The call came on a Wednesday morning, three weeks into their integration.
Ganzo's voice was gruff over the phone. "You and Avilio. Warehouse district. Two o'clock. Don't be late."
"What's the job?" Rio asked.
"You'll see when you get here."
The line went dead.
Avilio looked up from his coffee. "Problem?"
"Unknown. Ganzo wants us at the warehouse district. Wouldn't say why."
"That's not concerning at all."
Corteo, brewing his morning batch, went pale. "What if it's Frate? What if he convinced them to—"
"Then we handle it," Avilio said. But his hand moved to where he kept his gun. Unconscious gesture. Combat readiness.
Rio's fragments whispered warnings. Ambiguous summons. Unknown location. This could be advancement or elimination.
"Only one way to find out," Rio said.
---
The warehouse was in the industrial district—neutral territory, not specifically Vanetti or Orco. Large building, concrete floor, high ceilings. The kind of place where echoes carried and privacy was guaranteed.
When they arrived, Rio counted fifteen men. All Vanetti soldiers. All armed.
Ganzo stood in the center. Next to him, Nero. And surprisingly, Vanno.
Also surprisingly, no immediate sense of threat. The soldiers looked relaxed. Almost... excited?
"Good, you're here." Ganzo gestured them forward. "We're doing this properly."
"Doing what properly?" Rio asked.
"The fango." Nero smiled. "Traditional initiation. You've proven yourselves useful. Time to prove you can handle the physical requirements."
Avilio's expression didn't change. But Rio caught the slight tension in his shoulders. "What physical requirements?"
"Fighting." Ganzo cracked his knuckles. "Bare-knuckle. Three rounds. You against whoever volunteers. You win or last all three rounds, you're officially in. You quit or get knocked out, you stay provisional."
Rio's fragments supplied information immediately: Traditional mob initiation. Test of toughness and pain tolerance. They need to see if you'll fold under physical pressure. Winning is optional. Not quitting is mandatory.
"Who goes first?" Avilio asked.
"Your choice."
Avilio looked at Rio. A silent conversation passed between them. Avilio was cold, efficient, but his combat style was brutal—all aggression and efficiency. He'd win but he'd look dangerous doing it. Too dangerous.
Rio, on the other hand, could fight with style. Make it look good. Win without seeming like a threat.
"I'll go," Rio said.
Ganzo smiled. "Good. Strip to the waist. No brass knuckles, no weapons. Just hands and will."
Rio removed his shirt. The soldiers whistled and made appreciative comments—his physique was exactly what lifetimes of perfect health and muscle memory created. Lean, athletic, the dangerous kind of functional strength.
Nero's eyes tracked over him with undisguised interest. Rio pretended not to notice.
"Who's first?" Ganzo called to the gathered soldiers.
A man stepped forward—thick build, scarred knuckles, the look of someone who'd been in dozens of fights. One of the soldiers from the pier. Bruno? No, the other one.
"I'll take him," the man said. "Show the new guy how we do things."
They moved to the center. Formed a loose circle. No rules beyond bare-knuckle boxing. No rounds, really—just fight until someone said stop.
The soldier came in fast. Aggressive. Testing Rio's reaction time.
Rio's fragments took over.
Muscle memory from lives he didn't remember flooded his body. He slipped the first punch. Countered with a jab to the ribs. Quick. Efficient. Not too hard—this wasn't about hurting the guy, it was about showing competence.
The soldier grinned. "He's fast."
They exchanged blows. Rio took hits—had to, or it looked too easy. Let the man land a punch to his jaw. Another to his ribs. Pain bloomed but fragments reminded him: You've felt worse. You've died from worse. This is nothing.
Then Rio went on offense.
Combination punches. Fluid movement. Reading the soldier's tells—weight shift before the right hook, shoulder drop before the jab. Rio wasn't just fighting. He was dismantling someone with surgical precision.
The soldier went down after two minutes. Not knocked out. Just overwhelmed.
Applause from the watching soldiers. Impressed murmurs.
Ganzo nodded. "Round two."
Another soldier stepped up. Bigger. Meaner looking. This one knew how to fight—military training, maybe, or serious street experience.
The second round was harder. The man had reach advantage. Used it well. Kept Rio at distance, landed heavy shots.
Rio's face was bleeding. Lip split. Eye swelling. But the fragments kept him moving, kept him fighting, kept the pain distant and manageable.
This body will heal. Pain is temporary. Quitting is permanent.
Rio changed tactics. Got inside the man's reach. Worked the body. Short, brutal punches to the ribs and solar plexus. The kind that stole breath and will.
The second soldier folded after three minutes.
More applause. Louder now.
Nero was watching with fascination. Vanno was practically bouncing with excitement.
"Round three," Ganzo called. "Last one. Make it count."
The third soldier who stepped forward was different. Smaller. Wiry. The kind of build that suggested speed over power.
And he was good. Really good.
They moved like dancers—trading blows, reading each other, both with training they shouldn't discuss. Rio's fragments recognized professional technique. This wasn't street fighting. This was formal training.
