Chapter 5
JACE MARINO
The car ride to Julian's house was too quiet for having three college kids in the back. Luka had fallen halfway over Rico's shoulder, humming some tune that didn't exist, while Julian kept fussing with the sleeves of my sweatshirt like it was made of glass.
When I pulled up to the curb, Rico leaned forward. "Thanks for the ride, Professor, and for not letting him die."
Luka grinded "And for the free sleepover. Ten out of ten hospitality. Would recommend."
"Don't thank me," I said. "Thank your friend for not knowing his limit."
Julian groaned. "It wasn't even drinking—"
"It was bad decisions in a cup," I cut in. "Same difference."
Luka perked up, pointing at Julian. "Oh my God, he's still wearing your clothes, that's marriage where we're from.
"Shut up Luka" Rico hit him on the back of his head
Julian went red. "Shut up. He just—he just lent them to me. That's all."
I leaned against the steering wheel, not bothering to hide my amusement. "Do you all need me to print adoption papers too, or are we done?"
That shut them up long enough for me to park properly. They piled out, Luka still whispering something about "husband material" under his breath.
Julian stayed a second longer, fingers brushing over the cuff of the sweatshirt like he wasn't sure if he should give it back.
"Keep it," I said before he asked. "Looks better on you anyway."
His eyes went wide, like he wasn't sure if that was a compliment or some insult. He nodded once, quick.
He finally got the seatbelt loose. He paused, like he wanted to say something, then just muttered, "Thanks," without meeting my eyes.
"Monday," I reminded him.
His head turned. "Monday?"
"For tutoring. Don't be late."
He blinked, swallowed, and nodded quickly.
Then hurried after his friends before I could say anything else.
I watched them disappear into the house.
Cute.
But I wasn't going to say that out loud.
The office was supposed to be quiet.
That was the whole point of coming in on a Saturday. No crew, no foremen, no endless questions about supply delays or overtime pay. Just me, a stack of reports, and the silence I needed to get through them.
I spread the site paperwork across the desk, flipping through invoices and blueprints. My pen tapped against the margin, a habit I hated but couldn't shake.
It wasn't the numbers I kept drifting to. It was the memory of brunette hair falling over a flushed face, the sound of soft breathing filling my apartment last night. Julian.
I muttered something under my breath, shoved the papers into a neat pile, and dragged over a clean notepad. Instead of finishing the subcontractor breakdown, I started sketching out tutoring notes—simple outlines of case law examples I thought he could actually follow. I caught myself halfway through and leaned back, staring at the scribbled words.
What the hell was I doing?
The door creaked open without a knock. Mateo walked in like he owned the place. Dark jacket, phone in his hand, expression tight.
"You're in early for a weekend," he said, closing the door behind him.
"Someone has to be," I replied, sliding the notepad over the construction reports like he hadn't just caught me making study guides for one of my students.
Mateo smirked. "Paperwork? Or something more interesting?"
I shot him a look sharp enough to kill the grin. "Business."
"Sure." He dropped into the chair across from me, folding his arms. "Speaking of business, we've got a problem."
I straightened. "Marco?"
"Not yet. This time it's the Serranos." He pulled up something on his phone and slid it across the desk. Security footage—grainy but clear enough—showed a couple of Serrano guys hanging too close to one of our warehouses. Not trespassing, not stealing. Just testing boundaries.
"They're circling," Mateo said. "And Marco's been stirring too close to their turf. I've told him to cut it out, but he's—"
"Marco," I finished flatly.
Mateo leaned forward, lowering his voice. "We can't keep putting out fires every time he decides to prove himself. He's a Marino, but he's reckless. If the Serranos decide to hit back, it won't be a bar fight. It'll be bullets."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, exhaustion pressing heavier now. "I'll talk to him."
"You always talk to him," Mateo said. "Doesn't mean he listens."
For a long second, the only sound was the quiet hum of the office clock.
I pushed the paperwork aside completely. "If the Serranos want to circle, let them. But if they step in—"
"They won't get a second chance," Mateo finished, nodding.
The edge in his voice matched mine. That was the thing about Mateo—he wasn't soft. He just hid his steel better than I did.
Still, his eyes flicked toward the papers I'd tried to bury under the reports. He didn't say anything, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth.
"Weekend work," I said before he could open his mouth.
