The call came two days later.
Two days of waiting. Two days of Corteo brewing liquor and jumping at shadows. Two days of Avilio cleaning weapons that were already clean and staring at maps of Lawless like they held secrets. Two days of Rio trying not to think about Nero Vanetti's smile and failing.
The phone rang at seven in the morning.
Corteo answered. Listened. Went pale. "It's for you. Avilio."
Avilio took the phone. "Yes?" A pause. "Understood. We'll be there." He hung up. Looked at Rio. "We have a job."
"What kind?"
"The testing kind."
The address led them to the docks—industrial area where the Orco and Vanetti territories pressed against each other like tectonic plates waiting to shift. Warehouses. Shipping containers. The smell of the river mixing with machine oil and something rotting.
"I don't like this," Corteo said from the driver's seat. He'd insisted on coming, though Rio suspected he'd regret it.
"You don't have to like it," Avilio said. "You just have to stay in the car."
"And if things go wrong?"
"Drive away fast."
"That's your plan?"
"That's your plan. Mine involves not letting things go wrong."
Rio watched the warehouses slide past. Fragments supplied tactical information—sight lines, cover positions, escape routes. His hands itched for a weapon he wasn't carrying.
Never go into unknown situations unarmed, the fragments whispered. You know this. You've died from this.
But showing up armed to a Vanetti job would signal distrust. And distrust got you killed faster than being unarmed.
"There." Avilio pointed to a warehouse with two cars parked outside. One was Ganzo's. Rio recognized it from the speakeasy.
Corteo parked at a distance. Kept the engine running. Smart.
"How long do we wait before assuming you're dead?" he asked.
"If we're not out in an hour, we're probably not coming out." Avilio opened the door.
"That's not comforting."
"It's not supposed to be."
Rio followed him toward the warehouse. Early morning light cut harsh shadows across the docks. Too exposed. Too many angles. The kind of place where ambushes happened.
This could be a test. Or a trap. Or both.
Ganzo waited outside, smoking. Looked them over with professional assessment. "You came."
"You called," Avilio said.
"Some don't show. First sign of real work, they disappear." Ganzo dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under his boot. "Let's see what you're made of."
Inside, the warehouse was mostly empty. Concrete floor. High ceiling. Excellent acoustics for screaming. Four other men waited—Vanetti soldiers Rio didn't recognize. And in the center, tied to a chair with blood already decorating his face, was a man who looked like he'd had a very bad morning.
"This is Carlo Rossi," Ganzo said, approaching the bound man. "He's been skimming from our operations. Three months. Five thousand dollars."
Carlo spat blood. "I didn't—"
Ganzo hit him. Casual. Efficient. Carlo's head snapped back.
"He says he didn't do it." Ganzo looked at Rio and Avilio. "I say he's lying. The don says he needs to be an example. You two get to help make that happen."
Ah.
The test.
"What do you need from us?" Avilio asked. No hesitation. No moral conflict. Just cold assessment.
Fragments whispered: This is where they see if you have the stomach for the work. If you flinch, you're useless. If you're too eager, you're dangerous. Find the middle.
"Information first," Ganzo said. "He's hidden the money. We want it back. Then we want him gone. Quietly. No body to find."
Rio studied Carlo. Mid-thirties. Terrified. Probably guilty—nobody got this beaten up without reason. But the fear was genuine. The kind of fear that came from knowing you were going to die.
"I can make him talk," Rio said.
Ganzo raised an eyebrow. "You?"
"I'm good with people. Reading them. Finding what motivates them."
"He's motivated by not dying."
"Everyone's motivated by not dying. The question is what else motivates them." Rio approached Carlo. Crouched to eye level. Studied the man's face—the microexpressions, the breathing patterns, the way his eyes moved.
Fragments supplied information: Guilty but not alone. Protection somewhere. Family probably. That's the leverage.
"You have kids, Carlo?" Rio asked quietly.
Carlo's eyes flickered. There it was.
