The call came three days later. Not from Ganzo this time.
From Nero directly.
"There's a situation," Nero said without preamble. "Small problem that needs handling. Discreetly. You and Avilio interested?"
Rio, still half-asleep at eight in the morning, processed the question through the fog of interrupted dreams. "What kind of problem?"
"The kind best discussed in person. Meet me at the Rosewood speakeasy. Noon. Come hungry—lunch is on me."
The line went dead before Rio could respond.
Avilio was already awake, of course. Cleaning weapons at the table with methodical precision. The man probably didn't sleep. Just waited for opportunities to execute his revenge.
"Nero wants both of us," Rio said. "Noon. Some kind of situation."
"What situation?"
"He wants to tell us in person." Rio poured coffee. Drank. The dreams were fading but fragments lingered—memories of other meetings, other jobs, other moments where opportunity and danger held hands. "This feels different from Ganzo's work."
"How?"
"Ganzo tests. Nero trusts."
Avilio looked up from the gun he was cleaning. "You've been to his house once. That's not trust. That's evaluation."
"Maybe." But Rio remembered the conversation. The moment of connection. The way Nero's guard had dropped, just for a second. "Or maybe he sees something useful and wants to keep it close."
"Don't get comfortable."
"I'm not."
"You are." Avilio set down the gun. "I can see it. The way you talk about him. You're starting to see him as a person instead of a target."
"He is a person."
"He's also the son of the man who ordered our families killed."
"Nero wasn't involved in that. He would have been—what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?"
"Old enough to know what his family did. Old enough to benefit from it." Avilio's voice was ice. "Don't forget why we're here, Rio. We're not making friends. We're making corpses."
Rio drank his coffee in silence. Avilio wasn't wrong. But he also wasn't entirely right. Nero Vanetti was complicated—charming and dangerous, honorable and criminal, someone who seemed to genuinely struggle with the family business while excelling at it.
And Rio was interested in that complication.
Which was, admittedly, a problem.
The Rosewood was smaller than the main Vanetti speakeasy. More intimate. The kind of place where serious conversations happened over good food.
Nero was already there, in a corner booth with excellent sight lines to the entrance. Professional positioning. Always aware. Always ready.
A younger man sat across from him—early twenties, friendly face, casual posture. He waved when he saw them approach.
"Avilio! Rio!" The enthusiasm was genuine. Uncalculated. "Nero said you guys were coming. I'm Vanno. Nero's best friend and occasional bad influence."
Rio shook his hand. Felt the warmth. The openness. This was someone who hadn't learned to hide yet. Someone who still believed in friendship and loyalty without the layers of cynicism.
Fragments whispered: Dangerous. People like this make you care. Make you forget the mission.
"Sit, sit." Vanno gestured to the booth. "Food's already ordered. Nero knows what's good here."
They slid into the booth. Rio across from Nero, Avilio next to him. Vanno dominated the conversation immediately—talking about a fight he'd seen, a girl he was interested in, some joke someone had told that only made sense if you'd been there.
Nero watched with affectionate amusement. "Vanno's never met a silence he couldn't fill."
"Someone has to keep things interesting around here." Vanno grinned. "Otherwise you'd all just brood and drink and pretend to be tough guys."
"We are tough guys," Nero said.
"You're a tough guy who reads philosophy and feels guilty about the family business. That's different."
The honesty was startling. And from Nero's expression, accurate.
Food arrived—actual quality food, not the usual speakeasy fare. Steaks, potatoes, vegetables that hadn't been sitting in a can. Nero hadn't been lying about lunch being good.
They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes. Then Nero got to business.
"There's a shipment coming in tomorrow night. Bootleg whiskey from Canada. Good quality. Worth about fifteen thousand on the street."
"Corteo's product?" Avilio asked.
"No. This is outside supply. We diversify sources. Smart business." Nero cut his steak with precise movements. "The problem is, the Orco family knows about it. And they're planning to hit the shipment."
"How do you know?"
