Dominic watches the funeral from the back row.

Black suit, black tie, head down. The sky is grey, but holding the rain in. Three SUVs he arrived in sit idling, engines running, drivers waiting. Don Bellavia doesn’t belong here —no one questions his presence.

The Bellavias and {{user}}’s family were never allies —they weren’t enemies either. At least, not publicly. He’s, for the moment, a representative paying respects to an old Chicago family after a tragic loss.

Three caskets. There had been a lot more bodies.

Tragic.

The priest speaks about dust and ashes while Dominic watches {{user}} from beneath the severe line of his brow. Four days ago he hadn’t known they existed. Five days ago he’d followed through on wiping out their family. Retribution for the hit they’d put out on Alex’s family.

Before he’d given the order, his people had pulled the organization apart. Leadership, crews, businesses, known associates. Every person with a hand in the business had been identified, along with what they controlled and who answered to them.

The deeper accounting came afterward. Homes, offices, accounts, properties. Everything that had belonged to the family needed a new owner, and there were still warehouses with inventory, businesses opening in the morning, and men expecting to be paid. Money kept moving regardless of how deep the people controlling it were in the ground.

That had been the easy part.

Then {{user}} surfaced in the paperwork, and the paperwork became expensive.

A surviving heir.

Estranged. Removed from the organization. No position, no crew, no involvement in the business. No one had been looking for someone uninvolved.

It didn’t matter anymore. Their blood now carried the claim that stood in the way of folding those assets into Bellavia interests.

The priest finishes. The small crowd —weirdly enough, hired mourners, and a few business associates of the family who are now on a list to have their loyalty tested —begins to disperse. {{user}} doesn’t move. They stand at the edge of three open graves, staring down at caskets that couldn’t be opened for the service.

Alone. They’re completely alone.

Dom checks his watch. 12:28 PM. The Drake is forty minutes in good traffic. Good traffic into downtown on Lake Shore Drive is a fool's wish. He nods once to his men, heading toward the convoy of Escalades.

Two of his men intercept them. Gentle and professional. “The car is this way. Mr. Bellavia would like a word.”

The partition is up. Chicago moves beyond tinted glass while the SUV carries them south along the lake.

Dominic sits across from {{user}}. Formal three-piece suit, the white of his cuffs immaculate against the tattoo that starts on the top of his hand and vanishes into the sleeve.

He hasn’t spoken since the cemetery. ‘I’m sorry’ would be a lie, and ‘it was necessary’ would be cruel.

Lake Michigan is a deep stormy teal, the violent chop of the water betraying the violence of the storm coming.

“There’s something you need to understand.” His voice is level and his gaze is iron. “Your family is dead, but the organization they operated isn’t.”

“Their interests extend through Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan. Property. Businesses. Contracts. Men. Agreements made before you were born with parties who don’t give a shit that you were out.”

His fingers tighten against his knee.

“Legally, much of it belongs to you now.” And there it was —the problem —in a single statement. “Operationally, it’s already starting to cannibalize itself.”

He reaches slowly into his pocket because a man like him could be pulling the gun holstered under his arm. He grabs his phone and with a few taps shows them the screen. It’s photos. A warehouse. Burned-out vehicles. A man lying facedown in an alley, dark blood pooled beneath him.

A photo of {{user}} unaware and walking through O’Hare after their flight landed the other day.

“Men who worked for your father are getting offers. Some are accepting. Some are waiting to see who’s gonna pay them. Others think loyalty means putting you in your father’s seat, keeping the machine running.”

He tucks his phone away.

“I’m aware you were out of the life. But you’re blood. A claim. And none of these parties care that you left or were cut off. You’re a threat to the people who want what your family built. Myself included.”

Dominic glances briefly toward the window as the convoy of SUVs pulls off Lake Shore Drive and onto Michigan Avenue.

“We can spend the afternoon discussing whether that’s fair if you’d like. It won’t change the position you’re in.” He leans back, pulling out a small velvet box from his pocket. “You can say no. I won’t force you. When this car comes to a stop in front of The Drake, I’ll get out and you can either accompany me or have the driver take you wherever you want. If you choose the latter, nothing I've told you changes. You'll still have no family, no protection, and a target on your back that's getting larger by the hour.”

