Page 12 of Vicious Intentions
Niccolò doesn’t smile, but at least he tries his hardest not to scowl either.
“I’m not sure how much longer I can stand it,” he mutters when another happy song starts, his jaw ticking like it might crack.
“As long as we have to,” I reply coldly. “Let them drink. Let them feast. Let them ridicule us. One day, Nico. One day our time will come.”
Niccolò lets out a pent-up breath. “Carlo thought so too, and look where that got him.”
I frown at the reminder.
It’s true. My older brother, who was more of a father figure to me than my own father ever could have been, believed he could change the tide for theCosa Nostra. But he fucked up by trusting the wrong people. He never should have gotten into bed with theBratva.
Mikhail Petrov acted like he had no idea what his underboss was doing, but what is his word worth, really? Oh, that’s right. Enough to sign my brother’s death sentence, apparently.
No. I won’t be as foolish. Where Carlo was reckless in his eagerness to get out from under the Outfit’s thumb, I have patience. So much patience. I’ll play the lapdog. I’ll endure the shame while secretly plotting their demise.
I just need a plan. One that will allow us to break free from the chains binding us to Chicago. And there are many chains. More so now because of Carlo’s betrayal.
Where before we only had to tolerate the Outfit’s superiority, now we have to bend the fucking knee. Report every detail of our business to them like an errant child reporting to a parent. Notonly that, but we have to accept the Irish mob in our territory as watchdogs, making sure we don’t step out of line.
In all the centuries of tradition and honor theCosa Nostraclaims to have, we’ve become nothing more than Chicago’s bitch in the last two decades.
That will not stand for long. I will make sure of it.
“Fuck. Here comes Mom,” Niccolò alerts, pulling my attention from the othermade menin the room to the woman who gave me life.
Once a whore in one of my father’s brothels, she now looks like a queen walking toward us in her white bridal dress. While the world will only ever see Paolina Ricci for her past, her sons only see her tender heart.
“My boys,” she says, eyeing us with so much love and affection it physically hurts to look at her.
Fuck. She’s having a lucid day. Out of all the days for her mind to be clear, why did it have to be this one?
Still, all my worries disappear the instant she places a gentle palm on my cheek, followed by another on Niccolò’s, studying us closely. “You both look so regal today. How lucky can one woman be to have such formidable sons?”
My heart breaks further at the sincerity in her voice.
I take her hand and press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “You look lovely, Mom.”
“Really?” she asks, insecurity beginning to creep into her voice. “I wasn’t sure if white would be appropriate, considering—”
“You look beautiful, Mom,” Niccolò cuts in quickly before she can finish.
She smiles at him lovingly, a faint blush warming her cheeks as she turns slightly away from the onlookers, as though embarrassed they might have overheard us giving her such a compliment.
Fuckers the lot of them. Half the men in this room don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her, let alone look down at my mother.
Still, it doesn’t matter what I think of them, or how hard Niccolò scowls across the room. Everyone here knows where she came from. Wherewecame from. We are nothing but byproducts of our father’s infidelity to his first wife. Bastards, all of us.
We were constantly reminded of our illegitimacy while growing up, like a scarlet letter stitched into our skin. But now that Carlo Jr. is dead, our origins no longer matter. Only that we are the ones who, by blood, can inherit what was once a grand dynasty.
Hence, this ridiculous wedding. A pathetic attempt by our father to legitimize us and protect his legacy from anyone who dares try to claim it for themselves.
That was always his plan after all. My father has no love for my mother. As far as he’s concerned, she was only a vessel to carry his seed, while we were nothing more than his insurance policy in case something ever happened to Carlo Jr.
When it became clear that his first wife, Ginevra, could no longer have children after Carlo’s birth, my father saw the writing on the wall and made other plans to secure his legacy. One heir wasn’t enough. In our world, death is a constant companion, and to have only one son felt like tempting fate. He couldn’t divorce Ginevra since theCosa Nostradoesn’t believe in such things, but he could find a woman strong enough to carry out his backup plan.
That’s all we ever were to him. And he never misses an opportunity to remind us.
Considering the circumstances, you would expect a father to show his sons some measure of human decency. But ours neverdid. He has always loathed our very existence, even though he is the one responsible for it.