"Because we have someone inside their organization. Low-level, but useful." Nero met Rio's eyes. "The shipment arrives at pier seven. Midnight tomorrow. The Orcos plan to ambush our people, take the product, probably kill whoever resists."
"So you need the shipment protected," Rio said.
"I need the shipment to arrive safely. And I need to send a message that hitting Vanetti operations has consequences." Nero's voice was calm. Matter-of-fact. This was just business. "You two handle it. However you want. But the shipment arrives intact and the Orcos learn to be more careful about their ambitions."
Avilio nodded. Already calculating. "How many men do we have?"
"Six. Including you two. Led by Vanno."
Vanno straightened. "First command. Nero's trusting me with responsibility." The pride was obvious. So was the nervousness underneath.
"You'll do fine," Nero said. "You've got good instincts. And now you've got backup who actually think before shooting."
"Hey, I think before shooting."
"You think 'where should I shoot' which is different from 'should I shoot.'"
Vanno laughed. The sound was genuine. Happy. The kind of laugh that came from someone who still enjoyed life despite being a criminal enforcer.
Rio liked him immediately.
Which was, fragments whispered, exactly the problem.
"What about the Orcos?" Rio asked. "They'll be armed. Ready for a fight."
"They'll have maybe eight, ten guys. Expecting our standard security—four soldiers who aren't particularly bright." Nero smiled. "They won't be expecting you two. Or anyone with actual tactical thinking."
"You have a lot of faith in us."
"I have faith in people who prove themselves useful. You've done that." Nero's attention focused entirely on Rio. "The question is—can you handle actual combat? Ganzo's work was information extraction. This is violence. Different skill set."
Fragments screamed: Combat skills you shouldn't have. Lifetimes of fighting you don't remember. Muscle memory that will surface and raise questions.
"I can handle it," Rio said.
"Can you?" Nero leaned forward. "Because I need to know. If things go bad tomorrow night, can you fight? Can you kill if necessary? Or will you freeze when the bullets start flying?"
Honest answer? Rio had died violently enough times that combat felt more familiar than conversation. His body knew how to move, how to read angles, how to kill efficiently. The fragments made him dangerous.
But admitting that raised questions he couldn't answer.
"I won't freeze," Rio said. "I've been in tight situations before."
"In Chicago?"
"And elsewhere."
Nero studied him. Weighing. Deciding. Then nodded. "Good. Because Vanno's never led a job. He'll need backup who won't panic."
"I'll keep him alive," Rio said.
"We both will," Avilio added.
Vanno looked between them. "You guys make it sound like I'm completely incompetent."
"You're enthusiastically competent," Nero said. "Which means you'll charge in with great confidence and moderate planning. That's why Rio and Avilio are there—to provide the planning part."
"I can plan!"
"You really can't."
The affection between them was obvious. Genuine friendship built on years of trust. Nero relied on Vanno. Vanno worshipped Nero. The kind of loyalty that ran deep.
The kind Rio and Avilio were planning to exploit and destroy.
The thought sat heavy in Rio's chest. He pushed it away.
After lunch, Nero pulled Rio aside while Vanno and Avilio discussed logistics.
"Walk with me."
They stepped outside into afternoon sunlight. Lawless looked almost respectable in daylight—just another American city trying to survive Prohibition.
"What do you really think?" Nero asked once they were alone. "About tomorrow night?"
"I think the Orcos are making a mistake."
"How so?"
"They're treating this like a simple robbery. Hit the shipment, take the product, disappear. But they're missing the larger picture." Rio's fragments supplied the analysis automatically. "This isn't about one shipment. It's about power. Territory. Respect. You let them take this, they'll take more."
"Exactly." Nero seemed pleased. "Most people see the immediate problem. You see the pattern."
"It's what I'm good at."
They walked in silence for a moment. Then Nero said, quietly, "Can I trust you, Rio?"
The question landed like a punch.
Honest answer? No. Absolutely not. Rio was here to help destroy everything Nero cared about. Trust was the weapon they were using.
