Page 1 of Vicious Intentions
Prologue
Annamaria
Thirteen years old.
Today is Marcello’s induction day, and because of it, my entire family has gathered at the old Salvatore mansion to welcome the full weight of the Outfit into our home, along with other prestigiousfamigliassuch as the Firm and the Cosa Nostra. In other words, we’re playing hosts to moremade menthan I’ve met in my entire life.
My stomach churns as I watch my parents and siblings move through the large living room with practiced ease, as though being surrounded by such terrifying company comes as second nature to them.
My big sister, Stella, especially, is practically glowing today. Though I suspect that has more to do with Marcello convincing our father to name her as his witness when he takes the omertà than with the droves of guests still arriving through the front door. However, until the ceremony begins, my beloved sisterseems more than happy to soak up every conversation she can eavesdrop on, savoring each morsel of intel she can gather.
Me? I’m far less eager to hear about what thesecaposget up to when no one’s watching.
I abhor violence and cruelty of any kind, and it’s been my experience that when evil men get together, they love nothing more than to spend their time boasting about how ruthless they are with their enemies.
My repulsion would be funny if it weren’t so painfully sad, considering I’m acutely aware that causing fear and threatening violence is how my family makes its living.
Unlike my siblings, I’ve never been truly comfortable in this world. Though I probably should be. I’m a Romano, after all, and with that last name comes bloodshed. Yes, power and affluence are also attached to such a formidable surname. Still, there are far too many bloody variables for me to feel proud of it.
To the rest of the world, my family is known for its esteemed privilege, successful entrepreneurship, and vast philanthropy. What they don’t see is the underground empire we actually rule. And even though my family has done everything they can to shield me from the pain of that truth, there’s only so much you can hide when violence is woven into your bloodline.
For me, the truth of what we were announced itself early.
The first dead body I saw was that of my nanny. I was just five years old. To be fair, I didn’t mourn her much. She had always been a cruel woman, determined to bully and torment Stella whenever she got the chance. Still, the memory of her death has always haunted me.
I can still remember the foul stench of copper suffocating the air in my bedroom as Marcello sliced her open. I pretended to be asleep as I heard the despicable woman gurgle her last breath.
I didn’t tell him to stop. I didn’t scream as the nightmare unfolded just inches away from me. No. I remained painfullystill—too young, too petrified to fully understand what I was witnessing.
It was when my father walked into the room that a certainty I had never known before washed over me. He didn’t seem disturbed by the blood. He didn’t seem worried that a dead body now stained our rug. His only concern was that Stella and I were safe, quickly followed by Marcello’s physical and mental well-being.
My eyes remained shut as he lifted Stella and me from our beds and took us to sleep in another room. I don’t know what happened to the body, or what transpired between my father and Marcello after that. All I know is that my sweet, sensitive brother was never the same after that night. And if I’m completely honest, neither was I.
Witnessing something so horrific at such a young age left its mark. It didn’t just shatter the illusion that my family was on the side of good—it exposed the darkness that lived inside us. Inside all of us.
I wish I could say I was immune to its pull, but that would be a lie. If I were, I would have screamed for help. I would have saved her. But I didn’t. I just lay there in silence and let Marcello remove the source of my sister’s pain for good. And I’ve been paying penance for that death ever since.
Those somber thoughts slip away when Stella grabs my elbow, grounding me in the present.
“Shit,” she curses under her breath. “They’re here.”
“Who?” I ask, unsure who she’s referring to.
“The Donatos,” she explains, as if that name alone should mean something to me, which it doesn’t.
Unlike Stella, I don’t make it my business to know the ins and outs of the Outfit’s affairs. The less I know, the better. Ignorance is bliss for a reason. If you don’t know what your loved ones are capable of, it’s easier to pretend you’re just a run-of-the-mill family and not the plague that torments Chicago’s streets.
“Come on.” Before I can react, Stella is practically dragging me across the room toward our mother and Mina Crane, who appear to be deep in conversation.
I don’t know much about the London Firm’s successor, only that I’ve caught my brother Jude throwing her longing stares ever since she arrived in the States.
Maybe my mother picked up on that, too, and said as much to Mina. It would explain why her cheeks are so flushed when we reach them.
“They’re here,Mammà. What do we do?” Stella asks hurriedly, her gaze flicking to a group of men walking further into the room.
“Get yourfathers, Stella,” my mother orders, and I note how naturally she chooses to use the plural form of the word in front of Mina. I can’t tell whether it’s intentional or merely a slip of the tongue. Either way, it’s peculiar, given how careful we all are when it comes to discussing our unconventional family’s dynamics in front of others. I don’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because my mother turns her attention from Stella to me next. “Annamaria, come with me to greet our guests.”
As ordered, Stella flees in search of our dads, while our mother, Mina, and I move toward what I can only assume are hostile guests.