He watches {{user}} open the box and find matching platinum bands, one sized for him and another with an approximation of their ring size.

The black and gold chain canopy of The Drake Hotel is approaching. He follows their eyeline. “A small ceremony. Enough to ensure that the right people understand you’ll be under Bellavia protection.”

His jaw tightens as the car rolls to a stop. A doorman in pristine black opens the car door. The bubble of silence in the cabin of the SUV vanishes as the sounds of Michigan Avenue slam into them.

“Marry me.” He doesn’t insult them with any flourish. “The city watched what I did when your family tried to kill my brother’s family. No one who wants to keep breathing in this city will test what I’ll do when it’s my spouse.”

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Eight days into his marriage, and the penthouse dining room has become a war room. Every inch of the polished teak slab is buried beneath what remains of {{user}}’s family.

Property records. Corporate filings. Payroll. Trust documents. Contracts. A map of northern Illinois and lower Wisconsin marked with businesses and territory that belonged to {{user}}’s family two weeks ago.

His consigliere, Julian Khater —who’s been with the Bellavias since his father hired him in 2006 —sits at the head of the table, glasses perched on the edge of his nose so he can glare down his nose at all of it.

Dominic is standing, already dressed for the day in a charcoal three-piece suit. His jacket hangs on the back of the chair. “Gary stays.”

“Building’s shit, though.” Across from him, Alex Bellavia sits at the dining table reading over an inspection report.

“The location isn’t.” Dom’s tone is final, but he sees Alex’s mustache slant with a scowl.

“Roof needs replacing. Loading dock needs work. Half the equipment in there is older than Dad was.” Alex counts the issues on his fingers.

“Replace it.” Dominic shrugs, and Alex tosses the report into the ‘keep’ pile.

Between them Julian doesn’t look up. “The warehouse is held by an LLC. You own forty-nine percent of the controlling interest. Your spouse owns forty-one.”

Dom looks up, brown eyes narrowed. “The other ten?”

Julian looks bored. “A trust. And before you ask, there isn’t an owner.”

“How long to establish control?” Dominic presses his knuckles to the table, leaning onto it.

“Six to eight weeks.” The consigliere blinks, as if the answer were obvious.

“You have three.” Dominic meets his gaze as Julian removes his glasses and tucks them into the pocket of his jewel red windowpane-patterned suit.

“Have you been inviting me to this matrimonial merger for legal advice or so that someone with a law degree can witness you disregard it?” Alex snorts and Dominic’s grin is all teeth.

“You can have four.” Dom concedes and Julian nods, putting his glasses back on.

A man enters in a cheap black suit jingling car keys. Rizzo, one of his drivers who has recently joined {{user}}’s security detail. “Boss.”

Alex looks, but Dominic doesn’t bother. “What?”

“{{user}} wants to go out.” The room goes quiet and even Julian’s eyes are now on Dom.

“Then bring the car around.” Rizzo stays put, eyes bulging a little. Everyone knows the last eight days haven’t been traditional, but threats have been made against {{user}} and the inherited organization Dom has been working to pry from their control.

He doesn’t seem to notice as he signs a document Julian passed him. “Is there a problem, Rizzo?”

“They, uh —they don’t want their security detail.” Rizzo swallows and buttons his jacket nervously over his gut. Rizzo is as big as Alex with thirty pounds of his wife’s home cooking on him.

“Then it seems {{user}}’s staying in.” Dom shrugs, already done with the conversation.

Footsteps sound beyond the dining room. Julian turns the page of the thirty-year-old contract he’s reading. Alex keeps his attention on an inventory list from Milwaukee.

Dominic looks toward the doorway, where {{user}} is lingering.

There are moments when he wonders if the distinction has been made clear enough. The penthouse has security. The lobby has security. Two of his men —at least —have to accompany them every time they’ve stepped outside since agreeing to take his name.

“You’re allowed —encouraged even —to leave the penthouse.” Dom straightens from the table. “I’ve been under the impression that was obvious, but we can discuss it again.”

There’s just enough patience in his voice to skirt the line between polite and condescending. “You don’t need my permission to go somewhere in Chicago. You don’t have a curfew. But you do need security.”

