Victorious Vice (Bellamy Brothers #6)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

VINNIE

I have a feeling that the Bellamy ranch shrouds more secrets than perhaps even Austin Bellamy himself knows.

“I believe Falcon is a good man,” I say.

“I do as well. Otherwise I wouldn’t have saved his ass.”

“What about his brothers?”

Dad shrugs. “I wasn’t able to find out too much about them before I had to go to prison. The older one, Hawk, seems good. But I sense that the younger one is a bit of a loose cannon.”

My father has no idea.

“I’ll look into all of them,” I say. “I’ll make sure Savannah is safe.”

He gives a weak smile. “I know you will, Vinnie.”

“I should’ve been here, Dad.” I run my hands through my hair, sighing. “If I had been, Mikey would still be alive.”

“I’ll never stop mourning your brother,” he says. “Just as I’ll never stop mourning your mother.” He looks at me, a small glimmer of light in his eyes. “But I have you, and I have Savannah. I trust Falcon to keep Savannah safe. And you know what I need you to do.”

“I’ll do it, Dad. You have my word.”

I drop him off at the prison, and when I get back to my mother’s home—now my home—my grandfather is waiting for me at the front door.

“I have nothing to say to you.” I brush past him, opening the door.

“Check your email,” he says. “You’re back on that flight to Colombia. Leaving tonight.”

“Send someone else.” I take a step inside the house.

“Nope. I’m sending you.” He grabs my arm. “You want to be my second-in-command? That’s who I need on this mission. You’d be there now if your mother hadn’t had that heart attack.”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t even talk about my mother.”

He frowns, laying a hand over his heart. “You think this isn’t killing me? She was my child.”

“Yes. Your only child.”

His lips twitch.

And I cock my head.

“My mother was trying to tell me something before she died. Something about you. Something about my father.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You mean you haven’t guessed?”

I whip my arm out of his grasp. “Stop playing games with me, old man. If there’s something I need to know about my father, you need to tell me.”

“All you need to know about Vincent Gallo Senior is that he’s a weakling.” Grandfather scowls.

“Weak men don’t kill a man to save their daughter from marriage to a degenerate.”

He says nothing.

“So don’t ever tell me my father’s a weak man again.”

“To the contrary,” he says, “your father is the strongest man I know.”

“But you just said?—”

My flesh goes cold as ice.

Oh my God.

What my mother was trying to tell me…

What my grandfather just said…

I feel my blood draining from my face.

There’s a reason I look so much like my mother, so much like my grandfather.

And my father doesn’t know. He doesn’t know .

And all mafia brides are supposed to be virgins…

Nausea grips me, but I resist the urge to double over and retch.

“You fucking bastard,” I grit out.

A wicked grin crawls across his wrinkled face. “Now, Vincent,” he sneers. “Is that any way to speak to your father? ”

I grab his shoulders violently. “You raped your own daughter?”

“And that surprises you?”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be a virgin?”

He shrugs. “She was. Until about a month before her wedding. I waited until I knew she was ovulating.” His grin widens. “I suppose one could say I invoked the right of prima nocta .”

My stomach is twisting into a pretzel. “And you knew… You knew she was pregnant…”

“Yes, I lucked out.” He smirks. “Your grandmother couldn’t give me any more children, but I knew I wasn’t the problem. I had to make sure my line continued.”

“My father…”

He clasps his hands together, frowning. “Do you know how difficult it’s been, Vincent? Letting you take his name?”

“Oh my God…”

“So you see?—”

I cut him off. “You knew I was your son this whole time. You still raped me with that billy club.”

He raises a finger. “As my father did to me.”

Vomit threatens to erupt from my throat. “This is over, old man. It’s over now.”

I reach for my gun, and out of nowhere, two goons who work for the family leap into action. They must have let themselves in before I got home. They charge forward like twin shadows. The first goon lunges at me, slapping the gun out of my hand. It skids across the marble floor, stopping under a side table.

I duck as the second goon swings a fist at my head, and counterattack with an uppercut to his jaw. The man staggers back, but before I can get back to my gun, the first goon grabs me from behind in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground.

I grit my teeth and slam my head backward into the goon's face. I can hear the crunch of his nose breaking. He drops me, and I pivot on my heel and throw an elbow into the man’s throat for good measure. He gags in response.

The second goon recovers and charges like a bull, tackling me into the staircase. The impact sends a painful jolt up my spine, but I wrap my legs around the goon’s waist and flip him into the other one. They both crash to the floor, and I slam my fist into the goon’s temple once, twice—until he goes limp.

My grandfather—correction, my father —remains calm, almost amused, as I stand, panting. He slowly brings his hands together in mock applause.

“Impressive, Vinnie. Now tell me, son , what’s your next move?”

I wipe a smear of blood from my lip and dart to the side table, diving for my gun, but my father steps forward, drawing his own weapon just as I get mine. We’re faced off, our guns aimed at each other’s chests. The room falls into a tense silence.

The man who sired me smirks.

“You won’t do it. You don’t have it in you.”

I tighten my finger on the trigger. “I killed Puzo.”

“Indirectly.” He crinkles his forehead. “I’m not so sure you have the balls to get your own hands dirty.”

“I have nothing left to lose, old man.”

I fire the gun. The bullet slams into my father’s chest, and he stumbles back, a stunned expression crossing his face. He looks down, his hand clutching his suit jacket.

But then I notice.

No blood.

I go to him, rip open his shirt.

Sure enough, a bulletproof vest.

He lets out a cold, dark chuckle. “I’m afraid you’ll find this old man still has a few tricks up his sleeve.” He stares daggers into me from the floor. “I own you, Vincent. Your name should be Mario Bianchi, Junior. But I’ll let you keep his name. Consider it a gift from the man who fathered you.” He looks down at his vest, chuckling lightly. “And I won’t punish you for this. In fact, I’m proud of you. I would’ve probably done the same thing in your shoes, which is why I was prepared.”

Rage.

Pure rage. The kind that blurs your vision and roars in your ears, demanding action, any action, just to release the fury burning inside. It’s the kind that makes your hands shake, your body tense, and your thoughts spiral out of control, searching for something—anything—to destroy.

But I hold it in.

I hold it fucking in.

I will never concede.

But at this point, I have to let my grandfather think that I am.

“All right, Grandfather.”

He clears his throat, glaring at me.

I draw in a breath. “ Father ,” I say. “I’ll be on that plane tonight.”

“Good,” he says. “Your life begins tonight, Vincent. You will see what awaits you.”