Page 77 of The Viper's Wife

To let me pick a wife and then back me into a corner until I became so desperate that I’d be forced to ask for help from his carbon copy son?

I swallow battery acid. The sun peeks through the clouds, warming my face. A couple passes me on the sidewalk. Cars honk as they drive past.

Valeria’s in my apartment, drinking my coffee and eating my food.

Something has to give, and I need resources.

“Fine.”

“You’ll need to be made.”

Shackles around my wrists. My neck. A lifetime of sworn service to the Family.

I fight the pressure against my throat. “I understand.” Father would be proud.

Salvatore pauses on the other end, his silence as comprehensible as a locked door. “Giovanni is testing the Russians. From a mic in Valeria’s house, we heard Giovanni tell her dad that the Russians wanted him dead. While he ran, Giovanni trashed the place. And he’s been sending Stefano out to do jobs in Russian territory.”

“What do the Russians think?”

“As far as we can tell, the pakhan has no idea any of thisis going on. Only that he considers you a nuisance for destroying his cocaine shipment and stealing his Ferrari.”

Even the gratification of knowing I got under the pakhan’s skin doesn’t dull the edge of dread carving into my stomach.

Giovanni wants Valeria and her family to consider the Russians as their enemies. It’s simple—if his only goal is to ensure she comes running into my arms for protection.

But I’m uneasy with the foreboding that there’s more at play here.

“Can I get a tracker on Valeria’s phone? And Giovanni’s?”

“I will have an encrypted phone sent to your apartment tonight,” Salvatore says easily, with all the satisfaction of one man who has another under his thumb. “And, Nico, next time I ask you to do a job…?”

I grit my teeth. “Consider it done.”

“Good to hear.”

I hang up and stand outside in the cold for a long time, wanting to go back to the apartment but not ready to see Valeria’s face yet. I should call Giovanni—to force him to admit to the things he did and said.

How simple could it be for me to call my father and demand the truth? If lying and scheming weren’t inherent components of his rotted soul?

I don’t need to hear him tell me what I know.

When I chose my bride, I carved a weakness into myself, a vulnerability for Father to exploit. Her family’s sins became my burdens. Her enemies, my enemies.

The puzzle pieces fit perfectly together.

A wife and an enemy.

Love and hate.

What stronger forces could Father use to ensure I’d fallinto step? He’s done this often enough. Pit one unsuspecting adversary against another so that he comes out on top.

Valeria, stripped of all defenses, now rests in my apartment. My word given to Don Salvatore that I would allow myself to be sworn into the mob.

Giovanni, out somewhere, stoking discontent among the Russians.

All roads closed off but the gradual, soft slope to hell.

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