Page 38 of The Viper's Wife

The worst part is that I understand.

If I were her, I wouldn’t marry me either.

“The Russians are unhappy with you,” Giovanni says, interrupting my train of thought.

The Russians, the Irish, the Chinese, the Greeks—somebody is always unhappy, and I have that special sort of charm that usually lands me as the target of their irritation.

The solution—always—is money, power, or reputation.

“I let Yevgeniy know you were taking his car out for a test drive. And as a thank you for such a show of friendship, you will be happy to ship him the contents of one of your warehouses.”

“I don’t own any warehouses.”

“You do now. The Acetos owned them, so now you own them. They come with men. Stefano will fill you in.”

“I’m not a capo.”

Years ago, I used to beg my father to make me, to let me prick my trigger finger and say the oath never to betray my Family. To make me a real button man so I could make him proud.

Now, he’d have to break every bone in my body before he could force me to induct myself into the Cosa Nostra.

“Your father wants you to take over the business. This is how you learn.”

I clench the steering wheel. “He knows I don’t give a shit about the business. Let Alessia do it.”

Giovanni exhales. “Alessia is a woman?—”

“Then he better get real progressive, real fast, because I’m not doing jack shit for him.” I cast a sidelong glance at him. “And if you were smart, neither would you. Father respects power. If you want his respect, you can’t spend your days licking his boots and asking for seconds.”

“He respects loyalty. And if he does not have it, he will find a way to take it. In the years that come, when you raise your own family, you will better understand your father’s decisions. He has always been loyal to you. The decisions he makes for you come from love.”

I make a jerk-off motion with my hand, and Giovanni settles back into his seat, composed as ever.

Salvatore’ssleepy old consigliere lives in a quiet neighborhood, with a big two-story house and a perfectly manicured lawn, even in the dead of winter. As we park, two men follow the path of greenery to the front door before they’re swallowed inside.

“Try to be on good behavior,” Giovanni says. ”Yourreputation is no longer only your own, and your wife’s family is already on the edge.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It is an observation.”

A drone of polite conversation and jazz music surrounds me as we enter the house. Men and women dressed in their Sunday finest, standing in tight circles with mimosas in hand. A baby cries in another room, followed by a burst of laughter.

A tastefully decorated sign on a painter’s easel saysWelcome to Valeria & Nicolo’s Engagement Partynext to an arch of pink and white roses.

All of this for a man none of them like and a woman no one cares about.

Giovanni leaves me to greet some other capos who I vaguely recognize, but haven’t bothered to learn the names of.

I make my way to the kitchen to find one of those mimosas everyone’s holding. I don’t want to see Valeria until I’m halfway drunk—might as well give her another reason to fight this marriage.

Right on cue, her scumbag brother Stefano walks up to me with a glass flute in hand.

“Hey, good to see you, Nico?—”

“Eat shit, Stefano.”

I take the glass, drain it, and toss it back to him as I walk past. He should’ve been less of a fucking dick to his sister. If I think too long about her sweltering in that jacket to protect him, it makes me want to pull out Stefano’s teeth one by one.