"Two boys," Rio continued. "Maybe a wife. They don't know what you do, probably. Think you work legitimate dock operations. They're at home right now, wondering why you didn't come home last night."
"Leave them out of this," Carlo croaked.
"Nobody wants to involve them. But here's the thing—you took five thousand from the Vanetti family. That's not just stealing. That's disrespect. That's a message to everyone that you can cross the family and survive." Rio kept his voice conversational. Friendly, even. "You can't survive this, Carlo. You know that. But your family can. If you're smart."
"I didn't take five thousand—"
Rio held up a hand. "Don't lie to me. I can see it in your face. You took it. Probably for a good reason. Medical bills? Gambling debts? Doesn't matter. What matters is where it is now."
Carlo was quiet. Breathing hard. Weighing his options and finding them all terrible.
"Tell me where the money is," Rio said. "They get it back, they're happy. You die quick and clean instead of slow and screaming. Your family gets a story about an accident. Compensation, even. They survive this."
"And if I don't talk?"
"Then you die slow. And someone visits your family to collect the debt."
It wasn't Rio's decision. He had no authority here. But Carlo didn't know that. And fear made people believe.
Carlo broke. "Storage unit. Southside. Unit 47. Key's in my right sock."
Ganzo checked. Found the key. Smiled without warmth. "See? That wasn't hard."
One of the soldiers made a call. Confirmed the location. Five minutes later, the call came back—money recovered.
"Good work," Ganzo said to Rio. Then pulled his gun and shot Carlo in the head.
The sound was massive in the enclosed space. Carlo slumped forward. Blood pooled.
Rio didn't flinch. Fragments had seen worse. Had done worse, probably. Death was just death—temporary for him, permanent for others.
But Corteo, visible through the warehouse door, looked like he was going to vomit.
"Clean this up," Ganzo ordered his soldiers. "Dump him in the river. Weight him properly. No mistakes."
They moved efficiently. Professional. This wasn't their first disposal.
Ganzo turned to Rio and Avilio. "Not bad. Quick information extraction. No unnecessary damage. You two might actually be useful."
"That was the goal," Avilio said.
"The goal was seeing if you had the stomach for it." Ganzo holstered his gun. "Some guys talk big until they see blood. Then they fold. You didn't fold."
Because Rio had seen blood before. More blood than he could remember across more lives than he could count. This was just another body. Another death. Another fragment that would haunt him later in ways he couldn't predict.
"There's more work if you want it," Ganzo said. "Small jobs. Building trust. You do well, bigger opportunities come."
"We're interested," Avilio said.
"Good. Go home. Stay ready. We'll call." Ganzo walked past them toward his car. Stopped. Looked back at Rio. "You're cold. I like that. But be careful—the smart ones either die first or live forever. No middle ground."
He left.
Rio and Avilio stood in the warehouse with Carlo's blood spreading across the concrete.
"You okay?" Avilio asked.
"I'm fine."
"You hesitated."
"I extracted information. That was the job."
"Before that. You watched Ganzo kill him. Your expression didn't change."
Because it was just death. Just another ending in an infinite series of endings. What was there to react to?
But Rio just shrugged. "Neither did yours."
"I'm supposed to be cold. You're supposed to be the charming one."
"I can be both."
They walked out. The morning sun felt wrong—too bright, too normal. Like the world should acknowledge what had just happened but couldn't be bothered.
Corteo was pale in the driver's seat. Started the car with shaking hands.
"Don't say anything," he whispered. "Just... don't."
They drove in silence back to the brewery.
Inside, Corteo disappeared into his equipment. Losing himself in chemistry where the rules were clear and death didn't feature prominently.
Avilio cleaned his hands at the sink. Methodical. Thorough. "That went well."
"A man died."
"A man who stole from the family. He knew the risks."
"And his family?"
"Not our problem." Avilio dried his hands. "We did what we had to do. Passed the test. That's what matters."
Rio poured whiskey. Drank. Fragments whispered memories of other deaths, other tests, other moments where he'd watched life end and felt nothing.
