Page 102 of Vicious Addictions

I throw a glance over to Dom, his face looking just as pissed as I feel. Neither of us wanted to believe that the Bratva underboss would be stupid enough to sneak one past us, but here we are.

“Okay, kid. That’s enough for now,” Dom says, and before I have time to turn around, Marcello has slit Igor’s throat wide open.

“Goddamnit, Marcello! What did I tell you about the blood?!” Stella reprimands when our brother turns to us, his face and chest completely soaked with Igor’s blood, right down to the root of his now crimson head.

Stella runs hurriedly to the bathroom to fetch him a towel and then starts vigorously rubbing his hair. As she begins to do some serious damage control, the knot in my chest loosens when I start to see a spark of my dear brother returning to his eyes.

“Leave me some, will ya? I kind of like my hair,” Marcello teases softly.

“Well, it would serve you right if I yanked every last strand of it off,” Stella grumbles, but the little smile at the corner of her lips says she isn’t as furious as she wants to let on. “See, this is why I should be inducted. I have red hair, people. Red. No one would even bat an eye if I got a little blood on it. But you, Marcello? With this golden lion’s mane of yours, a tiny drop is a dead giveaway that you were up to no good.”

“But I was up to no good,” he rebukes, tilting his head over to the dead Bratva asshole.

“Yes, I know that, dimwit,” she counters, flicking his forehead with her finger. “But we don’t have to announce it to the world, now do we?”

Dom snickers and then pretends to hide his chuffed laugh by feigning a cough.

“Enough of giving your brother a hard time, Stella. Just make sure he looks presentable enough for that fancy restaurant your mom is taking us to.”

Stella starts working her magic on Marcello, plucking things from her purse to aid her efforts. Dom and I stand side by side, still thinking of one thing—Dimitri.

“Vincent is going to be pissed when we tell him that Dimitri is trafficking women under our noses,” Dom mutters low enough for Marcello and Stella not to hear.

“I know. I didn’t want to believe that the Bratva was behind this after all. Considering how sloppy they were, I honestly thought this was just some stupid street gang biting off more than they could chew. Guess I was wrong.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. Now you know,” Dom exclaims. “And now you can do something about it.”

My scoff doesn’t go unnoticed by my adoptive father. He stares me right in the eye with his arms still crossed over his chest.

“Mind telling me what that scoff was all about?”

“I’ll give you one hint. She bought you that Tom Ford suit.” I cock a brow.

“Jude—”

“Don’t Jude me, Dad. You know as well as I do that Mom is fine with me doing Outfit business as long as I don’t get messed up with real danger. I hate to burst your bubble, but the minute she hears the word ‘Bratva,’ she will be whispering in my dad’s ear to keep me out of it.”

“You know I don’t like it when you use that tone when talking about your mother,” he growls in frustration, running his tattooed fingers through his hair to simmer himself down. “And don’t let Vincent hear it either. Trust me. If anyone is keeping you in the backseat, it’s him and your fucking attitude when it comes to Selene.”

“Whatever,” I mutter, setting my eyes on my siblings instead of doing the same old song and dance with Dom again. “You both about done or what?”

“You tell me?” Stella says proudly.

My shoulders relax the minute Marcello’s shy smile tugs at his lips, looking like a damn choir boy, no less. I bridge the small gap between us, only to ruffle his mussed hair.

“You clean up good, baby brother,” I praise, getting another ruffle in before he slaps my hand away.

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he mumbles, never one to like being in the limelight.

“Okay, kids. Best be on our way. We don’t want to be late to see the birthday girl blow out her candles,” Dom chimes in with pride in his eyes. We leave the club, but not before I tell Tony that he should hang back to deal with the mess Marcello made downstairs.

For the rest of the night, I don’t want to think about dead Russians. Or how my mother is constantly blocking me from rising through the Outfit’s ranks due to some misguided notion that she is protecting me. Or the fact that my father will never step down from his syndicate throne and give me my birthright because of it.

Instead, all I want to do is to celebrate my youngest sister’s birthday.

Nothing else matters

Annamaria is the heart of our family, after all.

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