Page 27 of Brutal Crown
She never said anything about my behavior over dinner last night, even though I know she was probably confused… and curious.
And the one person who should have didn’t. The truth is, Silvia knows I do not feel strongly for her. I care for her, yes, but we both know that she wouldn’t be my first choice of a lifelong commitment if I had my way.
It’s one of the things I like about our relationship. There’s a mutual understanding. We respect each other’s privacy. We don’t ask too many questions or make too many demands. As long as we look perfect before our families, the mafia, and the Society, we are good.
I exchange pleasantries with Elio as I settle in. Breakfast is easy. When Zia Clara mentions something about the engagement ceremony, I start making plans about the logistics, guest list, and seating. The look of surprise doesn’t leave her face. I’ve never shown interest in what will happen on that day, leaving the planning up to Silvia, my aunts, and the event planner.
I hop on a video call with Silvia to delve further, and when we start talking about florals, she laughs.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her genuine laugh before. It sounds beautiful.
This marriage might not be so terrible after all.
My laughter dies a little when I spot Lia passing behind the table with a tray.
I look away and focus on my call.
The sooner Silvia and I get hitched, the better.
For the next few days, I play my part. The dutiful fiancé. The responsible heir. I oversee preparations for the upcoming ceremony. My father is still the head of the household on paper, but my name carries the heavier weight now. Caterers check in with me. The orchestra submits a song list. I sign off on everything. Lucia, who joins in, insists on handling the décor, and I find out she’s actually good at doing something other than getting in trouble.
Silvia seems content. She’s active whenever she is around the house and doesn’t disappear like she usually does.
Lia doesn’t exist.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I always catch her in the corner of my eye. Carrying decorative tablecloths, wiping the table after a meal, and serving wine to my aunts.
I pretend like I don’t see her, like I don’t notice what she’s doing. But I do, every single time.
And now, I notice she’s been spending more time with Marco. All hands are on deck for the big day, so she’s always assisting him with one chore or another. I see her talking to him freely, like he’s not her boss. I catch them laughing together a few times.
I try to ignore the rage and envy coiling hot in my gut, refusing to act on my emotions.
When it starts to get difficult, I decide I need to distract myself by getting my hands a bit dirty.
My right-hand man informed me this morning about a breach. Some hacker got their hands on one of our old safehouse ledgers. He has the lists of important names, coordinates, and codes. Most of it is outdated, but it’s still dangerous in the wrong hands.
We track him down and find his address. His apartment is on the fifth floor of a low-rise building in Dorchester. He has a ridiculous amount of tech gear spilling out of every corner of the house, yet it didn’t take more than one minute to break into his apartment.
He’s wearing only a pair of boxers when we barge in. God, how easy does he keep planning to make this?
He’s much younger than I thought. Early twenties, probably. He’s lanky, with a boyish face. Before he can rush to pick something up, probably a gun or a high-tech weapon, the barrel of my Glock is pressed directly on his forehead.
“Don’t scream,” I say quietly. “You’ll just die faster.”
I decide to torture him in his home instead of taking him to the warehouse. I have no interest in making the boy beg for death, not that I plan to go easy on him, anyway. The apartment smells like stale pizza and beer. We don’t waste time. Nico yanks a chair out from under the desk, and I grab the kid by the arm, shove him down hard. He squeals like a pig, arms flailing until I twist one behind his back and start tying him up with his own monitor cords.
“I didn’t mean anything by it!” he blurts. “I didn’t know it was real—I thought it was—like a game or something—please just let me live, I’ll never do this again.”
His grating voice starts to get on my nerves, especially since I know he’s lying. He recognized us the second we stepped through the door. His eyes dropped straight to the ink on Nico’s forearm—a coiled black serpent, tucked behind tribal lines. Toanyone else, it’s just a tattoo. To those who know the name La Mano Nera, it’s a death sentence.
Then he starts to beg.
I tape his mouth shut and get to work.
I roll my sleeves up slow. One fold at a time. Blood’s pumping in my ears, loud like a war drum. I look at him. Oh, how unfortunate he is. Just a skinny little parasite who got curious.