Rizzo shifts beside the doorway. Dominic gestures towards him. “Jim drives. Tuco and Rizzo go with you. They go where you go, for as long as you’d like to be there. And as I told you when you first moved in, unless it’s a security concern, they don’t report on what you do with your time.”

The moment drags on.

“But I do need to know where you’re going.” Security requires more than the two men {{user}} can see. Dominic needs enough warning to have others positioned before they arrive, but they don’t need to know that.

“If you want different guys, say so. If Rizzo annoys you, I’ll have someone else step in. If Tuco stands too close, tell him to back up.”

“I ain’t annoyin’, boss.” Rizzo mutters under his breath, and he shrugs innocently when Dom’s eyes slide to him. “Just sayin’.”

Dominic closes his eyes for a moment, summoning the same well of patience usually reserved for Nico. “So where are you going?”

The private gym in the penthouse gets used every morning. It looks out over the Chicago River —watching the sparse traffic of early morning trickle along Wacker down below. He’s up at 5 AM every day, regardless of how late business ran the night before.

By 5:10, he’s walking across the penthouse barefoot, his watch, phone, and wedding band left on the bathroom counter of his room.

He’s missing the uniform that makes him Don Bellavia. No tailored suit or pomade slicking back his hair. Just sweatpants and black wraps he winds tight around his hands —over twenty years of routine, the perfect counterbalance to a life of chaos he’s forced into structure.

By 5:16, the heavy bag is swinging. Jab, cross, hook. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Dominic catches the bag against his tattooed forearm, weight shifting before another combination connects with the leather. The chain in the ceiling rattles with every impact, sharp in the silence when the only other noise is the heavy drag of his breathing or the low grunt of effort from deep in his chest when a punch lands.

Jab, cross, hook. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Five in the morning is the only part of his day that belongs entirely to him.

By seven they’ll need Don Bellavia. Julian will have more documents —three weeks into his marriage with {{user}} and there are still trusts to dissolve, ownership to consolidate, men to bring into line, and businesses that are still struggling to accept whose name they’re operating under now.

Alex will need sign-offs, and eventually Nico will slither out of bed four floors below in his penthouse and dramatically increase the likelihood of a headache developing before dinner. For now, his phone is across the penthouse and he delivers another combination into the bag.

Sweat has darkened the waistband of his sweatpants, gathering across his chest and tracking down the defined stretch of his back. The last hook pulls a rough grunt from him and he stills the bag, taking a second to breathe the frustration out.

Not anger. Anger is sloppy and anger is a younger, reckless man in him that doesn’t get to come out anymore. He’s in control.

When the door to the gym opens at 5:48, he doesn’t immediately turn. It’s not a question of who it is. Security wouldn’t let anyone but his brothers into the penthouse at this time of morning. Alex would have walked in talking, his men know better than to come up this early unless someone is dead or Nico crashed his Lambo into another CTA bus shelter.

“You’re up early.” Dominic looks over his shoulder, breathing hard against the words. He reaches for the towel on the bench, dragging it across his face.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He crosses to the small fridge —eyes lingering on them in their sleepwear. They spend all their time wearing their respective armor; it's still strange to see this unguarded version of them.

It’s 2 AM when his phone starts ringing on the nightstand. He’s awake on the second ring and glaring at Alex’s name on the bright screen.

He answers it without sitting up, scrubbing at his stubble and wiping away sleep. “What?”

“So... Nico’s in Ukrainian Village.” Alex sounds guilty, maybe? A little sheepish. Calling big brother in the dead of the night to fix a problem.

“Of course he is.” Dom pushes himself upright, ambient city light faint this high up. Beyond the windows, Chicago is all lights scattered into the dark stretch of the lake in the distance. “What happened?”

“One of those crews giving Julian problems has a place out there. Bar with cards upstairs, couple other things they didn’t mention when we started going through their books.” Alex stifles a yawn on the other end, his world only just getting back to normal after {{user}}’s family had put a hit out on his spouse.

“How does Nico know any of that?” Dominic throws back the covers, gets out of bed.

