Page 4 of Bloody Vows
I wonder if they’re all thinking, as I am, that Konstantin could easily kill me and take it all for himself. If they’re imagining what they would do in that scenario—inhisscenario.
I think any one of them would put a bullet in my head. But I’ve been told more than once that Konstantin isn’t that kind of man. It’s the only hope I have to cling to.
"Please," I say, gesturing toward the seating area. "Make yourselves comfortable." There’s a taut note to my voice that I try to banish, but it’s impossible to rid myself of it completely. Fear colors everything, I’ve learned recently, no matter how hard you try to erase it.
Konstantin nods and moves to one of the leather armchairs, settling into it with the kind of casual authority that makes it clear he's the most powerful man in the room. The older stranger takes a seat nearby, but the younger one—the one with the green eyes and the arrogant smirk—remains standing, his gaze never leaving me. My skin crawls in a way that isn’t entirely unpleasant, but I force myself to ignore it. Handsome or not, this man clearly poses a threat to me too—though I haven’t figured out quite what it is yet. I only know that I canfeelit, wafting from him like a perfume, my every instinct screaming it loudly.
"Allow me to introduce my associates," Konstantin says, his tone formal. "This is Finnegan O'Malley, and his son, Tristan O'Malley. They've come down from Boston to discuss some business opportunities in the wake of recent changes to Miami's landscape."
O'Malley.Irish, then. That explains the rough edges, the difference from the Italian men I'm accustomed to. The Irish mob operates differently from the Italian families, with different codes, different traditions. They're known for being moreviolent, more unpredictable—less so than the Bratva, but more so than the Italians.
Not that the Italian mafia is any less violent. But there’s a polish over it that the Irish and the Bratva don’t bother with.
I sink into an armchair that leaves me mostly facing the room, giving myself as much of an air of authority as I can manage under the circumstances. They’re here for a reason, and I very much feel that I don’t want to know what it is. But if Konstantin has brought them here, then it has something to do with my father’s passing. And from the way the younger O’Malley—Tristan—is looking at me, with that arrogant, possessive smile on his face, I can begin to guess.
I have a feeling that, for some reason that I’m as of yet unaware of, Konstantin has brought Tristan here as my future husband.
2
SIMONE
Ikeep the smile on my face, as if nothing of the sort has occurred to me. "Mr. O'Malley," I say, nodding to the older man. "And… Mr. O’Malley.” I nod to the younger man as well. “Welcome to Miami."
"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Russo," Finnegan O'Malley replies, his voice carrying a thick Irish accent, enough to make me think he might be first-generation. "Please accept our condolences on your father's passing."
I murmur my thanks, but my attention keeps drifting to his son, to Tristan, who still hasn't spoken. He's studying me with an intensity that makes me feel like he's cataloging every detail of my appearance, every micro-expression that crosses my face. It's unnerving, making my stomach squirm and my skin prickle, and I hate it. I hate that he’s looking as if he’s assessing me, like he owns me already and wants to know if his purchase will be worth it.
I can feel a thread of discomfort running through the room, too. Every other man here has likely realized the same thing I have. And they know, now that Konstantin is here, that none of them can say a word against it.
None of them have the power to. And they were all fools to think they ever had a chance at grasping my father’s power.
"And you, Mr. O'Malley," I say, forcing myself to redirect my attention to the older Irishman. "What brings you to Miami?”
Finnegan O’Malley smiles, not quite predatorily. More like an old lion, I think, baring his teeth and knowing that’s all he’ll need to do. He opens his mouth to speak, but Konstantin cuts in.He’s still on top,I think, making note of the power structure within this room.The O’Malleys answer to Konstantin, that much is clear.
“Opportunity,” Konstantin cuts in. "Your father's death has created a power vacuum. We're here to discuss how that vacuum might be filled.”
The bluntness of his statement makes the other men in the room shift uncomfortably. Usually, in a varied gathering such as this, such things are usually discussed in euphemisms, in coded language. But Konstantin appears to want to get right to the point. I guess I can’t blame him—I imagine he’d rather be at home, with his wife, than sitting in this mausoleum of a home and discussing the future with the daughter of his dead enemy.
"I see," I say carefully, keeping my voice level despite the way my heart is racing. "And what do you have in mind?”
“We’ll get to that.” Konstantin looks around the room. “I’d like to hear why these others have decided to stop by today.”
It’s a clear gauntlet, an opportunity for them to challenge what he has planned, if any of them have the balls to do it. I know they won’t. None of them are brave enough to stand up to Konstantin, particularly after what happened to my father.
What Konstantin has decided is what will happen, and all I can do is sit here, sweat beading on the back of my neck despite the arctic chill of the expensive air-conditioning, and wait to find out my fate.
—
What follows is perhaps the most humiliating hour of my life.
I sit in my own living room, in the house where I was born and raised, and listen to eight men discuss my future as if I'm not even present. They speak around me, over me, occasionallyaboutme, but nevertome. It's as if I'm a piece of furniture, a valuable antique that needs to be appraised and allocated to its new owner.
Tony is the only one who has the balls—surprisingly—to suggest to Konstantin that, after so many years of working closely with my father, marrying me to his son has the highest likelihood of keeping things running smoothly. I have absolutely no desire to marry his son, who is short, beady-eyed, and already losing his hair despite being in his early thirties at most, but I’m not consulted.
I’m not consulted about any of it, and I can feel the anger building in my chest, a slow ember that catches flame with every ticking minute that goes past without anyone asking my opinion.
The others don’t suggest that they should get me. They talk to Konstantin about ways they can continue to serve the Russo interests even after those interests are held by a man with a different last name. They talk about my inheritance, my properties, my future as if those things are theirs to distribute. As ifI’mtheirs to distribute. Through it all, Konstantin sits in silence, listening with the patient attention of a king holding court. Finnegan O'Malley occasionally nods or makes a noncommittal sound, but his contribution to the conversation is minimal. He's here as an observer, I realize, not a participant.
