Rio woke to the smell of coffee and chemicals—brewing liquor and Corteo's attempt at breakfast mixing into something that shouldn't work but somehow did.
The bed was unfamiliar. The room was unfamiliar. For a disorienting moment, fragments surfaced—other beds, other rooms, other lives where he'd woken up not knowing where he was or who he'd been the day before.
Then memory settled. Lawless. The brewery. The suicide mission he'd signed up for because boredom was apparently more dangerous than bullets.
"You snore," Corteo said when Rio emerged into the main living area. "You never used to snore."
"You never used to make bootleg whiskey. People change." Rio accepted the coffee. Drank. Not bad. "What time's the meeting?"
"Noon." Angelo—Avilio now, had to remember that—sat at the table, already dressed, already prepared. Did the man ever sleep? "At the Vanetti speakeasy. Downtown."
"Neutral ground?"
"Their ground. But public enough that they won't kill us immediately."
"Comforting." Rio sat across from him. Studied the face that had once been his friend's. "You really think we can do this? Convince them we're worth keeping alive?"
"You can charm anyone. I can handle anything they throw at us. Corteo's liquor speaks for itself." Avilio's voice was matter-of-fact. "We'll be fine."
"And if we're not?"
"Then at least we tried."
Corteo set down plates of eggs and toast. "Can we not talk about dying before breakfast? I'd like to enjoy my last meal if it comes to that."
"It won't," Avilio said.
"You don't know that."
"I know we're too useful to kill. Yet."
"Yet," Corteo repeated. "That's the key word."
Rio ate in silence, watching his two companions. Seven years had changed them all, but in different directions. Avilio had gone cold, focused, streamlined into a weapon pointed at one target. Corteo had gone cautious, nervous, his natural kindness fighting with learned paranoia.
And Rio? Rio had gone nowhere. Just drifted. Survived. Waited for something to make existence interesting again.
"You ever think about that night?" Corteo asked quietly. "The massacre?"
"Every day," Avilio said.
"Never," Rio lied.
Corteo's eyes flickered to him. Didn't believe it. Smart. "I dream about it. The screaming. The gunfire. Running through those streets not knowing if we'd make it."
"We made it," Rio said.
"Did we? Because some days I'm not sure." Corteo pushed his eggs around his plate. "We survived. But surviving isn't the same as living."
"Philosophical this morning."
"Realistic." Corteo met his eyes. "We're walking into the den of the people who killed our families. We're going to smile and shake their hands and pretend we're there for business. That's not living, Rio. That's just... existing with extra steps."
"Existing with a purpose," Avilio corrected. "Everything we do from here forward has one goal. Make them pay."
"And what's the goal after that?"
"There is no after. This is it."
Corteo set down his fork. "That's what I'm afraid of."
They spent the morning preparing. Corteo checked his brewing equipment—more nervous energy than necessity. Avilio cleaned weapons Rio hadn't known he was carrying. Rio did what he always did: observed, absorbed, let fragments supply information he pretended not to have.
"Tell me about Lawless," Rio said, watching Corteo work. "The real version. Not the tourist guide."
Corteo didn't look up from adjusting copper tubing. "It's a crime city with a thin coat of respectability. Everyone knows what's happening. No one talks about it. The police are bought. The mayor's bought. Even the churches probably tithe to one family or another."
"Which family controls what?"
"The Vanettis have downtown, most of the good real estate, the legitimate businesses that aren't legitimate. Don Vincent Vanetti runs it like a kingdom. His sons are being groomed to take over—Nero's the heir apparent. Frate's... complicated."
Fragments stirred. Complicated means dangerous. Second sons with ambition and no clear path. Watch that one.
"And the Orcos?"
"Rougher. More direct. Don Orco wants what the Vanettis have. He's been pushing boundaries for months. Everyone knows war's coming. It's just a matter of when."
"Where do you fit in all this?"
"I don't." Corteo finally looked up. "I make liquor. Good liquor. Both families want it. I stay neutral, supply whoever pays, and try not to die in the crossfire."
"Smart."
"Cowardly, you mean."
"Smart," Rio repeated. "There's nothing cowardly about wanting to live."
"Then why are you here?" Corteo's voice was soft but sharp. "You had a life in Chicago. Safe. Successful. Why throw it away for Angelo's revenge?"
Honest answer? Because that life was suffocating. Because fragments whispered about danger and purpose and finally feeling something. Because boredom was killing him slower than any bullet ever could.
But Rio just shrugged. "Bad decision-making. It's kind of my thing."
Corteo didn't laugh.
Eleven-thirty. Time to go.
Avilio emerged from his room transformed. Not physically—still Angelo's face, Angelo's body. But everything else had changed. The way he moved. The way he held himself. The subtle shift in expression that made him look like someone entirely different.
Avilio Bruno. Not Angelo Lagusa. Complete identity shift.
"That's unsettling," Rio said.
"That's survival." Avilio adjusted his jacket. Checked his reflection in the window. Satisfied. "You ready?"
"To walk into a mob meeting with no weapons and no backup plan? Absolutely not."
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp."
