Page 91 of Stricken

I watch as they finally take their seats, the tension ratcheting up with each moment. My mind races, the speech I've rehearsed dancing on the tip of my tongue. The time for pretense is over. The truth will come out, one way or another.

I quickly rise from my chair and with a few wide strides close the distance to Tony's table, ready to shatter the image of his younger son and expose my cousin for who he really is.

"Hello, Uncle," I greet Tony, my voice cool, but respectful.

I turn my gaze to Salvatore, infusing as much hate into my eyes as I can. "Cugino," I say. "I didn't realize they let you off your leash. Did you beg extra hard today?"

Salvatore's nostrils flare, heat rising in his cheeks. "Watch your mouth, Nico. Blood only gets you so far."

"Blood and brains, Sal. One of us has both. It sure as hell is not you."

He starts to rise, but Tony's hand clamps onto his arm like a steel trap. "Enough, you two," he croaks. The fact that he suppresses a cough doesn't escape me.

This is it. The moment of truth between a barely living legend and his conniving spawn. Between the mentor I love and the worm I loathe. Between the devil I know and the devil I don't.

I take the only empty seat next to Vartan, mentally cataloging all the men surrounding us. Most faces I know. They work for the family. Only one, standing like a statue behind Tony's chair, is the man I haven't seen in a long time. Not since my trip to Sicily when I was a teenager.

Unease tightens my gut.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. The room seems to shrink around us and I feel the weight of everyone's stares on me, waiting, judging. But I don't flinch. I'll see this through to whatever end.

Tony's assessing gaze is the only one I care about. "So, you are not dead after all." His tone betrays nothing. A blank canvas.

"Not for the lack of trying, Uncle. But I had a guardian angel watching over me."

Tony's eyebrow arches slightly. "Is that angel's name, by any chance, Solovey?"

The question hangs between us, heavy. Is it a threat? An accusation? I fight to keep my composure, even as anger simmers in my gut at the disdain in Tony's voice.

"Vlad Solovey saved my life," I say evenly. "Which is more than I can say for some at this table."

Salvatore snorts out a laugh but says nothing.

Tony's lips thin. "Didn't I tell you to stay away from that Russian swine?"

Red tinges edges of my vision. Vlad is anything but that. He's a man of honor, of loyalty. Unlike the snake sitting beside Tony. Vlad's been nothing but good to me.

Is that his cock talking, Nicola?

I push the doubts away and lean forward, elbows on the table. My words are precise and cutting. No time to beat around the bush. "We have bigger problems than who I associate with, Uncle. Salvatore has been dealing with La Alianza behind your back. Undermining the family. Risking everything you've built. Who do you think stole the Brazilian shipment?"

The color drains from Tony's face, a chalk outline of shock. Beside him, Salvatore vibrates with hardly contained rage, a volcano ready to erupt.

"You lying bastard!" he hisses. "You're one to talk about loyalty. Everyone knows you're Solovey's whore. Spreading your legs for the enemy."

The table falls silent, a collective intake of breath. The accusation feels condemning, a sure death warrant. But I don't react. Let them think the worst. I know who I am. What I am. And I won't apologize for it.

Tony's expression hardens, filled with disappointment and disgust. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he has a chance to voice all that's already written all over his face.

"You can think what you want about me, Uncle. But it doesn't change the facts. Salvatore is a traitor. A leech sucking the life out of this family. And if you can't see that, then maybe it's time for new blood to take the reins."

"And that new blood is you?" Salvatore grits out with sarcasm. The words fall like hammer blows, each one driving a wedge between past and future. Between legacy and destiny.

Tony stands abruptly, his chair screeching across the marble floor. He glares at me, hate-fueled fire in his eyes. "You're not my nephew. No faggot will ever inherit my empire."

He tosses the napkin on the table and spits in my direction. The spittle lands on my cheek like a brand, searing my soul.

Vartan tenses, his hand reaching for his gun concealed under his jacket, but I shake my head slightly.

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