Page 87 of Tide of Treason
The paper in my hands had suddenly become the least interesting thing in the room.
“You’ve been bringing women into your marriage?”
“How else do you think we’ve made it two years without one of us committing murder? Compromise, Kay.”
I didn’t answer, mostly because the first response that came to mind was taking a blunt object to my temple andputting myself out of my misery.
Viviana must have seen it in the set of my shoulders. She turned off the tap. “You’re going to break your own heart,” she said, and damn her, she didn’t sound smug. Just sad.
I slung my purse over one shoulder and fled before the ache in my chest could crest. Outside, a lazy gathering of men lounged on the patio, doing fuck-all except burning through another pack of Brazilian imported cigars and arguing over Serie A standings.
“Missed me,cara mia?”
I eased into the empty chair across from Niccolò. “Didn’t expect you back so soon. Thought you’d be licking your wounds in some distant, irrelevant corner of the peninsula.”
He flicked his lighter open, rolled the flint wheel with an expert touch, and lit his cigar without taking his eyes off me. A slant of late-day sun caught the yellow discoloration around his eye. I shot my three cousins a sharp look that all but demanded to know what the fuck he was doing here, but Vito, the one who’d knocked him out cold a few weeks back for flirting with Katie, kept his nose in the casino ledgers.
From yesterday’s meeting, Long Island numbers were steady; Vegas was tanking. Papà was in a mood about it all morning, muttering about “cheating bastards” and “slot machine fuckery.” It wasn’t unwarranted. Word on the street was that Niccolò’s little branch of the family tree had salted the Vegas accounting books until fiction looked jealous.
Elio said it was inevitable.
Francesco said it was treason.
I just said it was Tuesday.
“I’ve seen some shit worse than a beating, Kayla. The tunnels are getting dicey. And the Cartel—” Niccolò dragged a thumb across his bottom lip, eyes narrowed. “The kind of videos I see, Kay. It’s like a fucking slaughterhouse, but with Funky Town playing in the background.”
I watched smoke drift towards the treetops. The Cartel’s penchant for theatrics was none of my concern. Their mutilations weren’t my jurisdiction. What I was interested in, however, was why he was bringing it up in the first place.
“Is that what you want to deal with?” he pushed. “We’ve got the real estate, they’ve got the product—but the tunnels are a fucking mess. And if you’re looking to expand to Nevada . . .”
A thoughtful hum drifted from my throat. “And where’s the tunnel?”
“Atlantic City.” Niccolò chewed on his cigar. “Right where yours ends.”
“We don’t need Atlantic City,” I said carefully. It was true. The casinos had nothing to do with why I wanted Atlantic City, and he knew that just as well as I did.
He gave me a side glance. “Your papà says you’ve been asking about Jersey since you were sixteen. And now, you’ve got a pretty opportunity staring you in the face. Braga isn’t around to stop you anymore. What’s the holdup?”
Tension sharpened the angles of my jaw. The holdup was six-six with my teeth marks in his shoulder, and the reasonI’d spent the past week quietly reworking my entire future into something unrecognizable. The holdup was a fucking soft spot, and soft spots got people killed.
“Prince,” Vito announced mildly, right on cue.
My gaze snagged—couldn’t not—on Lucius the moment he stepped off the garden path, his broad shoulders rimmed in that golden sunlight. A plush pink teddy bear was tucked under one arm, and a wide-eyed little blonde clung to the other. My teeth found the inside of my cheek, sinking slowly as I observed them. Sweet Lieve rarely spoke. Mostly because she couldn’t form the words, no matter how brightly they glowed behind her eyes.
“Kayla,” Marisol greeted, warmth spilling from her smile. “It’s good to see you.”
Standing, I brushed a kiss to each of her cheeks, careful not to smear ruby lipstick on her skin. “Likewise.” I meant it. She was strong, which I respected. Dutch, which I ignored. More importantly, she might be the only person on this planet able to grab Lucius by the collar and tell him to get his act together. For that, she had my undiluted loyalty. I’d take a bullet for her; provided she asked nicely.
A faint, simmering warmth flickered at my nape. I felt Lucius’s gaze on my skin as I spoke to Lieve’s mother. It had that weight, like being burned and cradled at the same time. He watched every breath I took, as if I might slip through his fingers if he looked away.
“—we’ll have to do another dinner,” Marisol was saying, her hand on my arm. Something amused and intimate swamin her brown eyes, a knowledge that tightened my stomach. “Lucius has been raving about your cooking.”
I slid a glance his way, lips tilting as I noticed his cheekbones had gone pink. “Is that right?”
“You’re twisting my words.” He shot Marisol a look. “This is why I don’t tell you shit.”
“You don’t tell me shit because I’d have your ass if I knew half the places you dragged that tongue of yours,” she mused.