"I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
Corteo locked up the brewery behind them. The walk to downtown Lawless was short but revealing. Rio catalogued everything—street layouts, sight lines, escape routes. Fragments supplying tactical information without being asked.
Alley there connects to three streets. Warehouse has roof access. That car's been following us for two blocks. Blue sedan, three occupants.
"We're being watched," Rio said quietly.
"Since we left the brewery," Avilio confirmed. "The Vanettis want to see how we move. If we're nervous. If we're carrying."
"And?"
"We move like professionals. We're appropriately cautious but not paranoid. And we're not stupid enough to bring weapons to a first meeting."
Rio glanced back. The blue sedan maintained distance. Professional tail. "They're good."
"They should be. They run this city."
Downtown Lawless was different from the industrial area. Cleaner. More prosperous. The kind of place where money flowed and people didn't ask where it came from. Legitimate businesses with illegitimate backing. The American dream built on bootlegging and violence.
The speakeasy was in a basement beneath a dry goods store. Discreet entrance. Password at the door. The kind of place you only found if you were supposed to.
Avilio gave the password—something Corteo had provided. The door opened.
Music drifted up from below. Jazz. Good jazz, too. The kind Chicago speakeasies charged premium prices for.
"After you," Rio said.
"Scared?"
"Cautious. There's a difference."
They descended into smoke and sound.
The speakeasy was impressive. Rio's professional eye caught the details—quality bar, good liquor, excellent musicians, clientele that ranged from working-class to criminal elite. This wasn't some back-alley gin joint. This was an operation.
And it was packed. Noon on a weekday, the place was full.
"Prohibition's been good to someone," Rio murmured.
"The Vanettis," Corteo confirmed. "They own this place. And five others like it."
A man approached. Big, scarred, the kind of presence that cleared space without trying. Rio's fragments supplied information: Muscle. Enforcer. High-level soldier. Dangerous but not the brains.
"Avilio Bruno?" The man's voice matched his appearance—gravel and threat.
"That's me." Avilio's transformation was complete. Different accent. Different energy. Someone else wearing Angelo's face.
"The don's expecting you. And friends." The man's eyes settled on Rio. Assessing. Measuring. "You the associate?"
"Rio Ceriano. Former Chicago speakeasy owner. Current... consultant."
"Consultant." The word held amusement and threat. "Sure. Follow me."
They were led through the crowd—curious eyes tracking their movement—to a back room. Private. Isolated. The kind of room where business happened.
Or where bodies were made.
The door closed behind them.
Three men waited inside.
The first was the one who'd spoken—standing guard, hand near his jacket. Armed definitely.
The second was older, harder, with the kind of face that had seen every variation of human ugliness and stopped being surprised. Fragments whispered: Ganzo. Underboss. The enforcer. Direct line to the don. Respect the position but watch for the violence.
The third was younger. Late twenties, maybe. Handsome in a way that came from confidence more than features. Well-dressed. Intelligent eyes that missed nothing.
And those eyes settled on Rio with the kind of intensity that made fragments scream warnings while other instincts stirred entirely different reactions.
Nero Vanetti. The heir. Magnetic. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of complication you don't need.
"Gentlemen." Nero's voice was smooth. Educated. The kind of voice that commanded rooms without raising volume. "Welcome to Lawless. I'm Nero Vanetti."
"Avilio Bruno." Avilio shook his hand. Perfect pressure. Perfect duration. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Your letter was... interesting. Corteo speaks highly of you." Nero's attention shifted. "And you must be the Chicago connection."
"Rio Ceriano." Rio took the offered hand. Felt the assessment. The weighing. "Former speakeasy owner. Currently between ventures."
"Between ventures." Nero smiled. "Diplomatic way to say unemployed."
"Diplomatic way to say selective about my next project."
The smile widened. "I like him already. Have a seat, gentlemen."
They sat. The older man—Ganzo—remained standing. Positioned behind Nero. Classic power dynamic. Nero led, Ganzo enforced.
"Corteo's liquor is excellent," Nero began, settling into his chair with casual authority. "Quality product. We've been moving it through our establishments for weeks now. Very popular."
"He's a talented chemist," Avilio said.
"He's a nervous chemist who jumps at shadows," Ganzo growled. "But the product's good. We'll keep him on."
Corteo, wisely, said nothing.
"Which brings us to you two." Nero's focus shifted between them. "Avilio Bruno, drifter with useful skills. Rio Ceriano, former businessman looking for opportunities. Tell me—what makes you think you're useful to us?"
Avilio's answer was practiced. Smooth. He'd clearly prepared for this. "I handle problems. Quietly. Efficiently. No mess, no attention. The kind of work that needs doing but no one wants to acknowledge."
"Cleaning work."
"When necessary."
"And you?" Nero's attention fixed on Rio. "What problems do you handle?"
Rio leaned back, let his natural charm surface. "People problems. The kind that come from miscommunication, misunderstanding, or deliberate misdirection. I read situations. Smooth them over. Or escalate them, depending on what's needed."
"A talker."
"A translator. Between what people say and what they mean."
Ganzo snorted. "We've got plenty of talkers."
