Page 2 of Bloody Vows
The sharks have arrived.They paid their respects at my father’s funeral and the reception that was held after; there’s no need to do so again. But they’re not here for that. They’re here to see just how bloodied I am. If my eyes are red-rimmed, or my head is held high. How hard I’ll negotiate for what happens to my father’s legacy, to his money, and to me, in the wake of all of this. If I’ll crumble, or if I’ll fight.
And, I expect, Konstantin Abramov is out there too, but possibly for different reasons.
He’s the only man I’m truly afraid of. With Don Genovese and now my father, Don Russo, both dead, he’s the most powerful mob boss in Miami, with no one else coming close in terms of money, alliances outside of South Florida, businessinterests, or manpower. He rules Miami without question, and it goes without saying that whoever tries to claim me and my father’s empire will either need to ally with him—or be in direct opposition to him.
Or… he could kill me, and take it for himself.
Marriage isn’t an option for Konstantin—he’s already married. But my father wronged him. My father betrayed him, threatened him, and now…
Now I’m all that’s left of the Russo line. Konstantin is known to be a man of diplomacy, a man who prefers words to bullets and peace to blood, but men change. And it’s entirely possible that rather than allow a single speck of my father’s line to continue—rather than allow some other man to take up my father’s empire, Konstantin will simply kill me and take it all for himself.
There’s no one in Miami who could or would stop him. The thought is terrifying. It makes my blood run cold as I stand up, smoothing my hands down the front of my slim black pants and swallowing hard.
I have to face them. I have no other choice, just as I’ve never had many choices throughout all of my life. And for all I know, before the day is over, I’ll be in the ground beside my father.
It’s not fair.I allow myself a single, petulant, childish moment of thinking how very unfair it is that I was born into this life, without choices, without options, without anyone ever asking me what it is thatIwant.
And then, I let it go. My choices are few, but I still have some—namely, how I’m going to present myself to the men out there waiting for me, to the sharks. Whether I will be wilting or strong, frightened or brave, and I know what I choose.
I’ll never allow any of them to see that I’m terrified, even if I am.
"Tell them I'll be out in a moment," I say to Nora, my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. "Offer them drinks. Whatever they want." I need a moment to compose myself. Just one.Inhale. Exhale.A moment to breathe and remind myself of who I am, that even if I was raised as a pawn, even the pawn has some control of the board.
Nora nods, her dark eyes filled with concern as she looks at me. She's been with our family since before I was born, and she's the closest thing to a mother I've ever had. My own mother died when I was seven, of a fast-moving cancer, and Nora stepped in to fill that void as much as she could, given her position in our household. She knows me better than anyone, and I can see in her expression that she's worried about what's about to happen.
She knows the rules of this world, too. She knows what my place in it is, and to some extent, how my father left things. That I don’t have a husband, not even a fiancé. She knows how much danger I’m in.
"Be careful,mija," she says quietly. "These men, they are not here for your benefit. They’re here for theirs."
I take a deep breath. “I know,” I say softly, appreciating her concern, the maternal instinct that makes her want to protect me even when there's nothing she can do. "But I have to face them. There's no other choice." There’s so much more that I could say. That my father left me in an untenable position. That he pissed off the most powerful man in Miami. That even though I’m the heiress, I have none of the passwords, none of the bank information, no knowledge of his contacts. I have a debit card that he reloaded with my allowance every month, a credit card that he paid monthly without question, and nothing else to my name except my designer dresses, and shoes, and jewelry, all the fine things I surrounded myself with. I never thought about the fact that one day my father could leave me adrift, in need of aman to take the reins, because I was never given access to any of the knowledge that could let me run it myself.
Not because I wouldn’t have wanted to, but because it was made very clear to me, from a young age, that I would never be allowed to. That there was no point in thinking about it, because it was an impossibility, a ridiculous thought.
Nora nods again, reluctantly, and leaves me alone in the office. “I will get them all drinks,” she says, before stepping out and closing the door behind her. “That should keep them busy long enough.”
Long enough for me to compose myself, to get my head in the right place. Ilookcomposed, my slim black pants and black silk blouse smooth and pressed and spotless, my high heels angling my figure to its best advantage and adding four inches to my height, my long dark hair swept up in a high, flawless chignon. My makeup is simple, my jewelry understated—every inch of me is meant to look expensive and pampered, the heiress deep in the throes of grief but not allowing it to show.
I look like what I am—a mafia princess. Polished, refined, untouchable. It's armor, this appearance, and I need every piece of protection I can get.
I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk out of the office.
The formal living room of our mansion is spacious enough to host parties, with high ceilings, gleaming wooden floors dotted with expensive rugs, and furniture that costs more than most people make in a year. It's designed to impress, to intimidate, to remind visitors of the wealth and power of the Russo family, and it’s always been the place where guests are received. Today, it feels like a stage where I'm about to perform the most important role of my life.
Four men and their entourages are waiting for me, scattered across the plush couches arranged in front of the rarely usedfireplace—we are in Florida, after all—and overlooked by the large portrait of my father, my mother, and me as a baby that hangs above it. It’s a photograph, actually, but it was blown up and treated to look like an oil painting. My father said it made him feel like a king, having it overlooking the formal gatherings in this room.
It makes me uncomfortable, feeling as if his eyes are on me when I know now what he did. What he was a part of. The position that he left me in.
The four men are all small-time players, and I recognize most of them immediately. Tony Marcelli, head of a smaller Italian family that operates primarily in the drug trade, who answered to my father and no doubt now thinks he can marry me off to his smirking son—the man who is barely a boy sitting next to him—and take everything that my father had. There’s also Marco Benedetti, another small Italian family head who handles the dock workers, and was also under my father’s umbrella. There’s Riko Sato, who heads up a small Yakuza faction, who I know only because I heard my father mention him as someone who owed him favors, and who no doubt now hopes to evade that by taking my father’s empire. The fourth man, I believe, is the head of the Cuban mob here, but I don’t know his name. Tony and Marco I know because they had dinners with us, business dinners under the guise offamily.
They’re all here now to see if they can claim what was my father’s, up until a few days ago.
They all stand when I enter the room, a show of respect that feels hollow given the circumstances. The bosses and their right-hands—or their sons, sometimes the same thing, but I’m unsure who is who—have all taken seats on the couches, while their security mills in the background. They all look at me at once, even their security. If one of these men claimed me for his own, the men who work for them wouldn’t be allowed to lookat me the way their guards are now—hungry, assessing, curious. But right now, I’m untethered, a woman without a husband or a father in a world of mob bosses and criminals, and everyone takes an eyeful without hesitating.
I can see it in their eyes—the calculation, the assessment. They're looking at me like I'm a prize to be won, a commodity to be acquired. It makes my skin crawl, but I keep my expression neutral. Regal, even, if I can manage it.
“Gentlemen.” I pause at the threshold, forcing a pleasant smile onto my face. “Thank you for coming to pay your respects. You didn’t need to; your presence at the funeral was appreciation enough.”
It’s a hint, the only one I can show, that I don’t want them here. I wonder if they realize it, or if they’re all too arrogant to pick up on that fact.
