Page 189 of Vicious Addictions

“I love you, Mammà,” I profess before kissing her cheek.

“I love you, too, Jude. With all my heart,” she says, her gaze filled with the same love I took for granted for longer than I care to admit.

But Selene Romano has a heart that only Annamaria’s could match—big and merciful, capable of forgiving even the worst offenses if the love is pure.

“Now, shall we get you married?” she teases.

“Lead the way.”

I’ve been ready for years to call Mina my wife—long before today, she’s been the only future I’ve ever truly prayed for.

And this chess piece in my pocket?

I don’t need it anymore—not when I have the real one standing by my side.

Bonus Epilogue

Jude

Five years later

I stiffen my spine as my father slams his fists on the table, hollering orders to every lastcapoin the room, his face turning redder with each command and ruthless word. Although his loud voice creates a cacophony of sounds bouncing off the walls, it can’t measure up to the screaming thoughts bombarding my head.

How did this happen under our watch?

How the fuck did this happen?

I feel my lips thin and assume the most stoic expression—the best one I can muster while facing such fury, both from my father and my own mind—hoping nomade manin attendance can read my inner turmoil.

I once again look up to myCapo dei Capi, who is at the head of the table, realizing for the first time how I’ve never seen him this unhinged before. All my life, my father has always been an ice sculpture of poise and cool, seemingly empty of emotion. As a boy, I used to wish I had the ability to thaw out his icy persona, but as I see the flames burning viciously in his eyes, I’d give anything for his cold, calculated form to make an appearance once more.

This is a boss I’ve never seen in all of my ten years serving the Outfit. However, I find myself not being entirely surprised by the apparition, either. I always speculated that a dormant, blood-thirsty demon lived under Vincent Romano’s well-placed, arctic facade. Unbeknownst to him, growing up, I had heard stories of his madness when Mom disappeared at just eighteen years old, leaving behind him and everyone else she loved, for their own protection. Many a time I had eavesdropped on oldermafiosias they shared a plethora of macabre rumors amongst themselves, and long, exaggerated tales about the carnage theircapohad left behind in each city he had gone to looking for my mother. The tortures, slashed-up throats, and bullet-ridden bodies left in his wake, in the eternal search for histesoro,only to return to Chicago a few years later—empty-handed and empty-hearted—creating the boss they fear and respect to this day.

But this?

This is a whole other beast.

If the stories are true, then this man who stands raging before me now, will make those ominous years of the past seem like a small palate cleanser compared to the sinister, full-course meal he’s wholly intent on dishing out.

While I wish I could be the clear head and chastise him for losing his composure amongst his men—and bring him some form of clarity and sense to rein in his temper—I find myself unequipped to handle my own rage, let alone confront the mad, grieving man in front of me.

The fury that’s poisoning my blood, pumping the vile stuff into my heart, is wreaking havoc on all my senses. The intense ringing in my ears, brought on by its tumultuous thumping, is becoming too excruciating to bear in silence. Yet I bite my inner cheek to keep myself mute a little longer, letting the venom coat my tongue and increasing my anger further. Every breath I take feels like hot coal scorching my lungs, while the rib cage that is suffering the burden of constricting the erratic, drumming organ inside my chest feels as if it’s just brittle bone, seconds away from collapsing altogether, showing everyone here that I’m as possessed as the boss who is calling out for bloody retaliation.

Who has the audacity to pull off something like this?

Who is crazy enough to even try?

Unable to continue watching my father’s dive into the dark abyss of madness he’s so eager to welcome—fearing I’m just one step behind him—I look to the two men at his side who are as much paternal figures to me as he is, hoping they will tether me to the ground, away from the brink of insanity. However, to my dismay, I get no comfort or relief from either man’s face.

The usually calm and relaxed Giovanni looks as if he’s ready to tear the world in half with his bare hands. The man who would rather resolve problems with his brains than his fists, and with a mocking joke on his lips while doing it, is nowhere in sight. Instead, his warm, chestnut eyes are intense, deep black pools filled with nothing but vengeance and wrath. His rancor kindles further with every grizzly promise of retribution my father utters.

And if I thought Giovanni would be the one to keep it together, which he is anything but, then I’m not shocked when my eyes land on the Outfit’s head enforcer, to find him just as deranged. Like an angel of death, ready to reap wretched souls, Dominic stands with gritted teeth, clenching his razor-sharp knives, apt to flay anymade manhere who says a wrong word or even gives him a funny look. His clear blue eyes scrutinize the long table, trying to determine if the culprit behind our family’s profuse hemorrhaging might be sitting quietly in our midst, laughing at our pain and misery.

As I scan each man, I can’t think of a single one who would be so foolishly ambitious to try and commit such a deplorable act. In doing so, they must have realized this would end with only one result—death. Whoever did this is living on borrowed time. Their life must be forfeited to pay for such a betrayal. So the pertinent question is not who is crazy enough to go after the heart of our family, but who doesn’t give a shit if they live or die, as long as their actions hurt us.

Who has a vendetta on our family that is worth their own life to pursue it? Who?

And if they are so callous with their own lives, then I doubt they will do anything to protect hers.

---