Page 31 of Twisted Vows

I was supposed to be the one standing beside her. Not because of love—hell, I don’t even think she’s capable of that. But because it would have secured my place at the top. My father’s approval. Franco’s respect. A seat at the table no one could question.

But Franco cut me out. Handed her over to the Volkovs like a pawn in his endless power games, like I didn’t even matter.

Emilio’s smirk sharpens like he can see the thoughts twisting in my head. “Sure, nothing to do with you,” he says. “Except she was supposed to be yours.”

“Supposed to doesn’t mean anything in this business.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and Emilio chuckles, low and rough.

His laughter grates on me. Because he knows. They all know. The rumors are everywhere—Giovanni Santoro, overlooked again. Passed over for the goddamn Bratva. My father hasn’t said it outright, but I see it in his eyes. The disappointment. The way he’s started looking at me like a pawn instead of a king.

Because that’s what Franco wants him to think. The trustedconsigliere.

And me? I’m nothing but an afterthought. A piece of collateral in a game I was born to win.

I lean back in my seat, swirling the whiskey in my glass.Not for long.

Emilio’s smirk widens, and I hate how it feels like he’s peeling back a layer of my skin. “Franco’s always got his hand in something. You think he’s playing fair with this Russian deal? You think Maxsim’s going to stop at marriage? What’s next—a Bratva consigliere at the table?”

“Don’t remind me,” I snap before catching myself. I exhale through my nose, trying to steady my tone. “Franco acts like thiswas his grand plan all along. Like we should all clap for him for handing the Bianchis to the Russians on a silver platter.”

My bitterness tastes like acid, and Emilio knows it. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his cigar balanced between two fingers.

“You sound resentful,” he says, voice soft but cutting.

“You don’t?” I counter, my glare sharp. “They’re letting outsiders crawl all over theFamiglia, and everyone’s just nodding like sheep. Meanwhile, the shipments are late, the docks are a mess, and we’ve got rumors of moles in the ranks. But sure, let’s blame my father’s ambition for the discord in the ranks.”

Emilio tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t speak immediately, letting the silence drag just long enough to make my chest tighten.

“You know,” he says, “not everyone’s thrilled about this alliance. Makes me wonder who’s actually on their side.”

The question hangs between us like a loaded gun. I force a chuckle, though it comes out sharp.

“Don’t insult me, Emilio. I’ve bled for this family.”

“Have you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or is your family sowing discord to gain power?”

My grip on the glass tightens, the cool surface pressing into my palm. I want to snap back, to remind him that he’s nothing more than a demoted soldier who’s lucky to still have a seat at the table. But I hold my tongue. That’s what he wants—to see me crack.

Instead, I lean forward, dropping my voice low. “You talk a big game, Emilio, but let me give you some advice. Be careful where you aim those questions. You wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re doubting the wrong people.”

His eyes glint, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he takes another slow puff of his cigar, the tip glowing red in the dim light.

I shift gears, trying to steer the conversation back in my family’s favor. “If my father was running the show, we wouldn’t need the goddamn Russians.”

Emilio’s silence speaks louder than words. He just watches me, his gaze steady, unblinking. It’s like he’s weighing me on some invisible scale, and I’m not sure which way it’s tipping.

“My father,” I continue, more to fill the silence than anything else, “isn’t happy about this setup. Can’t say I blame him.”

That gets a reaction—a subtle lift of Emilio’s eyebrow, his head tilting slightly.

“You speak for Sal now?” he asks, his tone neutral but sharp.

I hesitate, realizing too late that I’ve said too much. I shrug, trying to play it off. “Just an observation. He’s got a lot on his plate, you know? Keeping New York intact while Franco hands off shit to the Russians piece by piece.”

Emilio doesn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. But I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, and it makes my skin crawl.

It’s time to shift the conversation. “Volkov’s got a cousin,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “Nikolai. Smart guy, but he looks hungry. Like he’s waiting for his chance.”

Emilio exhales a stream of smoke, his lips curving into that infuriating smirk. “Hungry men are dangerous. Maybe we should feed him.”

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