He had sent those doctored surveillance photos to every connected associate and intermediary in his network. The faces of the men in the images were blurred, rendered unidentifiable, but mine? Mine was crystal clear. My face. My body. Framed in the grainy half-light of what appeared to be a private club's back room, positioned to suggest exactly the kind of betrayal that got women in this world buried in silence. The photos were lies — Cristiano carrying my unconscious body to a safe house after a rival crew's associates had cornered me — but lies, in the Five Families' world, only needed to be believed for one news cycle. After that, the truth was irrelevant. The stain was permanent.
Nico let out a cruel laugh. The sound filled the room the way smoke fills a closed space — slowly, inescapably, poisoning everything it touched.
"Still feeling stubborn? Let's see how long you last in this business."