Page 4 of Broken Vows

“Maybe in two days’ time. It’s intense, but fuck—” He cuts off as he shakes his head with a grin.

I get it. This is why I do it, too.

As I pull on a T-shirt, Matteo stands idle, hands shoved in his pants pockets. “Aren’t you going to shower?”

“I’ll take five at home,” I say, feet digging into Adidas slides.

I lead the way out of the gym and around the corner to the small lobby of the four-story apartment block. Our bodyguards are hovering on the periphery, but we both ignore them. A bodyguard is always in my vicinity when I’m out, one of the perks of being inIl Consiglioand a Scalera—ornot. Being in the Mafia means someone always wants our blood, but we’re the Scaleras and are usually the ones to draw blood first. I like some distance between me and my bodyguard and can get away with it. Matteo, on the other hand, needs more eyes on him. He’s the firstborn, the heir to the throne.

As we scale the stairs to the top floor, he sighs. “Fucking dump. I don’t get it. Why?”

“Because I like it.” I punch in the code for my apartment’s door and swing it open. “I don’t get why you have an issue with it.”

“You can afford a freaking penthouse,” he says as we walk inside, “yet you choose to live here.”

I glance over the space. It’s old redbrick on one full wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the other overlooking a park that gives the sense of space. It has only one bedroom in the loft, but I don’t need more. I have my office, an open-concept kitchen, dining, and living room, plus a man-cave for my TV and computer games. One full bathroom and a guest washroom. With the high ceiling, it feels massive for a single guy whodoesn’t spend all his time here. Most important of all: it isn’t an intimidating space. It’s welcoming.

“Not all of us are the future face ofIl Consiglio, Matteo.”

And thank fuck for that. I don’tneedmy living space to intimidate and impress. I like to help people, not rule them, and when they come here, I need them to be at ease.

“Thanks for the fucking reminder,” he grunts as he makes his way to the fridge, opens it, and leans in.

It’s a touchy subject, his ascension to the throne.

“Help yourself. I’ll be back in five.”

“Rub-a-dub-dub, have a good scrub. You sure as fuck need it.”

I smirk as I take the stairs to the loft. In moments like this, I see hints of my brother and not the Don he is becoming. I strip and step under the cold shower, soap down quickly but take time to read the words inked on my inner forearm, done in such a masculine gothic font you can’t read it at first glance.

It’s in your blood.

Then I went and proved it to myself by almost killing a boy my age once. I was only fourteen. Fucking young to start for a Scalera. Now I prove it to myself again every day in the gym, but with the iron fist of control over every move I execute for the two hours I work out daily.

The slogan has a double meaning. I might not be the head ofIl Consiglioany time soon, what with Matteo and Dominic in line before me, but being a Scalera means only one thing: there isn’t an out for the likes of us. This life is in our blood. Even if I could get out, I’ve done things that have entrapped me in the safety net that comes with being inIl Consiglio.

I step out of the shower, roughly dry, and get dressed in some wash-worn jeans and a T-shirt. I’m not working until much later and won’t bother with a full suit like Matteo does.

When I walk into my living room, he’s sitting at the kitchen island, a beer in hand and some of my housekeeper’s home-cooked chili in a bowl. Not exactly Italian fare, and we might be hundred percent Italian by bloodline, but we’ve grown up American. He’s dished up some for me too, along with a cold can, and I slide onto the stool next to him.

I take a deep chug of beer, waiting for him to speak up.

“Here.” He pushes sour cream and grated cheese in my direction. “It’s good.”

“You’re not here to taste-test my chili.” I douse my bowl with condiments. “What’s up, bro?”

Matteo tilts his head in a small nod and swallows his last bite down with beer.

“The Don has cancer.”

I lean back to look my brother in the eye.

“What?”Cancer. Of all the things to take the old man out. “He’s dying?”

He hitches his shoulder. “Prognosis is four months.”

Fuck.Four months.And just like that, the man who started it all, who is the last living custodian of my secret, will be dead.

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