Page 147 of The Viper's Wife

He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “I am not your enemy,mio figlio.”

My son.

“I am not your son.”

I hang up the phone and meet Salvatore’s gaze—his expression is immensely, disgustingly satisfied. Nothing like seeing your half-brother scream at your hated father while his life goes up in flames.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to bash his face in.

“You knew this would happen,” I snarl. He knows everything—he watches everyone. He let this happen.

My body compresses under an enormous pressure, like a giant is grinding me underfoot.

I knew this would happen.

Salvatore frowns lightly. “You did this to yourself. The one bargaining chip you had to keep Valeria—a woman with no power or reputation except that of a traitor—was compliance. And how did you prove to Father that you would obey?”

I grit my teeth.

I shot his right-hand man.

And even though Father knew—he had to have known—that pitting Giovanni against me for years, decades, has stoked a hatred so powerful and enduring that I would’ve snuffed out his life given the smallest opportunity, Father has always expected that my hatred would give way to a reluctant obedience. He’s always seen Giovanni as an extension of himself.

So when I made that shot, he realized nothing was holding me back—not fear, love, respect, or obedience—from shooting my own father if he stood between me and the woman I love.

“You scared him,” Salvatore says quietly. “How does Ottavio Matassa respond to fear?”

He removes it at the source. He culls it from his life like rot.

My hands are clenched into tight fists on my knees. By shooting Giovanni for daring to threaten Valeria, I pointed Father to the source of his family’s rot.

“I thought I’d have more time,” I say, more to myself than to Salvatore. I was building our defenses. Given a couple more years, I would’ve had an empire to protect us.

“You still might. He needs someone else to direct your fury, does he not?” Salvatore glances at his phone. “We are tracking the license plate now—ah.”

He holds the phone out to me.

For a moment, I don’t know what I’m looking at. Then I realize—the photo is of a car in front of the Golden Apple Hotel.

Someone took her to the Russians.

A car next to us bleats as Dom hooks a sharp right turn.

Salvatore’s phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. He presses the phone to his ear and answers in a clipped tone.

The person on the other side doesn’t take long.

He hangs up and announces to Dom and me, “Stefano’s been caught at the airport. He was trying to buy a plane ticket out of the States.”

That fucking bastard. He sold out his sister to save his own hide.

Salvatore texts nonchalantly on his phone as Dom weaves us in and out of traffic.

“I’m having men meet us now,” Salvatore says. “We will arrive in ten minutes.”

I clutch my knees and stare out the front windshield like I can force the car to go faster through sheer force of will.

A stream of angry honks follows us as Dom races through every red light and cuts off every jackass driving slower than us, but it’s still not fast enough.