Page 47 of Crimson Vows

“Don’t be such a coward,” Dante taunts him. “Maybe if he heard it from you, he would see what a good idea it was.”

“Shut the fuck up! I mean it.” The firm manner in which Nico silences Dante only serves to pique my curiosity.

“Fine, come on, out with it,” I huff. “What’s he talking about?”

Nico’s eyes flick to mine, a silent command for Dante to keep his mouth shut. But Dante looks back at me, defiance sparking beneath those blue irises.

“Marco, man.” Dante’s words tumble out, reckless and raw. “Nico thinks—hell, we all do—that Gia hit the nail on the head that night. You’re the one who should be leading us, not Vincent.”

My heart hammers, the words striking like a match to dry kindling. “What did you say?” I demand, every nerve ending on fire.

“Jesus Christ, Dante, will you shut the fuck up already?” Nico growls, eyeing me as he speaks.

“No, it’s bullshit. Vincent isn’t the kind of boss anyone’s lining up to follow,” he continues each syllable a bullet. “You’ve got just as much right, maybe more. You’re the one keeping this family together, and you were Edward’s nephew.”

Nico moves in a blur, hand outstretched to clamp over Dante’s mouth, but the damage is done. The words hang heavy, laden with truth and treason.

“Shut your damn—” Nico starts, eyes flashing a warning.

But the buzz of my phone slices through the standoff. Vincent’s name flashes across the screen like a bad omen. My blood runs cold, fury twisting in my gut at the sight of his name. It’s as if he sensed our conversation inside his office at that very moment. I hold up the phone for them to see the caller ID, finger pressed to my lips, demanding silence.

“Vincent,” I answer, voice steady despite the storm raging inside me.

“Marco, I almost didn’t think you’d pick up.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, I figured you might be busy out there doing the fucking job I asked you to. Apparently not, though, so I’m glad I reached out. Now do you care to tell me what the hell you are doing about Bobby?” he spits out without preamble, venom laced with every word. “Our captain’s in a cell, and it seems like you’re not doing a goddamn thing about it.”

I grip the phone tighter, knuckles white, and my emotions churn like a whirlpool. “I’m on it, Vincent.”

“If you were on it, I wouldn’t be getting calls about it. Your fuckups reflect poorly on me. I don’t want to hear any more excuses.” Selfishness drips from his every syllable like poison. “Fucking get it done because if I have to call about this again, you won’t like what happens next.” Then, without warning, the call ends, leaving his final threat lingering in the air.

I stare at the silent phone, the urge to crush it in my fist nearly overwhelming. Nico and Dante watch me, statuesque in their silence. They know better than to speak now.

My pulse thuds in my ears before I turn to Nico, eyes narrowed to slits. “What did you say to Dante?” My voice is low, dangerous. “About me... about Vincent?”

Nico meets my gaze. He hesitates.

“Talk,” I command, the anger from Vincent’s disrespect seeping into my pores.

Chapter Seventeen

NICO

Marco sits behind the desk, a glass of bourbon cradled in his hand, the golden liquid catching the sparse light. His eyes are dark and unreadable. Whatever Vincent said to him on that call has clearly put him on edge.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, finally ending the silence that felt like it could suffocate everyone in the room.

Marco looks up at me. “No, he’s pissed.”

“Who? Vincent?” Dante grunts. “Who the fuck cares if he’s pissed?”

“You really need to explain to your boyfriend how dangerous it is to say some of the things that come out of his mouth,” Marco warns.

I can feel Dante stiffen next to me, and I move a hand to steady him. “You’re right. Talking shit about the head of the family is a good way to get yourself killed. But even you have to admit that something’s off with Vincent,” I say, my voice low and cautious. “I thought maybe it was him getting used to his new role after his dad died, but his decisions lately... they don’t sit right with me.”

“They don’t have to sit right with you. He’s the boss,” Marco replies, taking another sip from his glass. I consider not saying another word, but I sense a part of Marco agrees with me.

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