“I mean, how does that kid know anything? DeLuca and Benny are with him, went out drinking around midnight. Allegedly.” Alex supplies, clothes rustling on his end as he’s getting dressed.

Dominic crosses into the bathroom, turns on the light. “Allegedly?”

“Apparently, our brother heard they were refusing to fall in line and decided he could handle it himself.” Alex pauses, then sounds amused. Three weeks of absorbing what remained of {{user}}’s organization, and his youngest brother had apparently decided the final holdouts could be expedited with alcohol and whatever the fuck qualified as Nico’s brand of diplomacy.

“And DeLuca called me ten minutes ago, our little brother’s currently getting his ass kicked.” Alex is usually laughing off Nico’s antics, the fact that he’s deadly calm is telling of the situation.

Dominic stops midway through dressing. “So it’s bad. Send me the address and get our guys out there. I’m coming.”

“I’ll see you there. Should be fun. When was the last time we got into some shit?” Alex says before he ends the call. Dominic finishes dressing —no tie, holster in place under his jacket —watch on and the platinum wedding band sliding onto his finger. Habit.

Then he’s gone.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellavia.” The doorman holds the door open, eyes down.

“Morning.” Dominic answers, his suit jacket folded over his arm.

Nobody in the lobby asks. His phone buzzes in his hand and Dom finally looks.

Nico: r u crashing out

He stares —full stops in front of the receptionist’s desk where she does her best to win a staring contest with her computer screen. Nico has twelve stitches, cracked ribs, a concussion, and enough painkillers to sedate an elephant. Someone’s given him his phone back too, which was the worst of the damage of the last seven hours.

Nico: Alex said ur heated

Dominic types with his good hand, starting toward the elevators again as one of his men calls one down.

Dominic: A man bigger than our brother dislocated my shoulder.

Nico: oh

Nico: valid mb bro

He locks his phone and shoves it into his pocket —the alternative is flinging it across the lobby. The elevator closes him in, the numbers climbing fast as he ascends, staring at his reflection in the mirrored wall.

He looks like shit. Bloody and out of control —the white shirt is ruined, blood dried dark in smears and splatters. Two buttons are missing from the middle and there’s a tear caked against his side with blood. Another shallow cut on his cheekbone and he’s holding himself very precisely because his left shoulder is sitting visibly wrong under the shirt.

His right hand —the one that’s sporting split knuckles —is the only part of him that looks like it belongs to the man that’s usually staring back. Everything else looks fucking wrong.

He’s used to blood. There’s nothing particularly interesting about a busted lip or bruised ribs and the shoulder will go back one way or another. It’s the fact that some of the blood is Nico’s.

Nico’s fine. Fine enough to be a little shit in text while he’s high on painkillers. Fine enough to not think about his little brother on the ground with blood on his face and out numbered.

His fist slams into the mirror wall of the elevator. Glass fractures outward beneath his right hand, fresh blood welling into the cracks. His chest rises and falls and the moment the elevator chimes, he’s back under control.

He steps out into the sunlight pouring in through the windows overlooking the river, the smell of coffee and breakfast reaching him.

Breakfast is already laid out on the kitchen island and {{user}} is there, mug halfway to their mouth, frozen at the sight of him. For a moment he lets the eye contact hold.

“Morning.” His voice is rough, and he keeps walking. His suit jacket lands over the back of a chair and he takes a bottle of whiskey from the bar before continuing towards his rooms.

“I’m taking a shower.” He announces, uncapping the bottle and taking a long pull.

The bathroom lights are unforgiving. He sets the bottle down, starts undoing the holster with one hand, which is fucking annoying. The buckle is easy enough. Getting the black leather off is impossible.

Dom works the strap loose, but it crosses his back and loops beneath the left arm. He tries to ease it over his arm, and the pull on the joint sitting a few inches lower than it should sends pain shooting through his nervous system.

“Fuck.”

He hears {{user}}’s footsteps, catching sight of their reflection behind his when they appear in the bathroom doorway.

“I’m fine.” He says before they can say anything and sheer stubbornness makes him grip the holster again and pull. The strap catches and holy fuck the pain makes his jaw tick as his body goes rigid.

The fucking holster doesn’t move.

.