"Right," Mateo said, standing. "Let's hope that work keeps you as focused as you want us to believe."
I ignored him, pulling the reports back to the top of the stack. But when the door shut behind him, my gaze drifted again—to the corner of the notepad where Julian's name was written in the margin.
The call came in just after Mateo left.
I was still at the desk, halfway through forcing myself back into construction reports, when my phone lit up.
"Warehouse three. Trouble."
The voice on the other end was one of our guys—short, clipped, urgent.
I was on my feet before he finished. "What kind of trouble?"
"Door's busted. Serrano tags on the side wall. Looks like they went through, but—" He hesitated. "They didn't take much."
That made the muscles in my jaw lock tight. Serranos never left without bleeding you dry. If they'd gone light, it wasn't theft. It was a message.
"I'm on my way."
I grabbed my coat and keys, and by the time I hit the street, Mateo's car was already pulling up alongside mine.
"You got the call too," he said through the open window.
"Warehouse three," I confirmed.
"Then let's go."
The warehouse sat on the far end of the riverfront, half shadowed under the freeway. By the time we got there, two of our guys were waiting out front, tense, guns holstered but visible.
Inside was worse. One loading dock door had been forced open, the lock hanging twisted and useless. Spray paint bled across the concrete wall in jagged black letters: Serrano.
Mateo cursed under his breath. "They want us to know it was them."
I stepped past him, scanning the floor. Boxes had been opened, contents dumped out. Some copper wiring missing, a few power tools gone. Peanuts. The kind of haul street kids would brag about, not Serrano muscle.
"This wasn't about the take," I said. My voice echoed through the empty space. "They wanted to test us."
Mateo glanced at me. "Our response time. Our security."
"Exactly."
I crouched, brushing my hand against the edge of a broken crate. Serranos weren't sloppy, not like this. They were deliberate. Meaning someone else was pushing them to move differently.
"Marco's name better not be attached to this," I muttered.
Mateo didn't answer right away. Which told me everything.
I straightened, my shoulders tense. "He was here?"
"Not during the hit," Mateo said quickly. "But he's been running too close to their streets. Asking questions. Talking loud. You know how he is."
I clenched my fists until the knuckles went white. "If he gives them even a sliver of leverage—"
"I know," Mateo said. His tone wasn't calm this time. It was edged, like mine. "That's why we're here before Father hears. We keep this contained."
I scanned the graffiti again, the crude Serrano tag dripping on the wall. My gut told me this wasn't just them flexing. It was bigger. Too careful. Too clean.
"This isn't Serrano's idea," I said. "They don't play long games. Someone's feeding them."
Mateo's gaze flicked to me. He didn't argue.
We stood there in the cold air of the warehouse, the silence between us carrying a weight heavier than the broken crates.
Whoever was pulling the strings, they'd just put us on notice.
And if they thought the Marinos would take it quietly, they were dead wrong.
The Marino house was too quiet when we pulled up. Quiet never meant peace—it meant Father was waiting.
The dining room lights were low, the long table set but untouched. Father sat at the head, his glass of wine untouched, his gaze fixed on the door before we even stepped in.
"Sit," he said.
Mateo and I took our places. Marco was already there, slouched in his chair, scrolling on his phone like he hadn't noticed the storm in the room.
Father's eyes cut toward him. "Put it away."
Marco obeyed, slow and sullen, and leaned back with his arms crossed.
Father didn't waste time. "The Serranos tested us last night. I assume you've seen the damage."
"Yes," I said. "It was deliberate. They weren't stealing, they were measuring."
He nodded once, like I'd only confirmed what he already knew. "Which means they're not alone. Serranos have never been subtle. Someone smarter is bankrolling them."
Mateo leaned forward. "We think it's Enzo Valeri. He's been throwing money at politicians, trying to muscle in on the riverfront contracts."
Father's mouth thinned. "Enzo." He said the name like a curse. "Always circling. Always whispering. He doesn't want our scraps. He wants our place."
The weight of it pressed on the room. Even Marco looked up from the table.
Father swirled the wine but didn't drink. His eyes shifted to me. "Which is why it's time you stop pretending you can live outside the family's reach."
I felt Mateo's glance on me, a flicker of warning before Father continued.
"You will marry."
The word landed like a stone dropped into water. Marco smirked. Mateo just sighed.
