Page 94 of Tide of Treason
“Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll have it finished by tonight.”
“Perfect. Vito and Elio will drop by around seven to confirm the dimensions. We wouldn’t want you making a single mistake.”
Niccolò left an hour later, grumbling under his breath and wearing a scowl. He got halfway to the entryway before he remembered he didn’t own a car, and my eyes rolled hard as he stormed out the front door to find his own way home. He didn’t take my offer of an Uber.
Whatever brewing disapproval Papà had died a quickdeath, because in the next breath, he dropped something far heavier than furniture logistics.
“Sergius is back.”
A chill brushed my neck, cold as the first breath in a crypt, and settled in my bones with the weight of an epitaph. My gaze flickered to Francesco, to Elio, to Vito. Their faces were carved from the same breed of sharp Italian bone, yet their thoughts were an opaque thing, hidden beneath unreadable expressions.
For once, nobody had anything to say.
I hated silence. It was never empty. “And?”
“Now we decide which side we stand on. There’s going to be a vote.”
Who the Cosa Nostra backed mattered more than anything. We’d officially allied with Sergius Braga years ago when Lucius married Viviana, but that contract hadn’t accounted for the fact that Lucius had spent the next several years running things in New York himself. And running themwell. A clean operation. Profitable. Unquestionable. The problem was, loyalty in the mafia ran deeper than logic. And Sergius was not just the titled kingpin, but the man Papà had made a deal with. Backing his son would mean turning against the man he’d once called a brother.
“Votes will be counted as follows,” Papà intoned. “Sforza family members will count for two. Capos and enforcers, one.”
A careful design. Votes in the mafia meant nothing, except when they meant everything. But let’s not kid ourselves.It was never fair. If Lucius lost, it wouldn’t be because his operation was lacking. It would be because Sergius Braga’s skin was a shade lighter, and in a room full of Sicilians with a century of selective memory, that might be all that mattered.
That, and the question no one wanted to voice—the one that seemed to pulse behind every measured glance.
What happens to the loser?
It flickered under my ribs, a sick pulse that made my skin itch. I was too young to remember rumors about my own conception, about whether Papà had been happy that I was a girl instead of a boy, but I imagined this was how he must have felt: the unbearable weight of knowing someone else’s life depended on how well you played the game.
I didn’t knockwhen I slipped into his penthouse. I knew he was here because Marisol had told me so, something knowing behind her eyes, and I didn’t bother asking what she meant by it. The place was cast in a sultry darkness, moonbeams slicing across the marble floors. I toed off my heels and traced the long stretch of hallway, my feet silent on the plush runner that led to his bedroom.
I bit into my bottom lip at the sight: smooth, inked muscle beneath black sheets. He slept like any other man, one arm buried beneath the pillow, the other stretched across the mattress. Sheets tangled around his calves, kicked away in arestless moment of heat, leaving the sculpted length of his back and black boxer briefs shamelessly exposed. Larger than life, yet vulnerable in sleep.
It had been a week.
Seven torturous, sleepless nights.
My pulse beat relentlessly, an unsteady rhythm against my ribcage as I approached the edge of the bed, stepping onto the rug that felt soft and cold beneath my feet. I’d memorised every bit of his tattoo work, the dates marking his life, yet nothing was as haunting as the small tally marks on his ribs. I wondered if he even remembered what each tally meant, if they had blurred together into an indistinct weight pressed against his conscience.
My hesitation must have seeped into the air because, without bothering to open his eyes, Lucius exhaled a lazy, sleep-heavy drawl.
“Took you long enough.”
“You were expecting me?” My tone floated, indifferent. I was anything but.
“No.”
I pressed, cruel and soft. “Were you hoping I’d come?”
A beat.
He turned onto his back, hooked both strong arms behind his head, and he regarded me with a gaze that was unreadable but simmering.
“No.”
Another lie. This one so thick with obvious bullshit that warmth licked through my chest. Sometimes, I wondered if I’dcracked open that stubborn chest of his and looked inside, would I find my name carved into the bone, unwilling and irremovable.
My blouse hit the floor with a soft sigh of surrender. Hands shook. “I need you.” The admission scorched my throat, but hell if I was swallowing it anymore. I was so tired of pretending I didn’t care. “I thought about you too often this week. Disgusting, really. I should be over this by now. Maybe even have developed some taste.”