Boxing, maybe. Or military combatives.
The fight lasted seven minutes. Both of them bleeding, both breathing hard, neither willing to quit.
Finally, Rio saw the opening. The man's guard dropped slightly after combinations. Left him vulnerable for half a second.
Rio's fragments capitalized instantly.
Combination to the body. Duck under the counter. Uppercut to the jaw.
The soldier went down. Stayed down.
Silence. Then eruption of approval from the watching men.
Rio stood in the center, chest heaving, blood dripping from his split lip and probably broken nose, body screaming pain the fragments kept at manageable distance.
Ganzo approached. Extended his hand. "You can fight. Properly. Where'd you learn that?"
"Chicago," Rio said automatically. Then, because that answer wasn't enough anymore: "And other places. I've been around."
"That's professional technique. Military or boxing."
"I pick things up fast." The lie was wearing thin. But what else could Rio say? I've died violently enough times that combat is muscle memory from lives I don't remember?
Ganzo studied him. Then nodded. "You're tough. You can handle pain. You don't quit. That's what we needed to see." He turned to the crowd. "Rio Ceriano—officially approved."
The soldiers cheered.
Nero handed Rio a towel. Water. His eyes held complicated emotions. "You're full of surprises."
"I try."
"That was more than trying. That was—" Nero paused. "You fight like someone who's been doing it their entire life."
"Maybe I have."
"In Chicago?"
"Among other places."
Nero didn't push. Just studied him with those intelligent, dangerous eyes that saw too much.
Avilio went next. His rounds were different—cold, brutal, efficient. No style. Just overwhelming aggression. He won all three in half the time Rio had taken, leaving his opponents more damaged.
The soldiers approved but seemed less enthusiastic. Avilio's violence was effective but unsettling. Rio's had been impressive. There was a difference.
After, Ganzo declared them both officially in. No more provisional status. Full associates with all the benefits and expectations that came with it.
"There's a celebration tonight," Vanno said, draping an arm over Rio's shoulders. "At the main speakeasy. Everyone'll be there. You two are officially family now."
Family.
The word landed wrong in Rio's chest.
---
Back at the brewery, Corteo patched them up. Rio's face was a mess—split lip, black eye forming, definitely a broken nose, ribs that screamed with every breath.
"You look terrible," Corteo said, cleaning the blood away.
"I look successful."
"Same thing in this business." Corteo worked in silence for a moment. Then quietly: "You're good at that. Fighting. Really good. Too good."
"I won. That was the point."
"No, I mean—" Corteo met his eyes. "You move like someone who's done this hundreds of times. Like violence is second nature. Where did you really learn that?"
Rio didn't answer. Couldn't answer. The fragments didn't provide clear memories—just muscle memory, instinct, the accumulated experience of dying violently across lifetimes.
"Does it matter?" Rio asked.
"It matters because people are noticing. Ganzo noticed. Nero definitely noticed. And if they keep noticing, they'll start asking questions we can't answer."
"Then we deflect."
"For how long? Until when?" Corteo's voice held desperation. "We're in too deep. You two are officially part of the family now. That means bigger jobs. More danger. More chances for everything to fall apart."
"That's the plan," Avilio said from where he was cleaning his own wounds. "Get deep inside. Gain complete trust. Then destroy them."
"And what if you can't? What if you're so deep you can't get out?"
Neither of them answered.
Because Corteo was right. They were deep. Deeper than planned. Rio could feel it—the weight of Vanno's friendship, Nero's trust, the don's conditional approval. All of it pulling him further in.
The fragments whispered: This is how infiltrations fail. You get too close. Start to care. Forget the mission. Then everything collapses and everyone dies.
Had that happened before? In past lives? Rio couldn't remember clearly.
But the warning felt lived-in. Real. Like advice from a version of himself that had already made these mistakes.
---
The celebration that night was exactly what Rio expected—loud music, flowing liquor, soldiers and associates celebrating the new official members.
Rio's face hurt. His ribs hurt. Everything hurt. But he smiled and drank and accepted congratulations with practiced charm.
Nero found him by the bar. Closer than necessary. Close enough that Rio could smell his cologne and whiskey.
"How's the face?" Nero asked.
"Functional. Might be pretty again in a week or two."
"You're still pretty." The words came out before Nero seemed to intend them. He cleared his throat. "I mean—you know what I mean."
Rio smiled despite the split lip. "I do."
"Good." Nero drank. "You were impressive today. The way you moved. The way you fought. That's not amateur work."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true. And because I'm curious." Nero turned to face him fully. "Who are you really, Rio Ceriano?"
The question was direct. Honest. Deserved an honest answer.
But Rio couldn't give one.
"I'm someone who ended up in Lawless," Rio said carefully. "Someone who's good at things he doesn't always understand. Someone who's trying to figure out where he fits."
"Do you fit here?"
"I don't know yet."
"I think you do." Nero's voice was quiet. Intense. "I think you fit here better than you want to admit. With this family. With..." He paused. "With me."
