Page 25 of The Sound in Silence

Her birthday is tomorrow. It’ll make the eleven-year age gap between us ten, being that she’ll turn twenty-two.

Fuck Corsetti for not letting me know this. Or perhaps, he wasn’t aware either. Della certainly does though, which means she kept that information from her husband, in turn keeping it from me.

By the time I enter the empty bar, only a few of theFamigliacapos already arriving, I head for a booth in the back, signalling to the bartenders who’re setting up for the day to bring me something strong. A few of the heads glance at me from their places around the room, one even standing as though to approach, but the glare I shoot every one of them keeps them away.

In truth, it’s not their fault I’m annoyed, immediately feeling the tightness winding my form, frustration clamping my jaw shut.

I won’t be home for her birthday. Distance aside, that’s an asshole move on my part.

Can I fly home and back in time tomorrow? Would that even be wise to show up in New York, only for the afternoon and…do what? Take her out for a proper celebration? There’s so little I know about Ariella, I’m not even surewhatshe’d enjoy doing.

The mantra offuckcontinues to roll through my head as some idiotic soul takes the seat across from me. Clearly, the look I gave the room upon entering wasn’t enough so I lift my eyes, scanning past the glass of alcohol that was delivered while I was lost in thought, and onto the man across from me.

My father’s inquiring eyes drill right back, his mouth flat as his arms come to rest over the tabletop. He shouldn’t be here until tomorrow for the leadership change, since he opted to skip the meeting.

“What a surprise.” I tip my drink toward him in greeting but leave my tone unimpressed. He always taught me that one’s tone has more of an impact than words. Instead of outwardly stating my displeasure, to make it known throughhowI say it and the behaviours that go along with it.

He reclines against the booth, sliding one arm along the back, which tells me he’s calm. Unresponsive to my annoyance because whyever he’s here, he feels he’s in the right.

“Business in the area,” is all he replies with as two fingers lift from the back of the booth’s bench. It’s a signal to the bar, and within a minute, the waitress is bringing over another glass of liquor for him. It’s clear—his favourite gin. Everyone in his employ is aware of his preferred drink, so there’s no fumbling over inquiring what he’d like.

Once the waitress is gone again, I shoot him another unimpressed stare, leaning back in the booth as well. “What business? I’d know about any business you’re conducting here. The only reason you should be in Vegas is for the quarterly meeting later today, which you’ve already declined attending, and tomorrow.”

Father’s head dips to the side, a slow smirk spreading over his mouth, which he quickly hides with a sip from his glass. “Still not coming to the meeting, no. I have a different one.”

My eyes narrow because he’s being shifty right now. Sketchy actions imply sketchy results. “What meeting are you having that I’m not privy to? If it affects theFamiglia,I should be aware.”

His lips press together in fake-thoughtfulness. Fake because Father never considers anything for as long as he’s now pretending to. “You will. In time.”

Before I can make my next argument, he stands from the booth and abandons his half-empty drink, and strides right out the front door. He obviously, somehow, knew I was here and whatever game he just played was to let me know the dice has been rolled.

Not that I don’t trust my father…but I don’t completely trust him either. A paradox, yes, but that’s been our entire relationship, especially in the past year or so. With more command being handed to me, he’s changed from the man I knew growing up.

Did you ever really know him though?

I suppose not. A lot of my childhood was spent with Carlotta parenting me. Mother was always here or there—parties, spa days, shopping—while Father stayed away from the mansion more than he was there. If not travelling for work, he was passed out in his numerous offices or a condo apartment, preferring to sleep and live where the organization needed him most rather than be a parent.

So whatever Father’s doing now, he believes it’s for the best, but not informing me doesn’t sit well either.

There was a single vow I made to myself growing up. That I might not be having a typical marriage with Ariella, but our children, my heirs, theywillknow me. Iwilldrive the near three hours home each day and spend evenings with them, whether that’s training, swimming, or visiting a park. They’ll have what I never did—a father.

The fact I’m sitting in Vegas, almost three thousand miles away from my wife and all the ability to begin creating those children, is not lost on me.

My gaze is stuck on the door Father left out of, debating to follow him or not. I still have hours until the meeting begins, which would give me the time to trail him and see what he’s up to. If only to settle the churning in my stomach and the instinct that something is majorly wrong.

Making my decision to follow, I swallow the final chug of my drink and abandon my glass, rebuttoning my suit’s coat as I stand and head toward the door.

A body steps in front of me, and I’m about to curse whichever brainless staff dared block my way when their outfit registers. Certainly not waitstaff, nor one of the heads, who are all men. Instead, a striking white dress, way too tiny for casual day-to-day use anywhere outside of Sin City. It’s made even more striking due to the bold waterfall of black hair, with fanned bangs framing her face. A deep red is painted on her lips, curling upwards and pulling my attention to devious, deep blue eyes. In turn, she’s also studying me.

Hands with fingernails long as they are sharp come up to rub my forearm. Every nerve demands I shove her away, but I know this woman. And it’s her surname protecting her from me injuring her pretty little face, and what the consequences would be if I did.

But that doesn’t stop the millions of other thoughts in my head. The realization that last name or not, she’s my enemy. An enemy onmyterritory demands action. But then she’ll throw one tantrum to her daddy and I’ll be dealing with the fallout, which is why, for now, I clench my fists, reining myself in until I know what the fuck a Russian is doing on my property.

Vanessa Volkov.

“Mr. Rossi.” A head tilt in greeting and the attempt at a soft tone, which doesn’t work. I shoulder her hand away, but when she glances at the space I’ve subtly created, she only smirks and says, “You’re even more handsome than the photos show.” A strong Russian accent makes her voice a purring rumble, throaty, and almost annoying.

What does Ariella’s voice sound like? Throaty, soft-spoken, cheery—so many options.

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