Chapter 11
The retired capo from Grant’s private meetings was Anthony Reeve.
Seventy-one.
Old enough to know better.
He admitted why he attended.
“Grant said you were preparing to step back.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know now.”
“What else?”
“That Noah would eventually unify the Hale and Lombardi sides.”
I stared.
“He’s three.”
Anthony shrugged.
“Families plan generations.”
That mindset had justified too much stupidity for too long.
“What did Grant want from you?”
“Support.”
“For what?”
“Nothing immediate.”
Of course.
Ambition rarely starts with the word coup.
It starts with hypothetical dinners.
Future conversations.
Who would stabilize things if something happened?
Who has blood ties?
Who has relationships?
Who has a child?
I looked at Anthony.
“And Isabella?”
He hesitated.
“What about her?”
Exactly.
She did not exist in their model.
Noah’s Lombardi blood counted.
Isabella herself did not.
I almost laughed at the misogyny of it.
They wanted my grandson because he connected lines while erasing the woman who created that connection.
“Did you know Grant hurt her?”
“No.”
I believed him.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Anthony looked ashamed.
“It should have.”
Not answer enough.
I waited.
Finally:
“Yes.”
Better.
I removed him from council access anyway.
Not vengeance.
May you like
Judgment.
A man willing to discuss succession around a three-year-old without telling me had already shown me what his discretion served.
