Page 60 of Twisted Vows

Divine violence.

Sal

The private lounge is a haven for powerful men—a cocoon of dim lighting, polished mahogany, and velvet whispers. Conversations are low, intimate, yet heavy with consequence.

The kind of place where alliances are forged or destroyed over a glass of overpriced whiskey.

I sit with my back to the room, not out of arrogance, but because no one here would dare approach me uninvited. It’s a calculated position, commanding without effort. The leather chair molds to my frame, and I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching the candlelight dance across the crystal like it’s trying to amuse me.

It doesn’t.

Nothing does anymore.

Across from me, Lucien Devereux lounges with a calculated air of elegance. Silver hair, tailored suit, a faint smirk. He plays the role well—European aristocrat dabbling in crime—but I see the cracks. The way his gaze flits to the side, his fingers restlessly circling the rim of his snifter. He wants to appear in control, but I know better. Men like Lucien are vultures, always circling something they can’t quite kill on their own.

“You seem restless, Lucien,” I say, breaking the silence, my voice a low drawl. “Second thoughts?”

He chuckles, but it’s thin, brittle. “Not at all. Merely observing. These alliances of yours—” he waves a hand lazily, “—they seem… ambitious. Fragile, even. Like glass towers waiting for the first stone.”

I smile faintly, leaning back in my chair. “Fragile things break, Lucien, but they also cut the deepest when shattered. The question isn’t whether the alliance will fall. It’swhowill survive the collapse.”

His smirk falters. Good.

Lucien shifts, the leather of his chair groaning beneath his weight. “And you believe the Bratva and the Bianchis will destroy each other?”

I take a slow sip, savoring the burn as I let the question hang in the air. He’s not asking out of curiosity. He’s asking because he knows I have a plan, and it terrifies him.

“They will,” I say finally, voice soft but deliberate. “They don’t speak the same language. The Russians—so cold, so methodical. The Italians—passionate, loyal to a fault. It’s oil and water, Lucien. They’ve built a house of cards, and all it takes is the right gust of wind.”

“And you’ll be the wind, I assume?”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my glass dangling from one hand. “Let’s just say I know where to press. Even the strongest chain has a weak link.”

Lucien’s eyebrows lift, his interest piqued despite himself. But he’s no fool; he doesn’t trust me. He shouldn’t.

“Do you know what makes men like the Volkovs and the Bianchis dangerous?” I ask, tilting my head. “They have something to lose. Families. Legacies. Love.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. “When you have something to lose, you make mistakes. You hesitate. And hesitation is lethal.”

Lucien nods slowly, the seed planted. But I’m not done. I lean back again, feigning ease, though my mind is already twenty moves ahead.

“There’s a fracture in their alliance,” I say, lowering my voice. “A crack that’s growing wider every day. All it needs is a little… encouragement.”

He licks his lips, a tell. “And you’ve identified this crack?”

I don’t answer immediately. Silence is a weapon, one I’ve mastered. Instead, I swirl my whiskey, watching the liquid catch the light.

“Let’s just say,” I reply, “I know where to look.”

Lucien doesn’t press further. He knows better. Instead, he offers a tight smile, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To chaos, then.”

Minutes later, I watch him leave, his tailored coat catching the light as he steps into the night. He thinks he’s leaving on his own terms, but he’s already tangled in my web. By the time he realizes it, it will be too late.

The lounge empties, save for me. I remain seated, letting the quiet settle over me like a second skin. My fingers drum against the glass, the rhythmic sound grounding me as my mind races.

The door opens again, and my son steps inside. Giovanni. His suit is sharp, his shoulders squared, but I see the nervous twitch of his fingers and the faint sheen of sweat along his hairline.

He’s trying to look the part, but he doesn’t have the stomach for this world. Not yet.

“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the chair Lucien vacated. “We have much to discuss.”

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