Page 40 of Tide of Treason
I wasn’t surprised, not really.
Uncle Brando was the kind of bloated, artery-clogged bigot who thought being Italian was some divine mandate that placed him above lesser mortals. He was also a gambler, a drunk, and a complete idiot, which was a lethal combination on its own, but pair that with a loose mouth and a penchant for running his fat fucking opinions where they didn’t belong? It was a miracle he hadn’t been shot sooner.
From where I stood with my cousins, barefoot and irritated, the party had continued as if Lucius hadn’t pulled a gun and shot my uncle in the thigh within the first thirty minutes. The man in question was playing poker with Rafael and Maury at the dining table, looking criminally hot in his shirt and open collar. His wedding ring, or lack thereof, caught my eye. The absence of it felt like an inside joke no one else was privy to.
He’d made me come.
Like an animal.
Heat crawled beneath my skin. I licked lipstick from the corner of my mouth and pretended the room wasn’t tilting. Squint hard enough and we almost looked normal.
Mamma’s laugh floated in from the garden, crystalline, undisturbed. Her friends clinked ice. Viviana was out there, too, sipping her spritz and nodding along to a mind-numbing discussion about Versace’s runway collection and how it was a shame that nobody appreciated the classics anymore. I had a sneaking suspicion her ability to tolerate said conversation had absolutely nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that Mamma had confiscated her paints.
Inside, Brando was still screaming.
His thick fingers gripped his thigh as though he was trying to squeeze the bullet back out, but no amount of pressure was going to undo the fact that Lucius had just made him his bitch in front of half the family. If nothing else, I had to respect the efficiency: one shot, one bigoted pig squealing on the marble, and, miraculously, business still thriving.
“Fucking mutt,” he spat. “Youshotme! In myownhome!”
I poured myself a drink. “Technically, it’s our home.”
Beady eyes snapped towards me, lips peeling back in a snarl. “Oh, fuck off, Kayla. Your daddy lets you pretend you have a say in shit, but we all know where a woman’s place is.”
I took a slow sip of my wine. Swallowed. Let the tannins settle on my tongue before deciding that, no, I didn’t like thevintage. It was a bit too dry, not quite smooth enough, much like the pathetic display in front of me.
“Right. And where is that again? Remind me.”
Before his little brain could assemble a misogynistic haiku, Lucius pushed back from the table with a long sigh. He sipped his drink, set it down, and slid a chip to Rafael without looking at the cards on the table.
“I could’ve aimed higher.”
Rafael barked a laugh, teeth flashing.
A flash of fury contorted Brando’s bloated face. He struggled to sit up, but between his weight and the pain from the bullet wound, he only managed to slide his gelatinous ass halfway up before giving up.
Lucius picked up Rafael’s discarded hand, studied it, then pushed another chip into the middle of the table. “Straight.”
Brando sputtered. “Y-you—”
“And a flush,” Lucius cut in smoothly. He flipped over cards: Rafael’s, Maury’s, the communal five.?“This stack gets you nothing. That one?” Flicked a finger. “A night at the casino. That one? A glorious stay in the ER. And this last hand . . . oh, this one gets you a nice, cozy spot six feet under. Maybe I’ll even spring for a tasteful bouquet. Send my sincerest condolences for taking out the family trash.”
An enraged grunt escaped Brando. He tried to stand again, knocked over a potted plant and a candle in the process. When he slid back down, the Hermès towel went with him, revealing sweat-stained boxers that might’ve once been white.Now, they were a nauseating shade of yellow that suggested he’d been wearing them since my sister’s last family dinner. And, conveniently, he hadn’t been invited back since then. Imagine that.
“You’ve got a lot of mouth for a goddamn dead man.” His voice wavered with exertion. “You think you’re a Sforza just because you—”
The room chilled.
Vito didn’t say a word when entering the room. Standing at an incredible six foot eight, he was taller than even Lucius, built like a Roman war god with the personality of a stainless-steel refrigerator. He had a way of existing in a room that made lesser men reconsider their life choices. Also had the honor of being Brando’sonlyson, though you wouldn’t know it from the absolute lack of emotion on his face as he grabbed his father by the collar and started dragging him across the marble.
“Vito,” Brando rasped, legs scraping uselessly against the floor. “Figlio mio.Your own father?”
Vito’s expression remained blank. If remorse existed, it lay buried where archaeologists might never dig. He adjusted his grip, hauled him right past the poker table, past the servants who didn’t even blink because, well, they’d seen worse.
“I gave you everything! I raised you, for fuck’s sake! Vito, goddammit, I am your BLOOD!”
My cousin finally paused. A single beat of quiet. He glanced down. In the first words I’d heard from him all night, he said, “You are.”
It wasn’t a compliment.
