Obsidian Heart

The city lights of New York, filtered through the thick, expensive glass of the 45th-floor penthouse, looked like cold, scattered diamonds. Rocco Valeriano stood against the panorama, not observing the view, but dominating it. At twenty-eight, he was the youngest undisputed boss the Valeriano family had seen in three generations, a fact he wore in the sharp cut of his Savile Row suit and the even sharper glacier blue of his eyes.

The desk behind him, carved from a single slab of black marble, was immaculate, save for one object: a small, worn photograph. It was a faded image of a girl sitting on a sun-drenched beach, her knees pulled up, laughing. Her hair, the color of burnished copper, was wild with the sea air, and her eyes, bright and clear, held no shadows.

Eliza.

He hadn't seen her in ten years. Ten years since the summer that had been his last taste of innocence, a summer before the weight of his name settled on his shoulders, before the steel replaced the softness in his bones. Eliza Hawthorne had simply vanished from his life, a casualty of his family's demands, fleeing the violence she sensed lurking beneath his easy smile.

A discreet knock sounded at the heavy oak door. His right-hand man, Dante, entered, his expression as habitually neutral as Rocco's own was carefully bored.

"The asset retrieval is confirmed, Rocco. Clean, fast. No loose ends," Dante reported, referring to a rival gang's ledger that was now conveniently in the East River.

Rocco didn't turn around. "And the other matter?"

Dante paused, a flicker of something-maybe caution, maybe curiosity-crossing his face. "The woman. Eliza Hawthorne. She checked into the St. Regis this afternoon. She's here for the gallery opening tomorrow night. Her work is being shown. Abstract sculpture, apparently."

A muscle in Rocco's jaw tightened, the only outward sign of the shift in his internal landscape. Abstract sculpture. Of course. Eliza had always seen the world in angles and textures others missed. He imagined the cold elegance of her art, a reflection of the distance she had put between them.

"Her itinerary?" Rocco's voice was low, smooth, and entirely devoid of the decade of yearning that had just detonated in his chest.

"Dinner reservation tonight. A small, non-descript Italian place in Greenwich Village. She prefers quiet places, remembers her habits," Dante added, his tone almost apologetic for knowing too much about the Boss's secret history.

Rocco finally turned, moving with the deceptive grace of a predator. He picked up the photograph, his thumb brushing the outline of the laughing girl's face.

"Cancel my evening meeting with the Russo family. Tell them it's a matter of prior commitment."

Dante nodded. "Understood. Personnel?"

"Just the usual two outside the door. I'm going alone."

Dante blinked. "Rocco, that neighborhood-"

"I know the neighborhood, Dante," Rocco cut him off, his voice carrying the finality of a slammed vault door. "I grew up three blocks from it. Besides," a rare, chilling smile touched his lips,