Why don't you feel more? he asked himself. Why is death so easy for you?
Because he'd died before. Would die again. Death was temporary. Only the living mattered.
Except he didn't really care about them either.
"You're thinking too much," Avilio said.
"Someone should."
"Not about this. We're in. We proved ourselves. Now we wait for the next opportunity."
"And if the next opportunity is killing someone else?"
"Then we kill someone else." Avilio's voice was flat. "This is what revenge costs, Rio. You knew that when you came."
Did he? Rio wasn't sure what he'd known. Just that Chicago was boring and Lawless promised to be interesting.
Well. It was interesting.
The phone rang.
Corteo answered. Listened. His expression shifted. "It's for you, Rio. Nero Vanetti."
Rio took the phone. "Ceriano."
"Mr. Ceriano." Nero's voice was warm. Pleased. "I heard about this morning's work. Ganzo was impressed. That's not easy to do."
"Just doing what was needed."
"You're good with people. Reading them. Finding their pressure points." A pause. "I could use someone like that."
"For what?"
"Social situations. The kind where violence isn't an option but influence is necessary. My father hosts events. Business meetings that are really negotiations. I need someone who can read the room. Spot the problems before they become crises."
Rio's fragments supplied information: He's bringing you closer. Inner circle. This is what you wanted. This is also dangerous.
"That sounds like I'd be more visible," Rio said.
"Is that a problem?"
"Just clarifying the role."
"The role is being useful. And from what I hear, you're very useful." Nero's voice held something beyond business. Interest. Curiosity. "There's a gathering tonight. My father's hosting business associates. Mostly legitimate. Some less so. Come. Observe. Tell me what you see that I miss."
"And Avilio?"
"Has other work with Ganzo. This is different." A pause. "Unless you're uncomfortable without your partner?"
"I work fine alone."
"Good. Eight o'clock. The Vanetti mansion. Address will be delivered within the hour."
The line went dead.
Avilio was watching. "What did he want?"
"Me. Specifically. For some kind of social event tonight."
"You're moving up fast."
"Maybe too fast."
"No such thing. This is perfect. You get close to Nero. I work with Ganzo. We infiltrate from different angles." Avilio's expression was calculating. "This is exactly what we need."
Rio wasn't so sure. Nero's interest felt complicated. The kind of complicated that blurred lines and created problems.
But Avilio was right about one thing—it was an opportunity.
And opportunities were what they needed.
The afternoon passed in preparation. Avilio disappeared with Ganzo for another job—collection work, probably. Low-level violence to remind people that debts mattered.
Corteo brewed liquor and avoided eye contact.
Rio stood at the window, watching Lawless move through its day. Ordinary people doing ordinary things while criminal empires operated in the spaces between.
Carlo's face kept surfacing in his memory. Not the fear—that was common enough. But the resignation. The moment he'd accepted death and just tried to protect his family.
Rio had used that. Exploited it. Made promises he had no authority to keep.
And felt nothing.
Why don't you care? the fragments asked. You used to care. Lifetimes ago. You remember caring.
Did he? Maybe. The fragments were unreliable narrators.
At seven, Rio dressed carefully. Nothing too expensive—didn't want to look like he was trying too hard. But quality enough to fit in at the Vanetti mansion. The balance between professional and approachable.
"You look nervous," Corteo said.
"I'm not nervous."
"Liar."
Rio adjusted his collar. "It's just a party."
"It's the don's mansion. With the people who killed our families." Corteo's voice was quiet. Hurt. "And you're going to smile and shake their hands and pretend everything's fine."
"That's the job."
"The job is destroying them. Not befriending them."
"Can't destroy what you don't understand." Rio met his eyes. "I need to see how they operate. Who has power. Where the weaknesses are. That's what tonight is about."
"Keep telling yourself that."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I see how you looked when Nero called. Interested. Curious." Corteo shook his head. "Be careful, Rio. These people are good at making you forget they're monsters."
"I won't forget."
"Won't you?"