"But do you have ones who can tell you that the man by the bar—brown jacket, third from the left—is a cop on someone's payroll, probably the Orcos, and he's been watching you since you walked in?"
Silence.
Nero's expression didn't change. But something flickered in his eyes. "How do you know that?"
Fragments. Combat instincts. Lifetimes of reading body language and threat assessment. But Rio just smiled. "I ran a speakeasy in Chicago for three years. You learn to spot cops. Paid or not. And that one's watching you specifically, not the room."
Ganzo moved. Rio heard the door open, close. Heard raised voices. Then silence.
The cop didn't leave. But he wasn't watching anymore.
"Impressive," Nero said. "Observant. Useful trait."
"I've found it keeps me alive."
"In Chicago, maybe. Lawless is different."
"Crime city versus crime city? The geography changes. The fundamentals don't."
That earned an actual laugh. "You're confident."
"I'm realistic. You're evaluating whether we're worth the risk. I'm evaluating whether you're worth working for."
Ganzo took a step forward. "Watch your mouth, kid."
Rio didn't flinch. Fragments supplied the right response: Show respect for the position, not fear of the man. "No disrespect intended. But if you want associates who'll just take orders without question, you don't need us. Corteo can supply liquor. You can hire muscle anywhere. We're only valuable if we bring something you don't already have."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then Nero smiled. "You're right. I can hire muscle anywhere. What I need are people who can think. Who can see what others miss." He stood. Extended his hand to Rio. "Welcome to Lawless, Mr. Ceriano. Let's see if you're as useful as you claim."
Rio took the hand. Felt the strength in it. The control. And something else—a current of interest that went beyond business.
Complications. You're looking at complications.
"We won't disappoint," Avilio said.
"See that you don't." Nero moved toward the door. Ganzo following. "We'll start small. Test your capabilities. Prove yourselves, and there's money to be made. Fail..." He smiled. "Well. Lawless isn't kind to failures."
They left.
The three of them sat in silence for a long moment.
"Well," Corteo finally said. "We're not dead."
"Yet," Rio added.
"That went better than expected," Avilio said, already Avilio again, not showing any sign of being Angelo. "We're in."
"We're in the door. That's different from being in."
"It's a start."
Rio stood, moved to the door, checked the speakeasy beyond. The cop was gone. Ganzo had handled it quietly. Professional operation.
"He liked you," Corteo said to Rio.
"Who?"
"Nero. You could tell. The way he engaged with you."
"He was evaluating whether I'm worth keeping alive."
"Both things can be true." Corteo's voice held warning. "Be careful, Rio. These people aren't your friends. No matter how charming they are."
"I know that."
Did he? Fragments whispered confusion. Memories of infiltration, of getting close to targets, of lines blurring between mission and connection.
Don't get attached. Don't care. You're here for Angelo's revenge, not to make friends.
But Nero's smile had been genuine. His laugh had been real. And the interest in his eyes had been complicated in ways that spelled trouble.
"We should go," Avilio said. "They'll have other tests. We need to be ready."
They left through the main floor. Eyes tracked them—the newcomers who'd met with Nero and left alive. That meant something in Lawless. Exactly what, Rio wasn't sure yet.
Outside, the afternoon sun felt wrong. Too bright. Too normal. Like the city should match the danger but instead pretended to be ordinary.
"What now?" Corteo asked.
"Now we wait," Avilio said. "They'll contact us. Give us a job. We do it perfectly."
"And then?"
"Then we do it again. And again. Until we're trusted. Until we're inside." His voice was cold. Focused. "Until we can destroy them."
Rio looked back at the speakeasy. At the building that housed the Vanetti operation. At the life he'd just stepped into.
"This is going to end badly," he said.
"Probably," Avilio agreed.
"People are going to die."
"Definitely."
"And we're doing it anyway."
"Yes."
Rio sighed. Fragments whispered warnings he wouldn't heed. Survival instincts screamed at him to run.
He ignored them all.
"Next time I'm bored," he said, "someone remind me that boredom is actually a gift."
"There won't be a next time," Avilio said.
Yeah.
Rio was starting to believe that.
They walked back through Lawless streets. The blue sedan followed for three blocks, then peeled off. Someone else's problem now.
The brewery felt different when they returned. Less like a safe house, more like a staging ground. This was where they'd plan. Where they'd prepare. Where they'd try to survive what came next.
"I need to check the stills," Corteo said, disappearing into his work. His comfort zone. The one thing he controlled.
Avilio vanished into his room. Planning, probably. Or just existing in whatever cold space he inhabited between actions.
Rio stood at the window, watching Lawless settle into evening. Lights coming on. People heading to speakeasies and illegal entertainment. Life continuing while conspiracies brewed in back rooms.
His reflection stared back from the glass. Same face. Same body. Different life.
How many times had he done this? Walked into danger because it felt more real than safety? Let fragments guide him into situations that should terrify him but only made him feel alive?
Too many to count.
Not enough to learn.
"We're going to die here," he said to his reflection.
His reflection didn't disagree.
But at least it wouldn't be boring.