Page 54 of Vicious Redemption

“Thanks,” Tia says, blushing a rosy pink.

I change into a simple black suit, picking a crimson tie to match my eye-catching wife. Then we take the Escalade, riding with Johnny and Rasco, along with two more who are locked and loaded and going to be waiting on standby.

Tia observes them without comment, but I can see the recognition in her eyes. If things go south, she could easily lose someone she loves tonight. And as selfish as it might sound, I don’t intend for that to be me. And it sure as hell won’t be Tia or our baby. Belladonna has a nice interior, with an exposed brick wall running the length of the restaurant on one side. Black-and-white pictures of Venice decorate the walls, giving the space a perfect taste of the culture Piovosa was founded on.

Don Guerra and his wife are already seated at the table my men reserved for us specifically. Johnny notified me that they were here early on the drive over. And while that gives Don Guerra the advantage of choosing the seat with the best vantage point, I can hardly blame him. After all, he’s sticking his neck out, and I gave the don no time to form an escape plan, let alone an ambush.

Still, he’s here, and I’ll take that as another good sign of his intentions.

“Tia!” her mother says warmly, rising with Don Guerra and rounding the table to pull her daughter into her arms.

Rather than happy, Tia looks genuinely troubled by her mother’s display of affection, and her anxiety is setting me on edge. Did I talk Tia into doing something she has a bad feeling about?

This is why I’ve never made alliances before. They’re too fucking stressful. My father’s number one rule—trust only myself. He didn’t even include himself in that circle. And he sure as shit never trusted anyone completely—probably not even me.

But the smile Don Guerra turns on me now is one genuine enough, it could almost convince me. “Leo, thank you for agreeing to this dinner,” he says warmly, clasping my hand. “And, Tia.” He beams at his daughter. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you,” Tia says, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

Maybe the tension I read in her body language was residual stress from the anticipation of what might come. But as I pull a chair out for her, she settles into it with a soft smile, her eyes meeting mine with warmth.

“The girls send their love,” Francesca Guerra says, turning her eyes to Tia.

The hint of a blush colors her cheeks, catching my interest, and then she smiles. “Please tell them I love them and miss them.”

A young server sidles up to the table, her eyes round as they bounce between me and Don Guerra in apparent recognition. “Good evening,” she stutters. “Can I start you all off with some drinks?”

“I think a bottle of wine for the table, if that works for you.” Don Guerra’s eyes find mine, politely deferring to me.

“That sounds great. Perhaps a Brunello di Montalcino?” I suggest. “And water for the table.”

Tia flashes me a shy smile of appreciation, and I must be going soft because that’s all it takes to make me want to kiss her. But not tonight. Not right now, when we’re sitting down to dinner with her parents and a conversation that could dictate the future of our families for generations to come.

The server departs with a nervous bob, and I turn my attention back to the man sitting across the table.

He clears his throat and turns his attention to his daughter. “So, Tia, have you heard what happened to the Guerra men who were released from jail this morning?”

Mother. Fucker.

26

TIA

Leo stiffens beside me, the tendon in his jaw jumping, and my stomach drops as his hands fist beneath the table. His visceral reaction to the question leaves me uncertain as to whether I actually want to know what happened to my father’s men. To Maury and Angelo. My cousins might be hotheads, but I still grew up with them. I still love them.

While I was thinking I might be getting through to Leo, was he out executing my cousins?

It takes all my discipline to maintain eye contact with my father. “No, I hadn’t heard yet. What happened?”

“Seven of them were released, including your cousins Maury and Angelo…” he explains, his eyes bright with the anticipation of telling a secret that wasn’t his to tell. “Apparently, most made it home safely. But one man got shot. News from the hospital is that his wound seems to mirror the one Don Moretti endured at the charity ball.”

My father’s eyes flick to Leo then, a silent challenge for Leo to deny it—or to take responsibility. He’s the one who did it. I can see it written in the tension of his shoulders. Still, Leo’s face is as passive and calm as always. That mask sends chills up my spine.

“He was taken to the hospital?” I ask, carefully wading through my father’s manipulation to see the full picture.

“Yes, he was rushed straight into surgery,” Father says gravely. “From what I hear, they had to remove the man’s liver.”

I honestly don’t know whether to be horrified or elated. It makes me sick to think that I would consider hearing only one man in surgery is good news. Still, I’d half-anticipated that every single man would be dead and buried in some unmarked grave—vanished the moment they found their freedom.

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