Vicious Intentions (The Next Vicious Generation #5)

Prologue

Annamaria

Thirteen years old.

Today is Marcello’s induction day, and because of it, my entire family has gathered at the old Salvatore mansion to welcome the full weight of the Outfit into our home, along with other prestigious famiglias such as the Firm and the Cosa Nostra.

In other words, we’re playing hosts to more made men than I’ve met in my entire life.

My stomach churns as I watch my parents and siblings move through the large living room with practiced ease, as though being surrounded by such terrifying company comes as second nature to them.

My big sister, Stella, especially, is practically glowing today.

Though I suspect that has more to do with Marcello convincing our father to name her as his witness when he takes the omertà than with the droves of guests still arriving through the front door.

However, until the ceremony begins, my beloved sister seems more than happy to soak up every conversation she can eavesdrop on, savoring each morsel of intel she can gather.

Me? I’m far less eager to hear about what these capos get up to when no one’s watching.

I abhor violence and cruelty of any kind, and it’s been my experience that when evil men get together, they love nothing more than to spend their time boasting about how ruthless they are with their enemies.

My repulsion would be funny if it weren’t so painfully sad, considering I’m acutely aware that causing fear and threatening violence is how my family makes its living.

Unlike my siblings, I’ve never been truly comfortable in this world.

Though I probably should be. I’m a Romano, after all, and with that last name comes bloodshed.

Yes, power and affluence are also attached to such a formidable surname.

Still, there are far too many bloody variables for me to feel proud of it.

To the rest of the world, my family is known for its esteemed privilege, successful entrepreneurship, and vast philanthropy.

What they don’t see is the underground empire we actually rule.

And even though my family has done everything they can to shield me from the pain of that truth, there’s only so much you can hide when violence is woven into your bloodline.

For me, the truth of what we were announced itself early.

The first dead body I saw was that of my nanny. I was just five years old. To be fair, I didn’t mourn her much. She had always been a cruel woman, determined to bully and torment Stella whenever she got the chance. Still, the memory of her death has always haunted me.

I can still remember the foul stench of copper suffocating the air in my bedroom as Marcello sliced her open. I pretended to be asleep as I heard the despicable woman gurgle her last breath.

I didn’t tell him to stop. I didn’t scream as the nightmare unfolded just inches away from me. No. I remained painfully still—too young, too petrified to fully understand what I was witnessing.

It was when my father walked into the room that a certainty I had never known before washed over me.

He didn’t seem disturbed by the blood. He didn’t seem worried that a dead body now stained our rug.

His only concern was that Stella and I were safe, quickly followed by Marcello’s physical and mental well-being.

My eyes remained shut as he lifted Stella and me from our beds and took us to sleep in another room.

I don’t know what happened to the body, or what transpired between my father and Marcello after that.

All I know is that my sweet, sensitive brother was never the same after that night.

And if I’m completely honest, neither was I.

Witnessing something so horrific at such a young age left its mark. It didn’t just shatter the illusion that my family was on the side of good—it exposed the darkness that lived inside us. Inside all of us.

I wish I could say I was immune to its pull, but that would be a lie. If I were, I would have screamed for help. I would have saved her. But I didn’t. I just lay there in silence and let Marcello remove the source of my sister’s pain for good. And I’ve been paying penance for that death ever since.

Those somber thoughts slip away when Stella grabs my elbow, grounding me in the present.

“Shit,” she curses under her breath. “They’re here.”

“Who?” I ask, unsure who she’s referring to.

“The Donatos,” she explains, as if that name alone should mean something to me, which it doesn’t.

Unlike Stella, I don’t make it my business to know the ins and outs of the Outfit’s affairs.

The less I know, the better. Ignorance is bliss for a reason.

If you don’t know what your loved ones are capable of, it’s easier to pretend you’re just a run-of-the-mill family and not the plague that torments Chicago’s streets.

“Come on.” Before I can react, Stella is practically dragging me across the room toward our mother and Mina Crane, who appear to be deep in conversation.

I don’t know much about the London Firm’s successor, only that I’ve caught my brother Jude throwing her longing stares ever since she arrived in the States.

