Page 1 of Vicious Secrets
Chapter 1
Siro
Myfingersdrumonthe arm of the chair. I’ve sat in this monstrosity across from my father’s oversized, ornate desk a million times. It’s surprising there aren’t paths worn into the wooden arm or a permanent dent in the red leather from my ass.
When I take over the Fedeltà, I will donate the hunk of wood he’s hiding behind to a family whose personality better matches it. Like the fucking Kennedys.
“We need Oscar,” my father says while stroking his chin. “And you need a wife.”
As logic pushes through the frustration clouding my judgment, I shift in my seat. What he’s asking of me isn’t unexpected.
Getting married is a requirement for all made men. My bachelor status allegedly keeps my succession in limbo. From Father’s behavior these past few years, I’m not convinced a marriage is what’s stopping him from handing over the crown.
My singleness isn’t entirely intentional. I maintain the type of rigorous work schedule Silicon Valley bros pretend to have. When you’re good at what you do, you’re kept busy.
But the Boss’s logic is insulting at best. Oscar Cesaro is a man who’s turned fucking up into a career. He’s offering his stepdaughter on a platter to me, and my father is suspiciously interested.
“Explain the deal to me again,” I say through tight lips.
Father’s dyed eyebrows raise. “Seriously, kid?”
My head cocks to one side, but I maintain a facade of neutrality. I’m no kid. At thirty-two, and a made man for seventeen years, my childhood died long before I got my first kill. A shrink might argue that my childhood never existed, and I wouldn’t disagree. I was born to take over, not to live.
“Seriously.”
Father’s eyes narrow for a blink. “Oscar’s important to our drug supply. Marry his stepdaughter, Robyn, show the families you’re ready to take over, and put this nonsense behind us.”
Oscar is a weak link in our drug supply chain and nothing more. His instantaneously rolling over to offer up Robyn after I threatened him further proves his weakness.
“Nonsense?” I snort. “He was cutting deals with the Bratva.”
“Only because our payment was late and missing a few stacks.”
“He met with them on our territory.”
“On a corner, technically.”
I slide to the edge of the seat, resting my elbows on my thighs and ruffling my hair with my fingers. Sometime around Father’s fiftieth birthday, his view of our territory started shrinking by a state each year. Ten western states sit under his command, and now I don’t think he even cares about the Las Vegas Strip.
Father brushing off the Bratva’s encroachment feels like treason. Because it fucking is.
“The message this truce sends to the Capos and other dealers—”
“Knock it off, Siro,” he barks. “Don’t try and manipulate me. You don’t give a shit about appearances, only messages.”
A cringe rolls up my back. He couldn’t be more wrong. Appearances are everything in this world. I put my all into ensuring my reputation overshadows mine.
“Drop the threats against Cesaro and marry his daughter.”
What mother would allow her daughter to be married off to a man who’s threatening her family? I take back my previous thoughts—Father’s rationale isn’t insulting; it’s batshit.
“She’s an outsider,” I grumble before recomposing myself and sitting up.
“What better way to become an insider?” Father chuckles and grins. “She’s not ideal for most, but she’s ideal for you.”
I’m an Underboss. A title usually reserved for leaders living in other cities in our territory. Father bestowed it upon me seven years ago to offload work.
“What does that mean?”
