Chapter 1

My name is Leo O' Connell. I am fourteen years old.

My father is the Don of the O' Connell crime family. He is old, in his late seventies, and his power in New York City is absolute.

My mother, Isabella, is his youngest wife. She is in her early thirties. She is not legally married to him, but in our world, that doesn' t matter. She came from a Sicilian family in Chicago, sent here as a peace offering when she was eighteen. She had me a year later.

Because she is Sicilian, and my father' s family is Irish, she is an outsider. She has a lower status. Her only real power is me, her son. She is my only confidant.

My father has many children, but most are gone or not in the business. My brother Brendan is sickly. My brother Sean is flamboyant and cruel, a liability.

Then there is Connor.

Connor "The Ghost" O' Connell. My third brother. He is thirty-two. Fifteen years ago, my father sent him to the Rust Belt to run our operations there. He is a legend, the family' s most feared enforcer.

They say his mother was a low-level Sicilian worker. A disgrace. That' s why he was exiled. My father disdains him, but he made the family powerful in the Midwest.

Today, Connor is coming home.

The news of his return spread through our Long Island estate like a wildfire. The staff whispered. The soldiers stood straighter. Even my father, who rarely left his study, seemed restless.

My mother was different.

I watched her in the garden that morning. She was usually quiet, a beautiful statue in a house of stone. But today, she moved with a forgotten energy. She hummed a song I didn't know. Her eyes, usually distant, were bright.

She was getting ready for the party. A massive welcome party for the son my father despised.

Later, I found her in her bungalow, a small, separate house on the estate grounds. She was looking at an old, faded photograph.

"Who is that?" I asked.

She quickly put it away. "Just old friends from Chicago, Leo."

Her voice was soft, but there was a tremor in it. She looked at me, her expression changing. The light in her eyes dimmed a little.

"You look happy today, Mom."

She forced a smile. "Of course. A brother you've never met is coming home. It's a family day."

But it didn't feel like a family day. It felt like the air before a storm.

That evening, the cars started arriving. Black sedans, one after another, filling the long driveway. The capos, the soldiers, the associates. The whole family.

I stood by a window, watching. I was always watching. It was my place in this family. The quiet observer.

Then, a car different from the rest pulled up. A simple, dark muscle car, caked in road dust. The door opened.

Connor stepped out.

He was not what I expected. He wasn't a giant or a monster. He was tall, lean, with dark hair and my father' s sharp blue eyes. He wore simple clothes, a leather jacket over a plain shirt. He looked tired, but he moved with a dangerous grace.

He looked up at the main house, his face unreadable.

My father was waiting on the porch, a king on his throne. He didn't stand. He just watched Connor walk toward him.

I looked for my mother. She was standing near the rose bushes, partly hidden in the shadows. She wasn't looking at my father or the arriving guests.

She was only looking at Connor.

And in her eyes, I saw a strange, nostalgic light. A youthful glow I had only seen when she told me stories about her life in Chicago, a life before she was sent here. A life before me.

It was a look I did not understand, and it made me feel cold.