Father kept going. "A daughter from the Japanese families. Half-American, raised in Kyoto, well-educated. Her people have ties that reach farther than Enzo ever will. Their money, their loyalty, would cement our position. Make sure no politician dares turn his back when Enzo comes knocking."
I clenched my jaw. "You're talking about politics, not marriage."
Father's gaze sharpened. "In this family, they are the same."
Mateo sat back, voice light but edged. "Sounds like Jace is getting an imported bride. You'll at least let him see a picture first, right?"
Marco laughed under his breath. "Hell, maybe she'll save him from all those essays."
I ignored them both. My focus stayed on Father. "And what if I refuse?"
"You won't," he said simply. Not a threat. A fact.
The silence stretched. My hands were tight on the armrests, every muscle in me wound too tight.
Father leaned forward, his voice lower. "Enzo is not just chasing contracts. He is aligning Serranos under his payroll. We can hold them back now. But in a year? Two? If you want to protect your brothers, your sister—you will do what is necessary."
The table was still. Heavy. Final.
I didn't answer. Not here. Not with him watching.
But inside, the fire had already started.
The night air was cooler outside the house, but it didn't loosen the knot in my chest.
Mateo lit a cigarette before we even hit the driveway. He leaned against the hood of my car, watching the smoke curl upward. "He's not wrong, you know."
I shot him a look.
"Don't," I warned.
He raised both hands. "I'm not saying marry the girl. I'm saying Father's right about Enzo. If the Serranos are moving with that kind of discipline, someone's paying the bill. And it's not coming from their pockets."
Marco came strolling out a minute later, still smirking from dinner. "Imported bride, huh? You want me to write the vows? 'I, Jace Marino, solemnly swear to build skyscrapers and scare Serranos…'"
I turned on him. "Shut it."
He whistled low, grinning. "Touchy. What's wrong? Afraid she won't like you?"
Mateo flicked ash to the ground. "Enough, Marco."
But Marco wasn't done. He leaned back against the rail, arms folded. "Come on. We all know Father's playing chess, and Jace is his favorite piece. The queen, maybe. Or the rook."
I stepped closer, my voice dropping. "This isn't a joke. Serranos nearly bled us out tonight, and you're laughing?"
For the first time, the grin slipped. Just a little.
Mateo cut in before it broke. "Look. Serranos don't think ahead. They hit, they run. That warehouse job? That wasn't them. Not really. Someone told them where to hit. Someone told them how far to push. And that someone—" he tapped his cigarette against the hood "—wears suits and buys politicians."
Enzo Valeri.
The name didn't need to be spoken. It hung there, sharp as glass between us.
Marco shifted, the smirk gone now. "You think he's bankrolling them?"
"I know it," Mateo said flatly. "Serranos don't suddenly grow brains. They grow wallets. And wallets come from men like Enzo."
I exhaled through my nose, steady, controlled. "Then Father's marriage deal isn't about family. It's about building a wall before Enzo builds an army."
Neither of them argued. Which was worse than anything they could've said.
Marco kicked the gravel at his feet, quieter now. "So what? You just… do it? Get married? Pretend she's not a stranger?"
"Lines in the sand," Mateo muttered
My jaw tightened.
I knew what they meant.
But I didn't answer. Because the truth was, I didn't know.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, the city was quiet. Too quiet. Even the hum of traffic below felt muted, like the whole place was holding its breath.
I set my keys down, stripped off my jacket, but the weight from Father's words and Mateo's suspicions didn't go anywhere. Enzo. Marriage. Serranos. Every thought was a stone in my head.
I sat at the desk, papers scattered from the morning. Tried to focus. Didn't. My hand drifted to my phone instead.
One name hovered in my mind longer than it should have.
Julian.
I typed before I could think better of it:
"First tutoring session starts Monday. Don't be late."
I should've left it there. Short. Clean. Business.
But I didn't put the phone down.
A minute later, it buzzed.
"Do I get to bring bodyguards?"
I stared at the screen, lips tugging without my permission.
"You'll need them," I sent back.
Another pause. Then—
"I'll risk it."
For the first time all day, the knot in my chest eased. Just a little.
I leaned back in the chair, phone still in hand, letting the silence settle. Family wars, Serranos, Enzo, marriage contracts—those could wait until morning.
Right now, all I could picture was the kid with flushed cheeks sitting on my couch in clothes too big for him, glaring at his friends for teasing him.
Another progress.