A car horn outside cut off the conversation. Rio's ride had arrived.
"I'll be back late," he said.
"Will you?"
Rio didn't answer.
The drive to the Vanetti mansion took fifteen minutes. Up the hill, away from the industrial areas, into where Lawless money bought Lawless power.
The mansion was impressive—three stories of Victorian architecture that had been maintained and modernized. Gardens that probably hid weapons. Gates that definitely hid guards.
The driver showed credentials. The gates opened.
Rio's fragments catalogued everything: Six guards visible, probably more hidden. Cameras wouldn't exist yet but sight lines are controlled. Gardens provide cover and kill zones. Three obvious exits. Probably two more hidden. Classic defensive setup.
The mansion's interior was wealth without ostentation. Money that didn't need to announce itself. Crystal chandeliers. Hardwood floors. Art that might actually be valuable.
A servant took his coat. Directed him to the main gathering room.
Music drifted. Conversation hummed. The sound of business being conducted over drinks and appetizers.
Rio stepped into the room and immediately understood why Nero wanted him here.
This wasn't a party. This was a battlefield where the weapons were words and the casualties were opportunities.
And he was very good at this kind of combat.
Nero stood near the bar, holding court with several well-dressed men. Caught Rio's eye. Smiled. Gestured him over.
"Gentlemen, this is Rio Ceriano. New associate. Excellent judge of character." Nero's introduction was smooth. "Rio, this is Joseph Maroni, Harold Chen, and Robert—you know what? Just call him Bobby."
They shook hands. Rio read each of them in seconds:
Maroni—nervous, hiding something, probably embezzling.
Chen—calculating, looking for angles, potential ally or enemy.
Bobby—drunk, harmless, just here for the free booze.
"Pleasure," Rio said with exactly the right amount of interest.
"Ceriano," Maroni repeated. "That's Italian?"
"Originally. My family's been American for three generations."
"And what do you do, Mr. Ceriano?"
Fragments supplied the right answer: Vague but impressive. Suggest competence without details.
"I facilitate solutions," Rio said. "Business problems, mostly. Communication breakdowns. Misunderstandings that cost money."
"A negotiator."
"Among other things."
The conversation flowed. Rio said little but listened to everything. The fragments were right—this was exactly his kind of combat. And he was winning without throwing a punch.
Across the room, he spotted Ganzo watching. Assessing. Making sure the new guy didn't embarrass the family.
And in the doorway, partially hidden, a younger man watched with cold calculation. Not participating. Just observing.
Rio's fragments whispered: Frate Vanetti. The other son. The complicated one. Watch him.
"Excuse me," Rio said to the group. Moved through the crowd with practiced ease. Reading the room. Cataloguing relationships. Power dynamics. Who deferred to whom.
This was information. This was useful.
This was also dangerously close to actually caring about succeeding.
"You're good at this," Nero said, appearing at his elbow.
Rio turned. Nero was close. Very close. The kind of proximity that suggested comfort.
"At what?"
"Moving through rooms like you belong. People like you immediately."
"I'm charming. It's a gift."
"It's more than that. You see things." Nero's voice dropped. "What do you see here?"
Rio met his eyes. Saw genuine curiosity. Maybe more than curiosity.
Careful. This is a complication you don't need.
But the fragments were quiet. And Rio's instincts said something different.
"I see a room full of people pretending to be friends while calculating advantage," Rio said. "I see your father's associates positioning for favor. I see your underboss making sure everyone knows the power structure. And I see you, managing it all while looking effortless."
Nero smiled. "That's exactly what's happening."
"It's exhausting, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"Being on all the time. Never relaxing. Always performing."
Something flickered in Nero's expression. Recognition. "You understand."
"I ran a speakeasy. Same principle. Different scale."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. The party flowed around them. Two people in a room full of people, somehow separate.
"I'm glad you came," Nero said quietly.
"I'm glad you invited me."
And Rio realized, with fragments screaming warnings he ignored, that he meant it.
This was going to be complicated.