Page 26 of The Viper's Wife

My stomach lurches, but I shove down my nerves and leave the elevator with my head held high.

I’m going to make my fiancé reconsider his decision.

6

NICO

The bastard threwhis wine on me.

A car honks as I blast through the four-way intersection. I flip them the bird through the open window, the wind whipping across my split lip, and the engine roaring through my bones.

Tonight, my dear,sweet brother sent me to go have dinner with Gavin Boughan, leader of the Irish mob. I didn’t make much progress in Italian-Irish relations, but I did pick up a few new Irish curses and discovered Gavin throws a mean right hook.

I clench and release my jaw in a steady rhythm—a little trick I’ve learned that’ll make it easier to eat later. I’m lucky he didn’t land a solid hit, because otherwise, I would’ve been eating through a straw. I was so distracted after his associate threw a cup ofwineon me like he was my jilted fucking lover, that I barely managed to tuck my chin in time for Gavin’s fist.

Giovanni threw himself into the fray next, knocking men over like bowling pins, while I gave everyone the slip through the restaurant’s backdoor. I’m not worried aboutGiovanni—he’s a natural diplomat and a damn good fighter—but if the Irish do tear him apart, then that would be karma for all the times Giovanni beat the shit out of me on Father’s orders.

Part of me still hisses to go back. Finish the fight. Satisfy the itch in my veins for the rush of adrenaline and testosterone, a moment’s relief from the more evolved emotions swirling through me—doubt, shame, and an overwhelming sense of self-disgust.

But if I go back, I’ll end up killing someone, and I’m not a killer.

I laugh, the sound whipping from my mouth into the highway.

I’m not a thief, says the thief. I’m not a killer, says the killer.

It’s funny, because it’s a joke.

I scrub my fingers through my hair, already getting too long for my liking. I need a haircut. Maybe a new tattoo or a piercing.

My phone buzzes. I glance at it—brother dearest, likely calling to chastise me about getting into a fight with his leprechaun. I chuck my phone out the window. Salvatore can make a visit to my place if he wants to chat. My door is always open for family.

I nearly miss my exit and flick the steering wheel to the right. The Ferrari leaps to my bidding.

It’s been a few days now, and I’ve fully expected Yevgeniy to send his goons to shoot out my windows, or at least throw spikes into the road and stop me. I lick my split lip, tasting blood. Maybe one of his men will try to catch me. Alessia and I have been racing supercars since we were old enough to see over the steering wheel, but I’m rusty enough that it might even the playing field.

Once I spot Zephyr’s twinkling display windows, I brake to a creeping stop, the kind that would keep a full cup of coffee from spilling. Stealing the pakhan’s car was an F you for making me kill that guy, but the Ferrari has done nothing wrong, and I’m not in the habit of hurting innocents.

I clamber out of the car—long legs don’t mix well with a seat so low that my ass is scraping the road—and walk to the store.

I came tonight for two reasons.

One, Father has let my engagement go much further than I expected. Instead of an icily furious phone call or Valeria’s dad quietly suffering an “accident”, I’d found a personalized whiskey decanter outside my front door with a note that addedcongratulationsin Father’s cramped handwriting. Something’s up, and the game is if I can figure it out before Father shows his hand.

Maybe he’s hoping I’ll get bored of my fiancée if he isn’t actively opposing us—though he’s too much of a control freak not to crack first.

Maybe he thinks he can raise Valeria’s family name out of the mud and spin this whole situation to his advantage. Giovanni’s been giving Valeria’s brother shit jobs here and there—deliveries, shopping, picking up Giovanni’s dry cleaning—but no amount of hard work or clean-pressed suits is going to make Salvatore forget the attempt on his life by the Aceto family, which Father knows.

The mystery lingers at the back of my mind like an especially heinous cold case file, but even Father and his schemes aren’t the most compelling reason I came.

Because if I’m being honest with myself, I’m really here for the second reason.

I wanted to see Valeria’s reaction to my arrival.

The front door bell chimes, and my dirty black boot steps onto silver-veined marble.

The interior of the jewelry store is as aggressively white and sterile as a hospital room. Glittering necklaces, bracelets, and rings fill rows of spotless display cases, chandelier lights and mirrors strategically placed to exaggerate the diamonds’ brilliance. A middle-aged woman with waves of blonde hair and glasses hanging from a turquoise chain around her neck leers at me from a velvet tray she’s filling with top-heavy engagement rings.

Stefano stands at attention, nodding to me with respect. Annoyance flashes through me at the reminder that I have to tolerate his presence tonight. He’s a born and bred ass-kisser without the competence to do it subtly. I’ve met a thousand men like him before, and not a single one was worth a second thought.