Page 93 of Vow of Silence

Petey shrugs. “Not much. At first look, these wise guys are all independent contractors. But you scratch the surface, and you’ll find they’re part of a new family. They’re all connected. The question is: by who?”

I lean back, drumming my fingers on the prenup. So they don’t know. Proving my uncle’s guilt triples in urgency now that I know I have a better case of convincing Papa if he’s already aware of the unrest in the streets. Pietro’s proven my gut instinct right, though: I knew that fucking guy was part of something bigger, and those dogs who took the payday for Nastasya’s life… it all seemed too coincidental.

“We’ve never heard them use a name for the boss. There’s nothing to go on,” Petey states, misreading my silence.

I pull my phone free.

Yes, there is.

“What?” He lifts his chin, brow slightly furrowed.

The fucks I knocked yesterday.

I tap the words on the screen.

He frowns harder.

With a sigh, I spell it out for him.

The triggermen weren’t even associated with the Albanians. Just the two guys they were with. Maybe the doll.

“You think it was the same people?”

I nod.

I know who paid them. It wasn’t any of our associates or the other families.

I stop short of telling him who. There’s no love lost between my uncle and Pietro, but that doesn’t mean his dedication to his job wouldn’t override loyalty to me.

I don’t know if I can trust him—yet.

“You told your old man this?” His shrewd gaze studies me.

I lean away, erasing the words on my phone. Shake my head.

“Why not?”

I move my flat hand in a spread over the table.

“You get that proof, and you bring it to me first. I want to set it out next to what we already know and see where things start to shape up the same.”

I nod at our trusted adviser and reach for my cup, sighing when I discover it empty. I should move this shit along, anyway.

“Go see your girl, Benny.” Petey pushes from his seat, slinging his satchel at his side. “I gotta go get myself measured,” he chuckles, patting his stomach. “Put on a few pounds since I last had to wear the Armani.”

I grin at the fucker, tracking his exit before I roll the prenup and shove it in a tight fist. Paper tapping my thigh as I move, I drum a beat for my exit, heading to the street outside.

It’s like fucking Christmas came early. Everything aligns so perfectly that I can’t help but be apprehensive I’m about to be met with a giant fucking roadblock.

The waitstaff nods as I pass, the barista giving me a wave—the same as he did Petey and my father. The cafe is just another one in our network of eateries spread around the city. Another place to be able to talk without fear of unwanted ears, thanks to the integrated audio jammers.

True freedom of speech is a luxury in the underworld.

I step out into the glaring, overcast afternoon and assess the opposite side of the street. Sure enough, the fucker I’d kept eyes on the entire meeting is still there, ass in barber chair yapping until his fucking heart’s content.

It’s all down to this guy. With any luck, he’ll be singing another tune shortly.

I move left and stride the twenty-five yards to my car, quickly stashing the prenup inside. A cursory glance over the roof proves the mark remains in place. I trade a document that assures a long and happy marriage with a stun gun and then pick my moment to duck through the traffic.

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