Page 32 of Tide of Treason
And Viviana dismantles expectations, my mindsupplied.
For a girl who’d been shoved into marriage with me, she’d adjusted in record time. She still walked like a ballerina, but drank like a trucker and swore like one of Tadeo’s ex-girlfriends. I respected the hell out of it. She’d stopped pretending I was going to cure her into straightness three weeks into our marriage. We figured out the arrangement fast. Viv liked girls. I didn’t give a shit. The only rule was no names I’d recognise and no one dumb enough to think they could blackmail me or a Sforza.
She was taller than her sister, Viviana. Not by much. But enough that I noticed. Same dark eyes, lighter hair. A little softer around the edges. Less venom, more whimsy. But seven years younger. And if that math alone didn’t make my blood burn with guilt, then the way Kayla looked at me sure as hell did.
I stayed on the mezzanine for a while longer after she disappeared into the crowd, letting the stale scent of sawdust and perfume rise through the vents, clinging to the back of my throat.
“Lucius! You’re looking . . . tan.”
I turned, jaw ticking. “I’m half Black.”
“Right. So, half tan.” A braying laugh, loud enough to stir the chandelier wrappers. “Speaking of—”
It occurred to me that Brando Sforza had probably never met a melanin person not serving him food. The don’s brother was a fat fuck with an addiction to red meat and gambling. He had the ruddy complexion of a man who thought cholesterolwas an old wives’ tale and the attitude of someone who assumed his surname made him untouchable.
Rolling the tumbler in my hand, I hoped to cut this chat short before he started pontificating about something else he knew nothing about.
“—shipment, you hear? Nah, ‘course not. I don’t care if you’re our nephew now, I’m not about to hand over our family name just to see it burned to the ground.” He licked the corner of his greasy mouth. “You’ll find your own people, won’t you son?”
“I’ve done well enough so far. Found the Italian Mafia, didn’t I?”
He laughed loudly.
I considered briefly if anyone would notice him disappearing, then remembered the unfortunate truth: they always did. I counted the exits instead. Four in plain sight, two more hidden behind velvet curtains, each one beckoning me to make my escape. Enzo had no idea his brother was funneling a fortune out of the family through his gambling at underground card tables, and I wasn’t about to make that my business, even if he’d tried to have me assassinated last February.
What could I say?
I was a gracious nephew-in-law.
However, I was in a dark mood by the time I hit my third glass of whiskey. It soured somewhere between the braying pig and the indifferent placement of my refill by a cocktail waitress.
Big eyes, perfect tits, a mouth that looked made to say “yes, sir”—and yet nothing. Not a coy smile. No batting of lashes. Not even the perfunctory “enjoy, Mr. Andrade.” Initially, I brushed it off, but patterns repeated themselves in the VIP lounge where the hostess kept her eyes trained over my shoulder, stiff as a corpse. Even the bartenders, usually generous with their pours and lingering glances, acted like I had the fucking plague.
Something was off.
Leaning back, I cast a slow look over the casino. Roulette wheels spun, slot machines choked on coins, but I was too keyed up to see anything past the slow throb of irritation in my skull. Only one person in this building held the power to flip a switch on my entire night, and I’d wager she was perched on her throne, cigarette tucked between red lips, satisfied as hell with herself.
I exhaled through my nose.
Queen of Hearts, controlling the whole goddamn deck.
Another bartender—Paul, according to his brass name tag—slid a glass my way. Vodka-cranberry, heavy on the vodka. The drink I never ordered sat behind a pristine napkin. Paul’s ears burned red, and he tilted his head ever so slightly over my shoulder. That was when I felt her stare, the ghostly curl of elegant fingers tightening around my throat.
I downed the drink, ice clinking in empty defiance.
Kayla hadn’t shown up alone. She was draped over the arm of her latest devoted fool, some guy who fancied himself the one to unearth whatever heart she kept locked away. Hewas handsome, I’d admit grudgingly, dressed in an expensive gray suit and black turtleneck that was the current style for douchebags with an undeserved sense of self-importance. With the way he was ogling her, I was tempted to introduce him to my friend .45.
Viviana reappeared at my side, vodka breath and wide eyes, her grip tight around my bicep. “Holy shit,” she breathed. “That’s Dante fucking Moretti.”
“Who?”
She let out an exasperated noise. “You know, fromBlood & Lies? The mafia show? The one with the guy who—ugh, never mind. Come on.” Before I could tell her to leave me the hell alone, she was dragging me towards Kayla and her latest victim.
I didn’t want to know the guy who had his hand in the crook of her arm because he sure as hell shouldn’t have those delicate fingers within fifty yards of her skin. I was tempted to snap them off. But, naturally, some twisted sense of decency forced me to bite my tongue and offer him a fake-as-hell compliment about how well he and my sister-in-law suited each other.
Kayla’s eyes flicked over, slivered and cold.
“Grazie, amico,” he drawled, thick with Italian charm. “You’re rocking the sharpest suit here tonight.”
