Page 104 of Forced Vows

I couldn't have handled that confrontation worse if I'd tried. And I'm not sure I didn't. Subconsciously.

Which says what about me and my instincts for self-preservation?

Nothing good.

"Meow," Pusheen agrees mournfully.

Chapter 34: MICELI

Allessio's text tone chirps from somewhere to my left.

Rubbing my eyes, I look away from my laptop screen and fish my phone from the suitcoat hanging on the back of my office chair.

I have different alert noises assigned to certain people and groups.

It's efficient.

Yes, I changed Allessio's from the one designating my crew to something unique when he started guarding Róise. It's not so I don't miss a text.

It's information. I can choose to look, or not, depending on what I'm doing.

I wouldn't mind an in-person interruption from my fiancée though. Memories of her slamming into my office, breathing fire make my balls tighten.

Seeing a picture of her dressed for the day will have to suffice.

Even for me, sifting through data is tedious.

I'm not learning anything interesting right now, just a bunch of shit I already know about the Carusos and the Lucchese Family they lead.

Near dawn this morning, one of the cocktail waitresses from our club, Amuni, was attacked on her way to the train station.

This would be unfortunate, but not my problem if the attackers had not been connected.

Salvatore, capo over all our clubs and their money laundering, killed two of her attackers. He sent another to holding to interrogate later.

But we already know the attackers were part of another capo's crew. Not a Genovese capo, but Lucchese. The godfather's nephew's crew to be exact.

What the hell is Henry Caruso doing that his people are running amok in our territory? If this was a capo sanctioned hit and he didn't bother to clear it with Sev first, it could mean war between the Five Families.

Managgia la miseria! Relations between the Families is strained enough with the godfather's health the way it is.

And that fucking cowardly son-of-a-bitch in holding bit off his own tongue and choked to death on the blood. Either he was loyal as hell or too fucking afraid to face our method of questioning. I'm going with the latter.

Regardless, we're getting no answers there.

I swipe to open the text, expecting my morning update on my fiancée's wardrobe for the day.

Which I get.

But it's not the image I'm used to.

There's plenty of midriff showing and she looks as young as she always does. But there's no pink. Her camo cargo pants are drab green. Her high necked, long-sleeved top is tan and scrunched up so there's at least two inches between the hem and the waistband of the pants.

She's not posing and there are unhappy shadows in her green eyes.

What the hell is going on?

I text her directly.

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