Page 57 of Tide of Treason
The scrape of teeth against my throat.
The way he’d laughed against my skin, wrecked and vicious and alive.
I came quick and angry, biting my lip to muffle the sounds clawing up my throat. Aftershocks left my muscles molten, my brain molten-er. Even my own body knew thetruth: I had lost.
I dressed slowly, silk camisole sliding over skin still sore from his touch, the shorts whispering softly over hips he’d bruised with his grip. The cousins and I were meeting tomorrow at dawn to drive out to Casa Sforza before the grand opening, and if I didn’t sleep now, I’d be biting someone’s face off before we reached the interstate. Unfortunately, the family group chat was a flaming car wreck I couldn’t look away from, even as my hair dripped down my spine in miserable, wet clumps.
Brando:Tell that little Brazilian fucker I’ll hop to the grand opening on one leg before I miss it.
Vito:you’re not hopping anywhere.
Brando:I’m your fucking father. Show some respect you oversized halfwit.
A sigh escaped me.
Nonna:SHUT YOUR MOUTH, BRANDO. MY DAUGHTER DESERVED BETTER THAN YOUR WHINING CARCASS FOR A BROTHER-IN-LAW. FUCK OFF.
I chuckled.
16 | Kayla
29 years old
Present day
We hit a snarlof traffic ten blocks from the casino.
It was the second day of Manhattan’s Italian-American festival, which meant every tourist in the tri-state area had descended like moths to a carb-filled flame. Sidewalks pulsed with red-white-and-green chaos. Banners tangled in the wind. Old men sang Volare off-key while their wives haggled over overpriced olives. Zeppole powdered the air like cocaine. Somewhere, a sausage splattered on grimy pavement, and a second later, some brave soul scraped it up and took a bite.
I sat shotgun beside Vito, one heel pressed to the dash, a headache pulsing behind my left eye. Elio and Francesco sat in the back. The GPS barked in a clipped voice that traffic would clear in approximately forty-seven minutes. I sagged deeperinto the leather seat.
Papà had shoved the banner-cutting up to three, his paranoid urgency inflamed by a storm’s humid breath rolling across the Hudson. Rain always seemed to spell disaster for mobsters and mascara alike, and my father had zero tolerance for ruined plans or runny makeup. Now the entire family was scrambling around like headless chickens—or worse, Italians who’d misplaced their wine.
A little boy in a Juventus jersey lifted his hand and flipped us off.
Vito laughed, deep and surprised, and for a moment, the clouds parted, letting a rare sliver of sunshine crack through the gloom.
Naturally, it lasted about two seconds.
“Why’s the street so goddamn wide?”
Francesco’s question slithered between my temples, followed by the wet click of Elio’s lighter as he sparked a Parliament in the backseat. I tipped my sunglasses down, giving the newly-paved expanse a once-over. Two extra lanes of matte-black asphalt glistened with a sheen of fresh tar.
“Maybe the city finally realized how fat your ego is,” Elio said to his brother. “Had to give it room to waddle.”
The car slowed in front of Casa Sforza ten minutes past the time Papà had demanded, the epicenter of an even louder, brighter chaos. I’d barely stepped one designer heel onto the marble floor when Francesco nudged me, eyes gleaming with a fresh bit of gossip.
“Did you hear about Lucius this morning?”
“No, and I don’t care.”
Elio’s quiet laughter mocked my apathy. “You should.”
I didn’t want to, but that didn’t stop him from continuing.
“Your papà ripped into him pretty good. Something about Andrade skipping his meds again, endangering sweet little Viviana.” He paused dramatically, enjoying the slow twist of my jaw. “Even threatened to toss him back in the loony bin.”
“He’s not crazy.”