The fragments screamed warnings. This is exactly the complication you can't afford. Attachment leads to failure. Caring leads to death. Deflect now.
But Rio didn't deflect. Just met Nero's eyes and said, "Maybe."
"Maybe," Nero repeated. Smiled. "I'll take maybe."
They stood in comfortable silence. The party flowed around them. But in this moment, it felt like they were separate from it. Two people in a room full of people, somehow alone.
"Can I ask you something?" Nero said.
"You're going to regardless of my answer."
"True." Nero's smile was self-aware. "Why do you seem sad? Even when you're succeeding. Even when you're laughing. There's this sadness underneath. Like you're mourning something."
The observation cut deeper than it should.
Because Nero was right. Rio was mourning. Mourning lives he couldn't remember clearly. Mourning the person he might have been before fragments and reincarnation made him into something else. Mourning the attachments he kept making and losing across infinite lives.
"Maybe I'm just tired," Rio said.
"Of what?"
Everything. Existing. Surviving. Never really living.
"Long day," Rio said instead. "Fighting takes it out of you."
Nero accepted the deflection. But his eyes said he knew it wasn't the whole truth.
Vanno appeared, saving Rio from further interrogation. "Stop monopolizing him! Everyone wants to buy the new guy drinks."
"I'm not monopolizing—"
"You are. You're doing that thing where you have intense conversations in corners." Vanno grabbed Rio's arm. "Come on. Bruno wants to buy you a drink for beating him. And Tony wants a rematch when you heal."
Rio let himself be pulled away. Glanced back at Nero, who was watching with amused resignation.
The rest of the night blurred. Drinks. Conversations. Soldiers treating him like he belonged. Like he was family.
The word kept coming up. Family.
These people had killed Rio's actual family—or rather, killed the Lagusa family that Angelo belonged to. Rio's fragments held memories of that night, but they felt distant. Abstract.
Meanwhile, Vanno's arm around his shoulders felt immediate. Real. Present.
"You're one of us now," Vanno said, drunk and happy. "For real. You and Avilio both. Brothers."
Brothers.
Rio drank his whiskey. Watched Vanno's genuine smile. Saw Nero across the room, eyes meeting his with complicated emotions.
And wondered when exactly he'd stopped pretending to care and started actually caring.
The fragments had no answer.
Just warnings he was ignoring with increasing frequency.
---
Three in the morning, Rio stumbled back to the brewery. Drunk. Exhausted. Face still hurting despite the alcohol's numbing effect.
Corteo was awake. Always awake these days. Anxiety killed sleep.
"You're officially in," Corteo said. Statement, not question.
"Yeah."
"How does it feel?"
Honest answer? Complicated. Wrong. Right. Confusing. Like he'd achieved something important while simultaneously making a terrible mistake.
"Ask me when I'm sober," Rio said.
"Will the answer change?"
"Probably not."
Corteo sighed. "We're past the point of no return now. You know that, right? Official members who betray the family—they don't just get killed. They get made examples of."
"I know."
"And you're still doing this?"
"What choice do we have?"
"We could leave. Run. Start over somewhere else."
"Angelo would never agree."
"I'm not talking about Angelo." Corteo met his eyes. "I'm talking about us. You and me. We could leave. Tonight. Disappear before this gets worse."
Rio was tempted. Genuinely tempted. The fragments whispered about past lives where running had saved him. Where survival meant abandonment. Where living required leaving others behind.
But then he thought about Vanno's smile. Nero's trust. The strange sense of belonging he felt despite knowing it was built on lies.
"I can't," Rio said quietly.
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
"It does to me." Corteo's voice broke slightly. "I'm watching you both get pulled deeper. Watching you start to care about the people we're supposed to destroy. And I'm terrified of what happens when this all collapses."
"It won't collapse."
"It will. Eventually. It has to." Corteo's eyes were desperate. "And when it does, how many people die? Just the targets? Or everyone? Including us?"
Rio didn't have an answer.
The fragments whispered: Everyone. Always everyone. That's how these things end.
"Get some sleep," Rio said, moving toward his room.
"Rio."
He stopped. Turned.
"Be careful," Corteo said. "Please. Be careful who you trust. What you feel. This family—they're good at making you forget they're monsters. Don't forget. No matter what."
"I won't forget."
But as Rio fell into bed, face throbbing, ribs aching, mind fuzzy with alcohol and exhaustion, he wondered if that was true.
The fragments offered no comfort.
Just the knowledge that he'd crossed another line today. Been officially accepted into the organization he was supposed to destroy.
Been embraced as family by people he was planning to betray.
And somehow, impossibly, started to care about them anyway.
The fango had proven he could fight.
But Rio wasn't sure he could fight what was happening inside him.
The attachments. The connections. The terrible, dangerous feeling that maybe he belonged here after all.
Sleep came eventually, full of blood and brotherhood and Nero's eyes asking questions Rio couldn't answer.
Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
Tonight, Rio just let himself feel the weight of what he'd done.
And what he was going to do.
The fragments mourned in advance.