Page 1 of The Viper's Wife

PROLOGUE

NICO

The waiters are hereto kill my brother.

Or, they were supposed to be.

Now, five Russian mercenaries barely disguised as waiters slink through the crowd of black-tie mobsters, holding serving trays of artlessly arranged drinks while they wait for the cue to kill their old employer.

Swaying from the gentle rocking of the yacht, I sip from a flute of champagne that tastes like wet cardboard—some idiot must’ve let the bottle store under harsh light for too long—and sigh.

Coups d’état are entirely pedestrian affairs.

Monkey has banana. He sees other monkey withbiggerbanana. Monkey kills other monkey, seizes key territory, neutralizes bad actors, and liquidates their unprofitable assets. Monkey develops a deep paranoia streak and obsession with power until another monkey with banana envy swings by, and the cycle continues.

Myhalfbrother—as he’s so quick to remind everyone—Salvatore “il Diavolo” Luporini, don of the Chicago Outfit, and King Monkey, sniffed out this particular takeoverattempt almost at the moment it took seed in Aceto’s empty mind, thanks to Salvatore’s frankly excessive network of surveillance instruments planted in prime locations all over Chicago.

Including one microphone hidden in Aceto’s home office.

And through that microphone poured out secrets.

Being capo for the Outfit wasn’t enough. Aceto wanted to be top banana. And with the pride and shortsightedness of a man who thought he could manifest victory through sheer force of will, he low-balled half a dozen Russian mercenaries into assassinating his don.

Those mercenaries with shady personal histories and dubious professional loyalties were overjoyed to receive a better offer from Don Salvatore. Less risk, more reward. Simple.

Tonight, I’m here to observe. Obey my father’s demand that I learn what I can from my older half-brother.

So far I’m learning that Salvatore has the same flair for the dramatic as our father.

I sip from my champagne and smile. Maybe I’ll mention that to Salvatore after he has the Russians turn on Aceto later tonight, just to sprinkle a little salt onto his satisfaction.

If the Russians manage to last that long. The nearest one with the thinning, shoe-polish black hair scowls as a shrill woman berates him over the cold hors d’oeuvres. A vein pops out on his forehead. His fingers curl over the serving platter like a knife handle.

I smile. It wouldn’t take much to stir up a little trouble tonight. He’s very close to the edge.

“I heard Olivia did not fall for your charms.”

My smile falls, and I suck down the rest of the champagne before turning to my father’s favorite henchman.

Giovanni wears his signature withering look, brows furrowed over dark unyielding eyes, and meat hook hands packed into his grey three-piece-suit.

I admire the subtle puckering of skin, almost completely hidden by his stubble—a little gift from my eighteen-year-old self. Most of the acid spray missed his face, and he beat the shit out of me for it, but while I’ve healed, his scars remain.

I set my flute on the platter of a passing waiter, nearly unbalancing his load. He shoots me a stink eye, but continues on.

“Shocking, considering I won the fight. I thought women liked that sort of thing.”

Giovanni sighs. He’s good at sighing—not overly dramatic or windy, just the right length of time. He’s really perfected it over the years from constant exposure to my sister and me.

“I have sent flowers to the hospital where her cousin is staying,” Giovanni says in his thick Italian accent. He eyes a passing waiter with mild distaste. “Thankfully, he was not her favorite. She is willing to meet with you again.”

Herparentswere very willing, I’m sure. Her father saw a tidy little shortcut in his criminal career through a marriage between his daughter and someone of my pedigree—if only he could get me to peek down her plunging neckline. But I was more interested in her cousin, the stuck-up prick with the dyed-blond hair whose eye would twitch every time I insinuated Olivia was anything less than a perfect, Catholic virgin.

Predictably, he followed me outside to straighten out my behavior. I threw grey snow in his face and stabbed him six times in the gut with a fork I pinched from the dinner table.

“Whatever you think is best.” I wonder if the cousin would ever join us again. That could be fun.

Giovanni sighs again. It’s a category three. I can tell his heart isn’t really in this lecture—he’s probably only talking to me to distract me from doing something stupid tonight. “You have one job, Nico. Find a wife. Someone with a good family and a little ambition.”