Page 7 of Ruthless

The powerful crime families under the Council’s thumb may be forced to live and die by the Code, but they won’t lure me into one of their stupid power plays.

They dictate our alliances and protects us from threats. Betraying them invites a death sentence, as does breaking the Code. So, like everyone else, I fall in line. Though I do try not to provide them with any additional fodder.

My father trained me to abide by the Code, just as his father did before him. Days after my eighteenth birthday, he tasked me with tracking a delivery boy who was leaking information to the NYPD about our shipments out of Port Ivory on Staten Island. I’ll never forget the kid’s startled expression when I slid my knife into his guts and the life drained from his eyes.

My father rewarded me with a proud slap on the back, and then the Council issued me a blank mask that identifies anyone their protection.

Of course, that protection came with a steep price. They require insurance to ensure our continued cooperation.

The boy I murdered served as my first payment. A grotesque guarantee of my obedience and loyalty.

In addition to the other benefits, crime families under the Council’s wing gain enough power to join the world’s elite. That’s how the Argentos rank as one of the oldest syndicates in New York.

The Code demands secrecy. No unauthorized relationships is another brutally enforced rule. It’s also the reason I hid my affair five years ago.

“My brother won’t be a problem.”

Zanni’s brief silence weighs heavily on my shoulders. “Will you be a problem, Argento?”

Upon reflection, I can’t believe I had once planned to reveal my true identity to Sara and ask her to marry me. They don’t know how close I came to proposing and attempting to leave this life behind, which is likely the only reason Sara and I are both still alive.

I incline my head and keep my expression impassive. “Of course not.” The Council doesn’t have to worry about my loyalty ever again, which means this next part doesn’t happen without their go-ahead. “That’s why I requested this meeting in the first place.”

They all exchange several glances before Pantalone steeples his fingers. “Go on, then. Tell us what you have in mind.”

Vicious satisfaction floods my chest as I open my mouth and begin talking.

Chapter 3

Sara

Thumping bass quakes my legs as dancers press in on all sides. As soon as the bartender handed us our drinks, Angela hauled me out to the middle of the crowd and began rocking her hips. Five songs later, sweat dampens my entire hairline, and my feet ache for a break. Not surprising, since I can’t recall the last time I subjected them to the indignity of heels.

Despite all that, I’m having fun. I forgot how much I used to enjoy dancing. The club is different than I pictured too. More luxurious and less cheesy. Elegant crimson chaise lounges edge the perimeter of the dance floor, and the pulsing lights that illuminate the otherwise dim interior reflect off gorgeous crystal chandeliers.

Although to be fair, cheesy men seem to be in good supply here.

After batting yet another unwanted pair of hands from my hips, I drift closer to Angela so she can shout in my ear. “Bar. I need another drink.”

Oh, thank goodness. Another few minutes, and my toes might have gone on strike.

I follow as she weaves through the mass of gyrating bodies, bypassing the closest bar to approach the one near the backwall. Plopping onto one of the two free stools, she flags down a bartender in a black button-down with a name tag that reads, “Caden.” She orders another Jack and Coke for herself and a vodka cranberry for me.

I wrinkle my nose. “I was going to get a water.”

Angela waves me off. “You got the first round, so now we’re even. You can stop after this one and still be fine.”

I suppose. I’m just not usually much of a drinker. I don’t care for that out-of-control sensation.

Understandable, given my past.

I shake that thought off with a grimace. Nope, nuh-uh, not going there. I refuse to let memories of Dante ruin my first night out in I don’t know when. Five years have passed since I last saw him. Since the chain of terrible events that prompted the move to Toledo.

Long enough to have gotten over him.

Determined to banish this frustrating train of thought, I down half the glass. Today’s the five-year-anniversary of our breakup, otherwise known as, the day a man yanked my heart from my chest, stomped it into mush, and then tossed the mangled remains down the garbage disposal for good measure. Not the cheeriest of anniversaries, but the date seems permanently stamped into my psyche.

I make a promise to myself, right here and now. This will be the last time I mope over this date or give that man and our history even the smallest fraction of my attention.