than any bullet.
He tucked the letter into his pocket.
Just in case.