Page 32 of Twisted Vows

The words linger, heavier than they should be. I pick up my whiskey, hiding the unease crawling up my spine. Nikolai’s just a name, a piece on the board. But the way Emilio says it makes me wonder if I’ve landed on something important.

Before I can probe, his phone buzzes on the table. He picks it up, glances at the screen, and his expression hardens.

“Problem?” I ask, keeping my tone casual. He doesn’t answer immediately, just staring at the message like he’s trying to solve a riddle. Finally, he flips the screen around so I can see it.

A text. One line.

Shipment delayed. Dock 32 compromised.

I set my glass down, my chest tightening. “The Feds?”

“Unlikely,” Emilio says, his voice colder now. He puts his phone back on the table, his movements slow. “Feels… cleaner. More deliberate.”

His choice of words tells me he knows more than he’s letting on. The Feds make a mess when they hit us—sirens, seizures, and reports splashed across the news like they want a medal for it. This? No, this sounds like someone who knows the game.

I drum my fingers against the table. “That’s the third shipment this month, isn’t it?”

“Fourth,” Emilio corrects, his voice sharp. “But who’s counting?”

His sarcasm grates on me, but I ignore it. “And no one knows who’s behind it?”

Emilio exhales through his nose, the smoke curling into a lazy spiral. “Plenty of suspects.”

I lean back, stretching my arms across the booth like I don’t have a care in the world. “Careful, Emilio,” I snap, my voice low, dangerous. “You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re doubting the wrong people.”

His smirk returns, slow and sharp, like a knife sliding from its sheath. “Who said I was doubting anyone? Just an observation. You seem… restless.”

I clench my jaw. Restless? He’s baiting me, and I won’t let it work. Let Franco and the Russians think they’ve boxed me out.While they play their little alliance game, I’ll be busy assembling my own board, piece by piece. The difference? My pawns are hungry. And hungry men are the easiest to control.

“You know what I think?” I say, leaning forward. My voice drops so only he can hear me. “I think you’re jealous. You don’t like that I’m still at the table while you’re running errands like some rookie. Don’t act like you’ve got a clearer picture of things just because Franco threw you a bone.”

The smirk falters, just for a second, but it’s enough. I feel a flicker of satisfaction as Emilio shifts in his seat, his confidence cracking under the weight of my words.

Before Emilio can fire back, my phone buzzes on the table. I pick it up, my eyes narrowing at the name on the screen:Salvatore Santoro.

My father rarely texts. When he does, it’s either vital or a trap.

I glance at Emilio, who’s watching me now with an unsettling calm before I swipe the screen open. The message is short, cryptic.

Keep your eyes open. The wolves are closer than you think.

A chill runs down my spine, but I force my face to stay neutral. What the hell does that mean? Does he think I’ll betray him? Or is he talking about someone else—Franco, Emilio, maybe even the Russians? The Famiglia is full of predators. The only question is which one will strike.

I lock the screen and slip the phone back into my pocket. Emilio raises an eyebrow.

“Something important?” he asks casually.

I shrug. “Nothing that concerns you.”

It’s a lie, but I’m not about to share Sal’s cryptic warnings with Emilio. He already thinks I’m scrambling to keep up; no need to give him more ammo.

The meeting ends as abruptly as it began. Emilio doesn’t bother with a goodbye.

He slides out of the booth, his cigar still smoldering between his fingers, and makes his way to the exit.

I stay seated, watching him go. The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease until the club door swings shut behind him.

But then I see it—through the haze of cigar smoke and dim lights, Emilio pauses just outside the club. He pulls out his phone, his other hand slipping the cigar from his lips as he makes a call.

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