Page 8 of Ruthless Vow
A pause. He studies me like a lock he doesn’t have the key for.
“Wait here.”
He walks back to the booth. Picks up a phone. His eyes stay on me the whole time.
I sit in my paid-off Honda in my sister’s bridesmaid dress, waiting for permission to enter a world I’ve watched from the outside since I was twenty-one.
My pulse kicks against my throat.
Papa doesn’t know I’m gone. Mama is still behind her bedroom door. Elena is wherever people go when they choose themselves over everyone who needed them.
And I’m here. Sitting at the gates. About to offer myself to a man who has never once looked at me.
2
DANTE
Three hours of vultures.
The phone hasn’t stopped. Benedetti’s underboss first, voice like oil, asking if there’s anything the family can do during this difficult transition. Then the Calabrese capo, probing about our shipping routes. Then two of our own captains, testing to see if the new Don answers his own calls.
I answer every one. And I remember every word. These men think grief makes you deaf. It doesn’t. It makes you sharp enough to cut.
The study smells like cold coffee and old leather. I haven’t left this room since dawn. Haven’t eaten. The hunger gnaws somewhere distant, easy to ignore. My father taught me that, at least. How to starve while the world watches.
Romano works the window, phone pressed to his ear, handling the captains. His ring catches the light as he turns it on his finger. Low voice. Steady hands. Thirty-two years of service in every measured word.
“Otello and Sal are handled.” He covers the mouthpiece. “Focus on the external calls, Don. I’ll manage the internal.”
I nod and turn to the papers on my desk. The Marchetti shipment that crossed into our territory last week. The warehouse lease in the Ninth Ward that expires next month. The three soldiers who failed to report yesterday and need to be found before someone else finds them first.
The empire doesn’t care that its Don buried his father four days ago. The empire keeps grinding.
I sign the authorization for the warehouse renewal. Circle the names of the missing soldiers for Renzo to track. Initial the payment to the dock supervisor who keeps our containers off the manifest.
Decisions. Signatures. Lives.
Renzo stands against the far wall like he’s holding it up. Silent. Coiled. My brother became a weapon years ago, and I’m the one who forged him. Some days I wonder if he resents me for it. Most days I know he doesn’t have enough left inside to resent anyone.
“The Marquez situation,” I say without looking up. “Handled?”
“Handled.” One word. All I need.
The phone lights up. I check the number.
Russo. Who took over after his dad died a few years ago. A man who inherited power the way some men inherit furniture. He’s been sitting in his father’s chair for three years and still hasn’t earned the right to it.
I let it ring twice. Three times. Make him wait.
“Santoro.” Smooth. Sympathetic. The hunger underneath thin as tissue paper. “We heard about the unfortunate situation with your bride.”
“News travels.”
“We’re a close-knit community.” A pause, calculated. “Concerns were raised at the council about the stability of your leadership during this turbulent time.”
The council. Already circling. Fucking vultures.
“My leadership is stable.”
