Page 99 of Convenient Mafia Vows

I skim-read the email. A week on Ruby Island, the private island in the Keys my father bought for my mom to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary, dress casual, cocktails served at six, all arguments to be conducted behind closed doors.

Centuries ago, they’d have given me and my brother Damon pistols, instructed us to choose our seconds and meet at dawn tosettle it like men. Winner takes all. Quicker and easier than the relentless tournaments we’ve been forced to endure all our lives in the name of competitiveness.

When my phone vibrates again, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I stand, slide my suit jacket from the concealed closet in my office, and shrug it on, retrieving my phone as I pass my desk. Might as well take advantage of the fine spring weather and walk to my next meeting while I avoid her calls.

A glance at the Caller ID tells me that my mom has been shunted down the line—this is not a regular occurrence in Ruby Weiss’s life. No doubt it will be noted in her silk-covered journal to be discussed with me when I finally pick up.

I hit the green button. “Sam.”

I’m already exiting my office. Julia, my PA, glances up from her own conversation, eyes wide. She covers her cell phone with her hand, too late to hide the personal call.

“Eleven-thirty meeting,” I say.

“Will you be back?”

I can’t avoid my mother all day, and the anticipated conversation is already causing a headache to brew behind my eyes like I’ve been reading small print for hours. “Depends.”

Julia’s smile is fleeting and doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s immaculate in a dark-gray shift dress, her hair tied back on top in a coordinating bow, the kind a child of kindergarten age might wear. We’ve worked together for five years and in all that time, I’ve never seen her make a personal call, even discreetly, during office hours.

Her gaze drifts to the phone in my hand. Sam is still hanging on, but he can wait.

“My mother,” I say, the lie slipping off my tongue easily. “I’ll keep you posted.”

My office is on the top floor of the tower that my father had commissioned when he made his first billion. I step into the elevator and glance back at Julia as the doors glide silently closed. She has her back to me, cell raised to her ear.

I follow suit. “You’ve got thirty seconds,” I say to Sam.

“There might be a problem at the source.”

I follow the levels on the display in front of me. “What kind of problem?”

“SEC is paying a little too much attention for my liking,” Sam says.

“Do I need to step back?”

“No.” Pause. “No, I can sort it.”

“That’s what I pay you for.”

I end the call. The elevator stops smoothly, and the doors swish open.

One of my father’s old associates is waiting to ride it back up, and I greet him with a wide smile and well-practiced handshake, firm enough to project confidence and control of the situation. Too limp, and you can kiss goodbye to any future business transactions; too heavy-handed and it implies a level of intimidation. It isn’t something they teach at Harvard—it’s a Weiss family thing. My father is a pro.

“Brandon, you’ll be at the family celebrations.”

“Of course.” I incline my head and keep the smile fixed in place like the dutiful eldest son.

“See you there. My wife and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Of course they wouldn’t. It will provide a conversation starter for weeks after the event. “Did you hear about Harry Weiss’s birthday festivities? We were there by personal invitation.”

I turn away to cross the sleek marble-floored lobby and collide with a child.

The infant barely reaches my thighs—I know this because as she lands on her backside, her sticky fingerprints are left behind as evidence on my suit pants. The mouth opens, the chubby cheeks grow pink, and siren-strength wails fill the otherwise silent lobby.

A young woman comes running over clutching a plastic container filled with sandwiches, sliced salad vegetables, and a rosy, red apple. She hoists the child onto her hip, dropping the container in the process.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, bouncing the child up and down, oblivious to the sound emitting from her. Her gaze immediately drops to the fingerprints on my pants, and she wrinkles her nose. “It’ll wipe off. It’s only watermelon juice. She was eating a slice of watermelon on the way here.”

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