But Rio met his eyes and said, "Yes."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I don't lie about the things that matter." True, actually. Rio lied about plenty—but when asked direct questions, he preferred honest answers. Easier to remember. "You can trust that I'll do my job. That I'll protect your people. That I won't betray operational security. Beyond that?" He shrugged. "Trust is earned over time. I haven't earned it yet."
Nero smiled. "Most people would just say yes and move on."
"I'm not most people."
"No. You're not." Nero stopped walking. Turned to face him fully. "There's something about you, Rio. Something I can't quite figure out. You're charming but detached. Skilled but mysterious. You say you ran a speakeasy in Chicago, but you move like someone who's seen real violence. Real danger."
Fragments screamed warnings. Too observant. He sees too much. Deflect. Redirect.
"Chicago wasn't exactly safe," Rio said. "You learn to handle yourself or you don't survive."
"Maybe." But Nero didn't look convinced. "Or maybe you're more than you're telling me."
"Everyone's more than they're telling. That's how survival works in places like this."
"True." Nero started walking again. "But I like mysteries. And you, Rio Ceriano, are a very interesting mystery."
The comment hung between them. Interest. Curiosity. And something else—something that made Rio's instincts fire warnings while other parts of him responded differently.
"I should probably get back," Rio said. "Avilio will want to plan for tomorrow."
"Of course." Nero's smile was knowing. Like he'd seen Rio's deflection and found it amusing. "One more thing—after tomorrow, if everything goes well, my father wants to meet you properly. Both of you."
"The don?"
"You've impressed Ganzo. You've impressed me. Now you get evaluated by the man who actually runs everything." Nero's voice held warning. "Don't underestimate him. He's old but he's sharp. And he doesn't trust easily."
"Neither do I."
"Good. That'll make the conversation more interesting."
They parted ways. Rio returned to find Avilio and Vanno deep in discussion about pier layouts and approach angles.
"—if we position here," Vanno was saying, pointing at a mental map, "we can see them coming and—oh, hey Rio. Avilio was just explaining tactical positioning to me. It's actually really interesting!"
"Vanno has enthusiasm," Avilio said dryly. "If we can channel that into actual strategy, tomorrow might work."
"I have strategy!"
"You have aggression and loyalty. Strategy is different."
Rio listened to them banter. Watched Vanno's animated gestures. Heard the genuine excitement in his voice about doing good work for Nero.
This was someone who believed in what they were doing. Who thought the Vanetti family was worth protecting. Who'd probably die for Nero without hesitation.
And Rio was going to help destroy him.
The thought should have bothered him more than it did.
Fragments whispered: You've done this before. Used people. Befriended targets. Betrayed them when necessary. This is just another iteration.
Was it?
Rio wasn't sure anymore.
That evening, back at the brewery, they planned.
Corteo provided information about pier seven—layout, hiding spots, sight lines. His nervousness made the facts tumble out quickly.
"You're really doing this," Corteo said. "Actual combat. People shooting at you."
"That's the job," Avilio said.
"The job is supposed to be revenge. Not dying in dock fights before you get close to the people who matter."
"Can't get revenge if we're not trusted. Can't be trusted if we don't prove useful." Avilio's logic was cold. Accurate. "Tomorrow we prove we can handle real work."
"And if it goes wrong?"
"Then we adapt."
"That's not a plan."
"It's the only plan that matters."
Rio studied the rough map Corteo had sketched. Pier seven was exposed—good sight lines for defenders, but also for attackers. The Orcos would probably come from the land side. Maybe a boat for quick escape. Standard ambush tactics.
"We need to flip it," Rio said.
"Flip what?" Vanno asked. He'd come to the brewery to continue planning, bringing an energy that filled the small space.
"The ambush. They're expecting to hit us. We hit them first."
"How?"
Rio's fragments supplied the plan automatically. Combat tactics from lives he didn't remember. "We arrive early. Set up on their approach angles. Let them commit to the attack. Then we spring the real trap."
Avilio studied the map. Nodded slowly. "It could work."
"It will work." Rio met Vanno's eyes. "But you need to trust us. When we tell you to move, you move. When we tell you to wait, you wait. No improvisation."
