Page 41 of Vicious Secrets
The oath flows from my mouth; the words don’t pass through my brain as much as they come from thin air. I’ve spoken the oath so many times in my life, it’s become more than memorization. It’s second nature. I’m thankful when Robyn returns to her place behind me so I don’t have to fight my gaze from wandering.
In unison, the men repeat the lines of the oath back. Turning to their wives who hold out a card, each Underboss pricks his finger with a knife and signs his name in blood. Pulling out my own knife, I prick my ring finger.
One at a time, the women bring the cards to me. I drip my blood over the signatures, welcome their husbands to the Fedeltà, and excuse the wife for the night. They exit the room in silence with the cards in hand. When the men have returned to their seats, only Robyn and my mother remain.
I nod at Mother to excuse her, and despite our eye contact, she doesn’t budge.
A twitchy feeling takes over my limbs as my jaw tightens to the point of discomfort. I force my lips to part. “The Boss leaves last.”
My father’s eyes narrow at her as he cocks an eyebrow. Mother’s nostrils flare. Her pleated skirt rustles around her ankles as she stalks from the room. Her eyes only leave mine when she’s out the door.
Without my signal, Robyn follows in my mother’s wake. I sneak a glance at her as she closes the dining room doors. Our eyes meet, and her shoulders rise in excitement. A knowing grin crinkles her face. She’s aware no one but me can see her in this moment. So she’s dropping the mask for me.
Despite the upheaval, the lies, and the chaos, Robyn is proud of me. And thanks to the irritation flowing freely through my veins, I’m fucking pissed. Out of all the things she can give me, why this? How can she justify feeling pride for her captor?
I retake my seat and slide my gaze down the rows of made men. All seventeen heads are facing in my direction.
“The table is open, gentlemen.” I make a sweeping gesture.
“I have a feeling any day now, one of our friends to the east will come crying for help,” Quin, the Underboss of Sacramento, says. “The Bratva’s warehouses are barely moving product, their mansions are guarded, but the lights aren’t on, and the fronts are suffering from a lack of customers. They’re aligning warm bodies somewhere outside of our territory. Or we’d have seen an increase in meaningful attacks. Not the petty bullshit we’ve put up with for months.”
I rub my jaw and wrack my brain for recent sightings. “You think they’re going to ambush the Padri or the Partnership?”
Quin nods. “If they’re playing smart, they’re going all the way east. The Padri doesn’t hold the power they used to. The Midwest Partnership is too fractured to be worth a fight.”
“We can always use more men. If any Padri Fondatori men want to swear to us and find places as soldiers, fine,” I huff. “They couldn’t be bothered to help us stabilize the Midwest Partnership before it exploded in everyone’s faces. I won’t allow those fuckers to drag us into their last-ditch war.”
Hums in the affirmative and nods move around the table in a wave.
I sink back in my chair. “Yes, the east coast becoming Bratva is concerning. But it won’t create a supply issue. We have more ports and miles of land borders than anyone else. Is the Bratva taking over the east a bad outcome if it keeps them permanently out of our territory?”
“You’re not suggesting we help them, are you?” Milo, Portland’s Underboss’s jaw ticks as he speaks like he can’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth.
“No. I’m suggesting we don’t impede them. Maybe we take on temporary blindness. Or consider providing a safe corridor to encourage them to get their shit and get out.” I shrug, not a fan of my own idea. But I’m looking for any easy wins in a war that could rage on for years. One I don’t want to join. “Regardless of how fragile the Padri families are, the Bratva will be weakened by the fight. Picking off whoever remains in our cities will become easier by the week.”
There’s a chorus of mutters around the table, and more than a few men narrow their eyes. They’re skeptical, not angry. Except for the furious eyes belonging to Denver’s Underboss, Alic Masini.
“A corridor through whose territory?” Alic tilts his head to one slide, loosening a strand of salt and pepper hair from behind his ear.
We’ve not always seen eye to eye, but I trust Alic. I appreciate that he’s not a yes-man. However, he’s miserable to be around at times. I like information to be presented to me; he prefers to gather it himself. He has a breadth of experience, but his tendency to pile responsibilities on himself baffles me. It’s like he loses the ability to say “no” for extended periods of time.
One thing he and I once had in common was our bachelor years stretching into our thirties. If the rumors are to be believed, he’s rejected every proposal that’s come his way without explanation. I believe Alic has been taking care of his sister since she was born. To me, it’s obvious why he’s remained unmarried.
“If they’re going to New York, they’re already moving through Denver, Alic. I-70 is their safest route.”
His blue eyes narrow as he sits back in his seat and crosses his legs with an ankle on his knee. As I look away to give him some semblance of privacy so he can fume in silence, an idea floats through my head. Father once mentioned Alic’s successes against the Bratva. How would Alic fare as my Consigliere?
Chapter 13
Robyn
Uponjoiningthesittingroom where the wives congregate after the oath swearing, I notice two things right off the bat: the median age isn’t above thirty, and Siro’s mother is absent. Not that I blame her. This is her home, after all, and her son did chastise her in front of an audience.
The room isn’t what I expect, in either tone or appearance. There is a peaceful silence in the drab space full of uncomfortable furniture and an unlit fireplace despite the drafty windows. Every chair, couch, and chaise is made of hardwood with cushioned upholstery so thin it might be an illusion and not padded at all.
Sitting next to Cirilla, the twenty-something sister of Alic, on a couch that makes my butt feel boney, I pass the time making small talk with her. We discuss Vegas, Denver, and her expensive and tedious sounding hobbies. Which I suppose are ideal qualities in an activity for a woman who’s grown up in a gilded cage.
Many of the other women are content to sit in child-free silence, read on their phones, or talk amongst themselves.