Maybe my mother picked up on that, too, and said as much to Mina. It would explain why her cheeks are so flushed when we reach them.

“They’re here, Mammà. What do we do?” Stella asks hurriedly, her gaze flicking to a group of men walking further into the room.

“Get your fathers, Stella,” my mother orders, and I note how naturally she chooses to use the plural form of the word in front of Mina.

I can’t tell whether it’s intentional or merely a slip of the tongue.

Either way, it’s peculiar, given how careful we all are when it comes to discussing our unconventional family’s dynamics in front of others.

I don’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because my mother turns her attention from Stella to me next.

“Annamaria, come with me to greet our guests.”

As ordered, Stella flees in search of our dads, while our mother, Mina, and I move toward what I can only assume are hostile guests.

“Benvenuti a casa nostra, Don Carlo,” my mother greets the head of the small entourage.

I don’t pay much attention to the man’s response, but it’s clear my mother doesn’t like him.

She is usually so poised and graceful at these gatherings.

Still, the tightness of her smile and the coldness in her eyes tell me she despises this man’s very existence, which intrigues me, since my mother isn’t prone to hate.

I keep my head down as my mother, Mina, and Don Carlo continue their small talk, doing my best not to flinch when words like body bags are casually thrown about.

I only look up through my lashes when Don Carlo is about to introduce his four sons, only for him to stop short at his eldest, Carlo Junior. My curiosity is instantly piqued when I realize one of them looks to be about my age.

However, I lower my gaze to the floor immediately when I find the boy staring back at me with a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Why is he staring at me like that?

I worry my bottom lip, count to ten, and lift my gaze from the floor to glimpse him again, only to find the boy still watching me.

I try to tear my eyes away, but it becomes impossible when his smile widens in response. It’s almost as if he’s daring me to look at him. Usually, I wouldn’t be so brave, but I find myself doing just that.

Unlike his father and brothers, his hair is the color of spun gold, and his eyes a startling steel blue. He’s pretty. Prettier than any boy I’ve ever seen. Especially in an Outfit gathering. Kids my age don’t exactly come to these things.

I only manage to look away from his warm smile when a large hand lands on his shoulder, my gaze shifting to the man gripping him.

If the boy reminds me of a young Apollo, then his older brother looks like Hades incarnate, imposing and severe.

With black hair, cold eyes, and a scowl etched deep into his face, he’s just as striking as his younger brother, but in a far more terrifying way.

“Don’t be rude, Father,” I hear Carlo Jr. say. “You have other sons to introduce.”

“Yes, yes, quite right. This is Matteo, followed by Niccolò, and of course, my youngest, Raffaele.”

Raffaele.

The boy’s name is Raffaele. I wonder if he answers to his full name or prefers something shorter. Maybe a nickname.

My thoughts are still tangled up in him when my father arrives. My mother’s tense posture eases, if only slightly. But when my father grins at the elder Donato, my stomach drops.

I’ve seen that smile before. It’s not the sincere one he gives his children. It’s the sharp, haughty smile he reserves for his enemies, right before he makes an example of them.

My stomach twists into knots, praying that my expression remains as neutral as possible, trying to conceal the anxiety currently rippling through me. The Donatos have never set foot in our home before, and I get the sinking feeling that after today, they never will again.

“Annamaria can keep Raffaele company, can’t you, dolce angelo?” my mother says, pulling me abruptly back into the conversation.

I nod, words failing me, even as my pulse skitters beneath my skin.

I risk another glance at Raffaele and find that he doesn’t seem too upset about staying behind with me while the others head into the woods for Marcello’s induction—a ceremony the twins and my mother won’t be able to resist watching, hidden amongst the trees.

I saw Jude’s induction once. That was enough for a lifetime. I have no desire to witness another ceremony. It offers me nothing. All it does is remind me that my family will forever bind their souls to a syndicate built on bloodshed and death. What joy could I possibly find in that?

Everyone begins to move, leaving Raffaele and me standing there, staring at one another.

When I hear Mina’s voice at my back and her hands settling protectively on my shoulders, I realize there’s another Donato brother who hasn’t moved an inch.