Page 59 of Tide of Treason
My voice turned frost-edged. “Shame.”
Jack nodded like I’d agreed with him. “Viviana’s probably too afraid to leave. Honestly, Kayla, if I were you, I’d watch my back. You never know when those manic episodes might—”
“She’s the princess of the New York maf—I mean,business family,” the third idiot hastily interjected, apparently the only one briefed on who, exactly, was in the room. “A woman like that? Doesn’t fear anything.”
Wrong.
I feared plenty of things.
I just happened to be intimately acquainted with all of them.
Botox Boy lowered his voice. “You know, Kayla, if you ever want to talk about—well, about anything . . . my door’s always open.” He reached to pat my cheek—a gesture of patronizing sympathy so repulsive I saw red. My fingers snapped around his wrist faster than his last Botox injection could paralyze his brow, gripping tightly enough to feel bone beneath warm, sweaty skin.
“It was a pleasure seeing you gentlemen,” I said sweetly, using my grip to pull him into a hug. To his credit, he didn’t fight as I stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, my palm sliding down to cup the back of his neck. “But if you ever speak about my sister’s husband like that again, I’ll have your tongue cut out and delivered to your wife in a jewelry box. And if that’s not enough to make you rethink your gossip sessions, I’ll make sure your hands are next. Can’t jerk off to underage girls with no fingers, can you?”
I took advantage of their stunned silence to shove past and grab my drink off the bar.
Papà’s glare bore into me from across the room, a brand of paternal disapproval that used to leave me cold. Now it just fueled my spite. He’d threatened Lucius with the institution ifhe skipped his meds again, and the look in his eyes said he meant it. Something wild and cruel stirred inside me at the thought of him gone.
“The hell was that about?”
Francesco again, materializing beside me with a face full of wary amusement.
The glass I’d abandoned caught the sun’s glare, momentarily blinding, and I narrowed my eyes at the sting. “Nothing worth mentioning.” I glanced at my watch. “But it’s show time.”
A few hourslater, the midday sun had slunk toward late afternoon, painting everything in gold and long shadows. The thick slab of heat that always smothered Long Island in summer finally loosened its grip, replaced by a sticky breeze that ruffled the ribbon swaying outside the entrance.
Mamma was in her element, glowing beneath the setting sun, her jewelry reflecting every flash of the cameras. Draped in an elegant champagne gown, she batted her lashes at the mayor’s aide. If he had two brain cells to rub together, he’d wonder why the queen wasn’t glued to the king’s side. Unfortunately, that required a level of intelligence that most men didn’t have when Mamma was around.
She shined; I wilted.
Always had.
Always would.
Vito loomed by the velvet ropes with his arms folded across a barrel chest that dwarfed most men. He was scanning the crowd for threats; or, maybe just scaring the shit out of them for sport. One well-dressed couple attempted to cozy up to the rope for a better angle on Papà’s podium, and my cousin shook his head, all stern disapproval. They promptly scurried back a few steps. I dragged my tongue across the inside of my cheek, biting back a smirk.
Papà finally cleared his throat into the microphone. The crowd hushed. Cameras whirred. Right on cue, a fat pair of ceremonial scissors appeared in his hand. He launched into some speech about family legacy, prosperity, and the “honorable tradition” of the Sforza enterprise. Corporate synergy was never part of the official language, but behind closed doors, everyone knew we measured success in ROI and the hush of sealed caskets.
“Fifty bucks says he name-drops the Founding Fathers.”
“You’re on,” I sighed.
Two minutes later, the words “the spirit of our forefathers” rolled off Papà’s tongue, and Francesco held out his palm, smug. I slapped a crisp fifty into it.
The ribbon fluttered to the ground beneath a rain of glittering confetti, and the crowd burst into applause. Idly, I wondered how many of these sycophants would still be clapping if they knew what that ribbon was made of. Silk from Bangkok, smuggled in the intestines of a dead diplomat. Sforza ingenuity: we imported hope and heroin on the same flight.
A low, deadly growl dragged my focus to Vito again.
His glare had found a new target.
My cousin despised Niccolò the way most men hate cancer: viscerally, intimately, with the full force of ancient blood feuds. Which was precisely why I smiled as I watched Vito glare absolute murder at the sleek asshole currently leaning too close to Katie. And she turned him down, the little saint. I smirked at Vito’s instant relief. Christ, it was almost sweet. The moment Katie gave that nervous laugh, shifting on her feet as Niccolò’s thumb dragged across her palm, the big guy faltered.
I felt the rare, vicious satisfaction of a mother realising her feral child could indeed learn to share. Only the toys were jealousy, and the child was a primordial enforcer with homicide simmering beneath good wool. The next fifteen minutes were a blur, and my wager on the evening’s first broken bone matured nicely.
By blur, I mean Niccolò got a little too smug with the wrong person, Vito got a little too Vito about it, and now the poor intern from the mayor’s office was dabbing at blood splatter on her pumps with a napkin while the brass band awkwardly stumbled through the last few notes ofThat’s Amore.
Katie would’ve scolded me for laughing when Vito hauled Niccolò’s slack body toward the dumpsters, but mirth rose in my chest. Idiocy is funniest when it’s dangerous. Vito dropped the deadweight at Elio’s handcrafted loafers and straightened, blood spattering the satin lapels of his suit. He met my gaze with an expression that said,See, Kay? I have thesituation under control. Also, thanks for being my favorite cousin.
