Page 15 of The Viper's Wife

Valeria Aceto is perfect.

I thought Father would take one look at the sneering ice queen with a sullied family name and lose his fucking mind. So I went all in, spewing a bunch of shit about it being love at first sight—like seeing Valeria in her black bob and sour expression for the first time would endear her to me—and Father gave up without much of a fight. If she gives you boys, he said, you could keep her.

It was agreeable and fair. Maybe even a little bit romantic.

But coming from Father, it didn’t add up.

This is the man who deemed Alessia’s best friend in middle school a “bad influence” and arranged for the girl’s family to be shipped out of New York by the following day. And when Alessia complained, he had her kneel on rice until she stopped.

Maybe Father thinks Valeria is so up against it that she’ll make for an obedient and eager-to-please wife. Maybe he likes that her dad owes me his life and was so willing to overthrow Salvatore—a little extra insurance in case Salvatore ever turns on us.

But with Father, I’ve learned to dig a little deeper into the shit. There’s always something worse underneath.

For now, at least I got a pretty new toy out of this.

Valeria refused to acknowledge she had any recollection of our passionate night of lovemaking when I came to inspect her in front of her dad and brother. She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that much.

I can’t wait to see her try to smother her reaction when I tell her about our expectations to breed an entire generation of Matassa boys.

I smile. That’ll get under her skin.

“I’m glad this is so amusing to you,” Salvatore says in a dry tone. My dear half-brother watches me from across his dining room table while his wife Marisol smirks from his side.

Marisol Luporini is everything Valeria is not—short, round, and constantly wearing a sliding scale of expressions which suggest she’s secretly plotting my demise in some way. And considering her black-hat hacker background, she might be. Nice tits though.

Before I left New York, Alessia caught me up over brunch.

Our half-brother had defied and murdered his former don to marry the woman at his side. Father pretended to be outraged, but Alessia said he drank to the former don’s death in private. Now, I’m here in Chicago to “learn at my brother’s feet”, like I need any more education on being a selfish, bloodthirsty bastard.

Alessia and I were raised to hate Salvatore. He was the defective, traitorous brother who’d escaped our father’s sphere of influence.

As I’d grown to understand what that influence meant, I’d hoped that Salvatore and I might have more in common, but he’s just as cold, power hungry, and banal as Father.

“It’s hilarious,” I say, “that you don’t think the Russians won’t shoot me on sight.”

Everyone wants to meet with the famed Matassa heir. I can barely go a day without meeting with Zia so-and-so, Cousin Zippy, or some fat-cat business associate. They all leave disappointed, and the Russians will be the same. The only real difference is that Salvatore’s capos would love the chance to lick a Matassa’s balls, while the Russians are much more inclined to aim a gun in that direction instead.

“They probably won’t shoot you,” Salvatore says without conviction. “Anyway, theVipershould be able to get himself out of any situation, shouldn’t he?”

The old nickname from my many, many fights in underground fighting rings back in the day. One of my few hobbies that Father approved of.

I roll my eyes. “Just know that I want an open casket funeral, for my mamma.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Giovanni says as he strides into the dining room. “The Russians have given their word for tonight.”

My good humor crashes and burns. I turn toward Salvatore. “You’re sending me with a babysitter?”

“He’s more of a chaperone.”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my stick-up-the-ass brother wasamused.

Giovanni always drivesin complete silence. Used to drive my sister up the wall when he’d ferry us around New York.

But it doesn’t bother me.

After a few minutes of scraping my short fingernails along the arm rest in the most annoying cadence possible, Giovanni breaks first.

“Do you understand why we’re meeting with the Russians tonight?” he asks, indulging in his love of Socratic questioning.