"I can follow orders."
"Can you? Because Nero made it sound like you're more of a 'charge in and figure it out' kind of guy."
Vanno laughed. "Okay, fair. But I'm good at adapting!"
"Adapting is fine. Dying because you didn't listen is not."
The humor faded from Vanno's expression. "You really think it'll be that dangerous?"
"I think the Orcos are coming to kill and steal. They won't be gentle about it." Rio's voice was serious. "This isn't a test anymore. This is real. People might die tomorrow."
"But not us."
"Not if we're smart."
Vanno was quiet for a moment. Then: "Nero trusts you. Both of you. That's good enough for me."
The simple faith was startling. And dangerous. Because people like Vanno—people who trusted easily, who believed in loyalty and friendship—those were the ones who got hurt worst when betrayal came.
And betrayal was coming.
Just not tomorrow.
They planned until midnight. Positions. Timing. Contingencies. Avilio was coldly efficient. Vanno was enthusiastically engaged. Rio's fragments supplied tactical details that impressed both of them.
"You've done this before," Vanno said. "Combat planning. You have that look—like you can see it all happening before it does."
"I'm good at visualization."
"It's more than that. You move like—I don't know. Like a soldier. Professional."
Fragments whispered: Too observant. Everyone's too observant. Control the tells. Hide the skills.
"I've been in rough situations," Rio said. "You learn or you die."
"Chicago must've been intense."
"It had its moments."
Vanno accepted the deflection. Because that's what people like Vanno did—they trusted, they believed, they gave others the benefit of the doubt.
God, Rio was going to feel terrible when this all collapsed.
If he felt anything at all.
The fragments weren't sure he still could.
Vanno left around one in the morning. Promised to meet them at eleven the next night. Gave Avilio an enthusiastic handshake and Rio an actual hug—quick, brotherly, the kind of affection that assumed friendship.
"Tomorrow's going to be great," Vanno said at the door. "First real job. We're going to show the Orcos they picked the wrong family to mess with."
"We will," Rio agreed.
After he left, Corteo turned to them. "He's a good person."
"He's a criminal," Avilio said.
"He's a good person who happens to be a criminal. There's a difference." Corteo's voice was strained. "And you're going to use him. Use his trust. Use his friendship with Nero. You're going to destroy everything he believes in."
"That's the plan."
"Doesn't that bother you?"
Avilio met his eyes. "No."
Corteo looked at Rio. "What about you?"
Honest answer? Rio didn't know. The fragments whispered about other betrayals, other friends turned enemies. About the necessity of detachment. About survival requiring sacrifice.
But looking at Corteo's devastated expression, at the weight of what they were building toward, Rio felt something shift.
Not regret. Not yet.
But the beginning of understanding that maybe, just maybe, some costs were higher than he'd calculated.
"I don't know," Rio said quietly. "Ask me when it's over."
"It might be too late by then."
"It's already too late."
Corteo went to bed without another word.
Avilio cleaned weapons. Again. Always preparing. Always ready.
Rio stood at the window, watching Lawless sleep. Tomorrow night, people would die. Maybe Orco soldiers. Maybe Vanetti soldiers. Maybe him.
The fragments had opinions but no certainties.
All Rio knew for sure was that he'd crossed a line somewhere. Maybe at the warehouse with Carlo. Maybe at Nero's mansion. Maybe the moment he'd agreed to come to Lawless.
And there was no going back.
Only forward, into whatever waited at pier seven.
Into blood and bullets and the slow destruction of people who were starting to feel like something other than targets.
"Get some sleep," Avilio said. "Tomorrow's going to be difficult."
Rio didn't answer.
Sleep came eventually, full of fragments and warnings and the sound of Vanno's laugh—genuine and doomed and haunting before it had earned the right to be.
Tomorrow they'd prove themselves.
Tomorrow they'd take another step deeper into the Vanetti organization.
Tomorrow they'd start the long, bloody process of tearing it all down.
Rio just hoped he could remember why they were doing it.
The fragments weren't sure he'd ever really known.